A hazy childhood memory – I wasn’t sure if this place really existed, or if I’d dreamt it up.

We drove along the familiar winding roads, past my second home – my grandparents’ house – they were the ones who took me to this beach. Branches full of leafy fingers waving to us – hello, and welcome back! Those sweet smelling hedgerows full of colour and promise and froths of flowers. Ferns unfurling. Curling up to the sky, arms outstretched like morning. Chasing shadows along the road.

Down we went, and down and further down the steep path. The seaside flowers shivering in the wind, nodding us in the right direction.

I knew it when I saw it: on the right hand side of the beach, behind that big rock – a magical place where the waves crash differently; the waves sound different here.

Imagine me, a child, hand-in-hand with my older brother or perhaps a cousin, in a hand-me-down cozzy, small feet in the water, excited screams and laughter as the water rushes in.

Now on the cusp of 31, I feel just as small as I did then. I was so happy to see that I really did remember it right.

The dusty moon guided us home with the white bellied birds dancing below.