In arcadia ego
FOR THE LAST 20 YEARS, every summer has involved a week in Scarborough to visit my husband’s family. It’s a habit that has accrued its own traditions through repetition. A barbecue at a chalet on the North Bay. A trip to the chrome-plated ice cream parlour on South Bay where my (now adult) nephew will get a “mega” (a foot-long cone containing all the award-winning flavours, which he’s somehow never been defeated by).
Fish and chips, of course. A compulsory dip in the North Sea, regardless of how cold it is. (This year, pre-heatwave, it was a punishing 12 degrees in the water, just 14 on shore. I plunged in and then ran back to the safety of my cardigan.) The British seaside has gained a few shabby chic pretentions, but it’s the old-school mix of
