A cool breeze rolls off the sea, reeking of mouldering seaweed but still a godsend on this hot August day. At the bottom of the hill, Lyme Bay glitters, distant and ephemeral through mist and haze. I walk alongside my brother’s pushchair, playing with the helium balloon tied to the handle, bought from a waterfront salesman clutching a slightly underwhelming – though luridly colourful – bundle of them.

In my hands are a packet of cheese and onion crisps – back before the Great Swap, when packets of cheese and onion were still green and salt and vinegar bags were still blue. They taste sour and pungent and leave behind a dreadful briny aftertaste that dries my mouth horribly in the sun. I hate the taste, but keep eating them regardless; already I know that nasty, unhealthy food is an integral part of the holiday experience.

The steep, wide road from the caravan park to the rough shingle beach is quiet, the peace disturbed only by the distant jingle of an ice cream van and the echoing giggle of waves rushing backwards over pebbles and shale.

As we come over the crest of a hill, a gust of wind catches us by surprise. The knot slips on the thin ribbon string of my balloon, and the brightly coloured ovoid of rubber floats up into the cloud speckled sky.

Screaming, I throw the packet of crisps on the floor and chase after it, foil and fried potato crackling under my feet. By the time my parents call me back, the balloon is just a red speck on the blue and white sky, drifting up towards the small congregation of its kin that hovers over the town.