‘This isn’t a beach,’ says Lotte.

‘It’s better,’ says Bethany, scooping her arm around her shoulder. ‘There’s rockpools.’

‘I don’t like it.’ Lotte flaps a jelly-shoe at us, to get rid of pieces of grit trapped between her toes, and her face contorts.

‘I’ll buy an ice cream for the first person to find something exciting in a rockpool,’ I say.

‘That’ll be me!’ Bethany says, sticking both hands in the air. She pretends to push in front of Lotte and leaps across the rocks to the water’s edge. I’m not sure how much of a pretence it is, but my uber-competitive sister’s antics stem our niece’s tears.

Amy covers the hot, jagged stones with towels, so that we can sit without burning our bums, and dips one toe gingerly into the water. She leans forward and, within minutes, she and the children are entranced. I have a flashback to seeing my sister crouching on a rocky outcrop, cautiously lifting flaps of bladderwrack, her pale skin bluish from the cold, strands of blonde hair whipping in the stiff coastal breeze. And then Bethany running over to join her, small, dark, skinny legs like a boy’s, boldly pushing apart the strands of seaweed, hoicking out crabs and chasing them into a bucket for Amy.

On this beach the lines of rock stretching into the sea have created warm, shallow pools that are protected from the sea’s waves; perfect for the children to wade through. In the dazzlingly clear water there are shoals of small, translucent fish and pale-pink and green anemones. Chloe stretches out on her beach towel, firmly away from the shrieking kids, and puts her headphones on. I don’t blame her: there’s only so many fish I can look at. Plus I’m too hot with my T-shirt on.

Matt and I wander back up the road to a shack we’d spotted on the way here, and buy espressos that we neck then and there, bracing ourselves against the bitterness and caffeine kick. We get cold beers, cans of San Pellegrino and fat sandwiches, the bread oozing oil, bursting with tomatoes and cheese.

‘Blimey, not like a ham-and-cheese Warburtons,’ Matt says with relish, watching the barman wrap them in greaseproof paper. ‘Hey, mate, one of those.’ He taps the side of a jar of pickled giardiniera. ‘I’ll give them to Joe for his lunch,’ he adds, with a guffaw.

‘Yeah, not much here for Mr I-Love-My-Abs,’ I laugh, but then feel a bit bad. Can’t be easy living on spinach and an almond. I buy Joe some rotisserie chicken and, with much miming and head-shaking, manage to persuade the barman not to give us extra focaccia.

‘Got any plans for the big 3-0?’ Matt asks as we head back towards the beach with our greasy paper bags.

I shake my head and make a face.