Today's mood is staring longingly at Google Images of Woolacombe, the most perfectly peaceful spot I know, dreaming of the sound of waves, and crisp battered fish. I've visited every year of my life bar one, but right now I can't be there.
It's a solid hike across magnificent coast to Croyde, where they have the best adventure playground in the world, and ice creams like ten year olds dream of. Or you can walk the other way, over the stile, past the sheep and through the mud, for pints at the Chichester Arms.
The Valley of the Rocks walk *starts* with the most scenic cricket ground in England, then
coastline, *then* there's a funicular railway!
And a cute harbour, a superlative fudge shop, & top draw mini golf. (Woolacombe's mini golf has sadly been plasticated in recent years).


When we were kids, the best thing of all was The Stream. Through the middle of Woolacombe beach runs a stream, which means you can build these elaborate systems of castellated canals and moats, all to be lost to the tide (or the lifeguards' 4x4). Dads often bring garden spades.
When I was about 10, we bought my first CD - free with Smash Hits. It had Blink 182, Semisonic, and something else rubbish on it, and the whole family listened on hard rotation as we drove down there. When we got close, we bellowed 'I can see the sea!', as we always did.
When I was 17, a gang of us went down after our A-Levels. We weren't exactly rabble rousers - we tactfully inquired which couples would prefer to share a room (turns out, they all would), built Giant Jenga with our feet and read poetry to each other.
The last time I was there was just after Dad died. It was New Year's Eve, and I couldn't organise anything. I muddled up the dates, the weather was grim, and my friends very kindly fed me cider in lieu of cheering me up.
Woolacombe is really special, and you should go, if you can.