It was at the pub during a downpour, while my children entertained themselves by pretending paper straws were people, that I had what felt like the perfect moment of synchronicity with the 1970s. Outside, the Channel churned. Inside, we lightly steamed. We have been on fancier holidays and had more exciting times, but for pure delight, there is no question in my mind that the theme-park experience of dragging your kids through the memory of your own childhood summer holidays beats every modern alternative.
The impulse behind this experience isn’t one of which I entirely approve. Nostalgia has its downsides, and as a motivating force can make us timid and clingy, cleaving too rigidly to the things we know. Heading into summer this year, I was aware that my itinerary was so sentimental – so rooted in a homesickness for the distant past that, while it can strike anyone, comes particularly fiercely for those of us raising our kids a long way from the circumstances in which we were raised – there was a small chance my kids would reject it. There was something perverse, I understood, in travelling from our home in New York, with the attractions of the entire US on our doorstep, to Ventnor, in the Isle of Wight, so I could enjoy reliving what it was like to be five. But I couldn’t help it.
