But the forecasts aren’t always right. A couple of years back they’d said it’d be wet all week and they’d been wrong. It’d held off right until the last day of the holiday. Waiting in a chip shop in Bangor for a lightly battered fish. Perched on the brown-tiled window seat when the heavens opened. Rain dripping down the glass. Enough to make you feel right at home. A group of lads came in and ordered in Welsh. They looked me up and down. I didn’t imagine it, whatever May said. Laughing too loud. All the harsh words they knew we couldn’t understand.

‘Did you see that?’

May was reading the notice board. ‘What?’

‘The way they looked at me.’

‘Who?’

‘Them!’

She looked up. They were waiting at the counter pushing each other and laughing. Dressed in their scruffs with razored heads and sweatshirts covered in white paint. No more than nineteen.

‘Stop being so paranoid.’

‘How long does it take to cook a bloody fish?’ I folded my arms, crossed my legs and uncrossed them again. I felt like an idiot, suddenly, in the pressed chinos and short-sleeved shirt. Middle-aged and stuck in my ways and past it. Karen was in her own little world, doodling on the back of a leaflet with a biro. The lads were paying then and walking to the door bringing the smell of vinegar and turps and curry sauce that made me even hungrier than I already was. I could’ve sworn one of them winked at me on the way out. If I’d said anything about it to May she would’ve looked at me like I was losing it. They said something in Welsh – and it could’ve been anything really – like May said, they could’ve been talking about the weather. But I made my own translation and it stuck in my head as though it was a verifiable fact: stupid English twat.

And maybe this year Karen will tell me where to stick the dinghy and complain about the jellyfish and roll her eyes and ask if she can stay in the car while I buy the chips so she doesn’t have to be seen with us. It doesn’t take much to embarrass her these days. I only have to breathe.

When I get into bed there’s music coming from Karen’s room. I can’t make it out. The tune doesn’t seem to match the beat. May puts piles of folded clothes into the suitcases.

‘She’s going to wake up the neighbours,’ she says. ‘Just what we need. Betty banging on the wall with her walking stick.’