There were dozens of Mum, Dad and me on holiday in the very place I had been dreaming of escaping to ever since my stress levels had started to get the better of me. Wynmouth on the Norfolk coast might not have been the dream holiday destination for most, but to me when I was growing up, it was utter perfection. Not just the little place itself, but the feeling of heady happiness it always instilled within me.

It had been a very long time since I had felt that kind of uncomplicated contentment. These days my pleasure levels were derived from beating someone else to the punch or muscling in on a project a rival firm had been hoping for. There was nothing straightforward or wholesome about my happiness now.

I had been a teenager the last time we visited Wynmouth and Mum and Dad were amazed that I could still be amused with a stroll along the beach and a forage among the alien rockpool worlds. There were no arcades, no fast food outlets, no noisy fairground rides, but there had been something, the sudden fluttering in my chest reminded me, to hold my teenage attention. I carried on flicking through the pages until I found one photo in particular.

‘I wonder,’ I mused, setting the album aside and reaching for my laptop.

It didn’t take long to find what I was searching for. Crow’s Nest Cottage in the heart of the sleepy village had always looked like the perfect holiday rental to me, hence my insistence that I was photographed standing in front of it.

Built next to the pub and just a stone’s throw from the dip down to the beach, it was a higgledy-piggledy little place, but full of charm. We had never stayed there. The limited holiday fund my parents had then was just enough to secure us one of the few static caravans on the clifftops outside the village, but I had always promised myself that I would stay at the cottage one day and here it was, still listed as holiday accommodation.

My fingers lingered over opening the availability enquiry form. Was there even a slim chance that I would be able to convince my father that now was a sensible time for me to take a break, and if I somehow did, would Wynmouth be the same? Would it be capable of filling me with that same sense of calm? Because that was what I was desperate for. That was what I was craving every bit as much as the invigorating sea air. Throwing myself into my work hadn’t helped me get over losing Mum, but perhaps Wynmouth would.

Then I remembered the hasty departure surrounding our last holiday. Dad had insisted on packing up and leaving early, saying an unmissable work opportunity had come up and it was imperative that we left straightaway.