Childhood summer holidays were always the same – we camped for a month in a field on a farm close to the sea. Come rain or shine, we roamed barefoot to and from the beach and by night we drifted off to sleep to the sound of the surf. It was a magical place that seemed a million miles away from our ‘real’ home and for eleven months of the year I waited, longing for that warm landscape at the edge of the world. Years later, I returned with my own kids to relive those halcyon summer days and found the smell of dairy cows and silage, of heavy canvas tents and sodden driftwood were gone and in their place were things more lightweight, synthetic and white.
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