After several years of resolutely refusing to spend any money on a holiday, I had finally decided to do something this year.

Of course, it had to be on the cheap, so I had booked a room in a bed and breakfast in a traditional seaside town.

I don’t know why I chose to go there, I had never been to such a place before, and it had never really appealed to me.

But there I was, a little lost and confused, but desperate to do something constructive.

Mrs Hargreaves’s Bed and Breakfast was just as fables would have you believe.

A stern landlady in her 50’s, with a list of rules as long as your arm that must be obeyed.

Bedrooms had only the essentials of a bed, chest of drawers, and a washbasin.

A shared bathroom was located down the corridor, which must be cleaned after use.

At first, I felt a little nervous at the sight of all the rules pinned up inside the door to my room.

Although a little frightening Mrs Hargreaves seemed a reasonable enough person, and she quickly decided that a pleasant young man like myself needed looking after.

She always welcomed me with a smile, no other guests had that privilege, told me all the best places to go for a walk, and also told me all the places I should avoid around the town.

I started to feel really comfortable in her presence.

So it was, with Mrs Hargreaves’s recommendations ringing in my ears, I set off for a walk along a pleasant coastal pathway.

It was a beautiful day, a gentle breeze providing comfort from the burning sun, the sound of seagulls above my head, the waves crashing against the rocks below.

The smell of the seaside brought back all those wonderful memories of childhood

the caravan we would stay in every summer

the civil engineering projects my father and I would undertake in the sand.