‘Next stop,’ says Nancy as we pass Leigh Marina, and I start gathering the things back into my bag. The window’s filled with nothing but grey sea now: sea, and the occasional derelict warehouse. Boats in rows, hundreds of them, keels upward or tarpaulined over, lying yards from the track. An old seaside shelter, empty. I sweep a wet wipe over the table as a gesture at the crayon marks and scoop up the crumbs and the peel. I put it in Nancy’s outstretched hand and she pops it in the bin. I slip on my sling, chuck Katie over my shoulder and wrestle her fat legs into it. ‘Here we are,’ yodels Mirosława down the carriage. Nancy stuffs Ava back into her buggy and we all pile off the train.

The station is an old-fashioned coastal one: whitewash, and iron girders painted battleship grey.

‘You can see the beach from here,’ says Mirosława. ‘And it’s not too cold!’

There’s no lift, so we help with the buggies.

At the exit we turn right and file down a zigzag ramp to the beach – a long, thin, shingled stretch of shoreline punctuated by wooden breakers. There’s nothing here, no tourism. Across the estuary from us, a power plant and a row of gas holders.

We pass a two-by-two crocodile of yellow-tabarded three-year-olds, also out on their end-of-year treat. They look like little ducklings, and they sound like them too. They each carry a bucket and spade.

‘There’s a shelter a bit further along,’ says Mirosława, ‘and some toilets. We’ll camp ourselves near there. There’s a drinks shack too, nearby, so we’ll have everything we need.’

The shelter is round the back of the toilet block and itself looks like the proverbial brick privy, rotting benches running round inside in a horseshoe shape.

‘We can leave the bags here,’ she says. ‘There’s no one else around.’

We dress the babies in the waterproofs and wellies. With her hood up, Katie looks like a small spaceman. Nancy and I and Sushmila’s mum lead our daughters up the ramp to the beach.

I shuffle off my plimsolls and peel back my jeans to mid-calf. It’s like walking across a bed of nails, but the tide’s in, so there’s not far to go. I test one foot in the water: freezing. Katie waddles in with her wellies, eyes shining.

‘Not too deep now. It’ll get into your boots.’

‘Toes!’ says Katie.

‘Really?’ I take off her wellies and socks and roll up her leggings and waterproofs, wincing as she places her feet on the stones.

Sushmila’s mum slips off her sandals and wades straight in, in her salwar kameez, sopping wet cloth clinging to her legs.