That may not strictly be true.
But it’s how it should work out.
The majority of my summer holidays between the ages of ten and eighteen (when I became too cool to hang on to my parents’ swimsuit tails) were spent in the once fashionable seaside resort of Folkestone in Kent, a seagull’s flight around the block from the fabled White Cliffs of Dover.
Although there was only one small, and inevitably packed, patch of sandy beach along its lengthy seafront (most was pebble and shingle), the magnificent Rotunda amusement arcade, fringed by fairground rides, putting green, boating lake and two swimming pools, kept a young boy and his cousins handsomely entertained for two weeks every August.
Just occasionally, the vacation coincided with cricket at the Cheriton Ground where the county team entertained teams from what appeared then to be exotic, distant places named Derbyshire and Northamptonshire. My parents would…
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