Summer holiday booked. Tethered now to school leave the early bird must catch the worm. Or pay £200 more for the crowded pleasure of late July.
Northern England. Castles, beaches, stone built inns. Not so long in the car. A village on the coast - an estuary and a wild expanse of shore.
We stayed once before, when expecting the baby girl, on a finger of land reaching into the Northern Sea. Huddled in jackets we played on the sand, wandered corridors of stone, and ate in lamp lit pubs. Early June - and cold. Ill equipped for brisk winds and an absent summer sun.
But fun. For a boy loathe to leave a swing park overlooking the beach. On frequent train rides south for work, his father tells of a carriage window from which he can briefly glimpse this scene.
He is keen to return. With our girl who conquers castles in the sand. We lean heavy on my husband who says he is worried of becoming a man who holidays in the same place every year.
40 within the month. He frets at the passing of time - and age. Fears this landmark birthday will bring unwelcome change.
May it not. Why worry over 40 I should not turn back the clock.
Booked then. As before. With a sea view now for 3 who've become 4.
And twice is not the same place every year. I care not where we should go, lest it stray far from the sea. Fun in spades - my man, my baby, my boy and me... x