This is in addition to any family vacation.
It takes the form of an act of homage, a sort of ritualistic cleansing, a ticking of the mental checklist of things that must be done by an Englishman (or any of my compatriots regardless of gender) at least once a year. Must be a genetic trait from living on an island.
It does not take me much of an effort to do.
I live only a 12 mile bike ride from the North Sea coast and the ritual of planting my toes into beach sand can be achieved from my front doorstep to the fishing boat slipway without using a main road route.
At one time the railway line, now part of a long distance cycle way that crosses from Hornsea in East Yorkshire to Southport on the west coast, will have taken hordes of Hull residents for day trips or even a longer stay in the halcyon era of seaside boarding houses, Bed and Breakfast establishments and small private hotels.
My working days usually involve appointments along the stretch of eastern England from the majestic although now rather forlorn looking Spurn Point (broken apart by the tidal surge of December 2013) right up to the border of North Yorkshire and Teeside.
I am fortunate in having this region as my local patch because it includes some of the nation's greatest coastal features from the fast disappearing, crumbling boulder clay cliffs of Holderness to the wide sandy bay of Bridlington, the chalk cliff promontory and smugglers coves of Flamborough Head, the towering Bempton Cliffs, the skyline silhouette of Scarborough Castle, picturesque Robin Hoods Bay and the bustling old whaling port of Whitby.
Unfortunately, in the same breath I very rarely actually glimpse a view of the sea on my schedule which can be down to the cloaking effect of a rolling natural countryside, a thick mist or sea-fret that stickily adheres to the coastal strip (even though it may be hot and sunny just inland) but invariably just inclement weather.
So, it takes a determined effort to make that pilgrimage to a beach.
Being typically English, the decision to make a dash for the seaside can only be impulsive, based upon a split second assessement of the prevailing and anticipated weather. The smallest patch of blue sky is enough encouragement to up and go.
First in to the back of the car goes the invaluable family item, a bulky thing made up of pointy-ended softwood poles and a great length of hessian or raffia type material in gawdy colours which can only be an intentional sub conscious link to Spain, being very close to the appearance of that national flag.
It is the wind break.
I can, as a small child, remember this being an integral part of a family beach holiday.
Whether the weather was calm and scorching or close to a blizzard it was a priority to assemble and secure the wind break.
Physical siting was critical. It had to be on the softer sand for comfort under seating towels but with an underlying firmer bed of damp sand to take the mallet-driven poles. At the same time it had to be as close as possible to the paddling waters but not so as to require frantic repositioning as high tide levels approached.
Usually we just aligned with everyone else's wind breaks and relied upon their good judgement as to where the tide line was.
The beach would rapidly took on the appearance of a temporary camp as other family groups arrived and claimed their patch.
The wind direction dictated the positioning of the wind break. If blowing in from the sea a sort of wrap-around arrangement was necessary. If from the land then a simple crescent shape would be fine, perhaps with the outer panels turned in slightly to form a changing area for those intent on dipping a toe or more in the chilly waters.
Once erected it was quite cosy. There would be some respite from the sting of wind blown sand on your legs and arms, somewhere to have a chance of a sandwich without an excess of sand and some relief from that cacophony of waves and wind that accompany a seaside day.
It was necessary to regularly take the mallet to re-secure the posts as they worked loose in the persistent battering from the elements. There was always a risk of gale force winds just flattening the whole thing.
As a parent myself it became my responsibility to manage the wind break but decades of studying my own Father in this role had prepared me well.
I am sorry to say that our faithful stripey shelter has not had much use in the last 3 or so years as it remains in storage after a house move. We have in that time kept to the ritualistic beach day but just sitting exposed and undefended on the sand just does not feel right.
I have tut-tutted and scoffed at the families who, perhaps worst than my neglect, have replaced the wind break with a pop-up beach tent. It puts itself up in the blink of an eye, sits there perfectly stable, does not flap or collapse and works perfectly well in all respects.
Of course, that is if you like that sort of modern, sophistication.
I find it plain ridiculous and a bit like too much posh showing off if you ask me.
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