The first time I went abroad I was 17 years old. My school friends and I had long dreamed of a trip to Spain that we’d book once we reached the dizzy heights of sixth form and, crucially, surpassed the drinking age in the Mediterranean.

It was to be everything that we’d heard older siblings, cousins and students in the years above us at school talking about. Hot summer days by the pool or on the beach and long evenings spent dancing (and drinking dubious-looking shots) in the nightclubs that sounded like a paradisiac wonderland compared to the Ocean back at home in Nottingham. Which, most of the time, we weren’t let into by the bouncers anyway.

The trip was a success, in a very ‘Brits abroad’ kind of way. We partied, laughed, made new friends and all came home in one piece, albeit very hungover. It was great, but honestly – it didn’t even come close replacing the soft spot I had for the British seaside, which is a love I’ve rediscovered in the pandemic.

“Why the pandemic has made me realise that nothing beats the British seaside”