On the other side there was a row of what would have once been fishermen’s terraced cottages. There were half a dozen or so, also built in the traditional style and from local materials, and I hoped they weren’t all given over to the holidaying masses. Hypocritical I know as I was a holiday-maker myself, and I also knew that a village like Wynmouth needed to make ends meet. But I hated the thought of the place being devoid of local families, and bursting at the seams with tourists during the summer and then abandoned and boarded up in the winter.

It was all about striking the right balance, but aware of the soaring real estate prices on such picturesque properties in other places along the coast, I knew that most definitely hadn’t been achieved. The scales were weighted firmly in the holidaymaker’s favour there.

A sharp toot behind me brought me back to my senses and I waved a hand in apology to the impatient-looking chap on a tractor. At least there was one fisherman still in the village then. The old tractors, rust-riddled affairs thanks to the saltladen sea air, were used to pull the little boats up and down the beach and in and out of the sea.

‘Sorry,’ I called as I pulled away and indicated left, but I don’t think he heard me.

He had inched so close to my bumper that I didn’t think he could see my indicator either, but he must have known where I was going. There really wasn’t anywhere else, unless I wanted to take the car beachcombing. Focused on making the tight turn without scraping my paintwork, I hadn’t been able to look at the cottage as I squeezed by but it didn’t matter. I would be turning the key in the lock soon enough.

Fat raindrops had started to fall as I pulled into the pub car park and unloaded my bags and by the time I had walked back around to the lane and negotiated the incline up to the cottage it was falling faster, but it didn’t stop me taking a moment to admire the riot of colourful flowers in the front garden or the brick and flint façade.

The cottage was every bit as beautiful as I remembered. As I wrestled with the gate, which was a little twisted on its hinges, and scrabbled about in the leaking porch, searching for the pot with the door key hidden under it, I felt extremely happy to be back in Wynmouth, even if it was raining and some of my memories were already being subjected to a little fine-tuning.

‘It’s under the one on the other side,’ said a woman’s voice close behind me.

‘Shit,’ I swore as I dropped the pot in my hand, and it landed on the step with a sharp crack.

I picked it up and turned around.