My memory of first seeing the sea sits deep within. Once a year during the endless, sticky summers in Birmingham we would go on a day trip. This would be planned with military precision, as it was a holiday of sorts for my parents, who worked in a cotton factory and took very little time off. A minibus would be booked. Cousins, aunts and uncles would assemble to discuss logistics and, most importantly, the food rota. No one was going anywhere without paratha, pakoras, samosas and desi-style tea.
Having seen TV adverts of golden-haired children frolicking in the waves and looking impossibly happy on white, sandy beaches, I had been pestering my parents to make one of these annual days out a trip to the coast. I would usually lose this battle, and we’d all head to a theme park. I hated rides; still do. But aged eight, and using all the persuasive powers I could muster, I finally convinced them. So one early August morning, off we headed – all 23 of us – to Rhyl.
