Today, my beach holidays look much different than those of my childhood. But each has given me something I’m grateful for. Read on to find out.
Beach holidays of yore
I was born into a working-class family in a small town just north of London. Life was simple, money was tight, and foreign holidays were for the “posh people” we only saw on the telly. While some kids my age were being whisked away to sun-soaked beaches in Spain or exploring the French Riviera, my family’s version of a holiday was a budget weekend in Great Yarmouth. A small seaside resort on England’s east coast. For those unfamiliar, it boasts a sandy beach along the North Sea, which was another term for the Arctic Ocean, both in temperature and temperament.
Back then, we didn’t go on holidays for luxury or relaxation. Oh no. It was an exercise in survival. My early childhood memories revolve around these trips, where fun was measured in how long you could stay in the freezing water before your limbs went numb and your lips went blue.

Knitted trunks are not for swimming
One such memory stands out vividly. I must have been six or seven. We didn’t have much money, and most of my clothes were either handed down or home made. My mum, ever resourceful, had knitted me a pair of swimming trunks. Yes, knitted. With wool. Now, for those of you lucky enough to have missed the “knitted swimwear” phase of the working-class wardrobe, let me enlighten you: wool and water do not mix well.
I still remember standing on the beach, bracing myself to enter the water. My mum, like mothers all over the world, lied through her teeth: “The sea is beautiful once you’re in,” she said. Lies. All lies. As my toes touched the icy water, I nearly lost my breath. But I was a brave little lad, so I took another step. The freezing water climbed up to my knees, and I felt my mum’s knitted masterpiece start to expand. By the time the water reached my thighs, my trunks had transformed into something resembling a soggy hammock. The gusset dropped somewhere around my ankles, and I stood there looking like I was wearing a tent.
Not wanting to let my mum down, I decided to soldier on and fully immerse myself. I leapt forward into the water, ready to show the world my swimming prowess. Instead, my knitted trunks decided to stage a mutiny. The water filled them up, turning them into an underwater parachute, and before I knew it, I was being gently dragged out to sea by my own backside.
The rest of the family, sensibly huddled under a windbreaker on the beach, found this hysterical. I eventually waddled back to shore, clutching what was left of my dignity and my waterlogged knitwear.
The “glow” was different
Summer holidays back then weren’t about getting a golden tan, either. In England, the sun has a habit of playing hide-and-seek, mostly hiding. If we were lucky enough to get a few minutes of sunshine, we wouldn’t tan; we’d glow—red and blotchy from sunburn. Combine that with the blue tinge we acquired from the icy sea, and by the end of the holiday, we looked like we were auditioning for a medical journal on hypothermia and second-degree burns.
We’d returned home proudly displaying our new “holiday colours”—pink, peeling skin mixed with frostbite—and show them off to our friends. “Did you have a good holiday?” they’d asked. “Oh yes,” we’d replied, as if narrowly avoiding pneumonia was the highlight of our year.

Today’s Greek beach holidays
Fast forward a few decades, and here I am now, living a very different life next to a warm and welcoming Greek island beach. When I step onto the sand, it’s no longer a test of survival. The azure waters of the Aegean stretch out before me, crystal-clear and inviting, like nature’s version of a luxury spa.
When I step into the sea, it’s like slipping into a blissful, warm bath. There’s no bracing for impact or questioning my life choices as the water hits my knees. Instead, I feel the gentle caress of the Mediterranean waves, so clear that I can see the little fish darting around my toes.
The sun here doesn’t play hide-and-seek. It just hangs in the sky, unapologetically glorious, kissing my face with its golden rays. I now sit on the beach basking in the beauty of it all, sipping a cold drink, and marvelling at how life has changed.
But there are still some water-themed mishaps
But despite the beauty here, beach life still has a few mishaps. Alex’s cousin Bia came to visit. The sea looked so inviting; she wanted to swim a little. Normally, if Alex and I swim, we pop down to the deserted beach at the end of our road, have a quick dip, and come home. Because Bia was with us, Alex took her to the beach in the village. There are sun loungers, nice straw parasols for shade, and waiter service for drinks. It was quite luxurious. We put our towels on the sunbeds, then went into the sea. There must have been a storm out to sea because the waves were enormous. As the beach is pebbly at the shoreline, and me being a wimp, I wore my flip-flops to enter the water.
I splashed around for a few minutes, rode the enormous waves, and cooled off. From the sea, I saw the waiter bringing the drinks to our sun beds, so I headed towards the beach to pay. Our spot was about four rows back from the water. The front few rows were filled with young, tanned attractive women stretched out in revealing bikinis watching me as I came towards the beach.
I was doing my James Bond impression: strutting out of the sea, holding my stomach in. When a giant wave came up behind me. I fell forward, face first, somersaulting under water. Suddenly my legs were in the air and my flip-flops flew off in different directions. As I tried to stand up, another wave hit me from behind. I tumbled over and again tried to stand up again only to find that I was facing the wrong way and was hit in the face by another breaking wave.
So there I was, lying on my back, legs up on the beach, head down in the sea. Legs waving in the air trying to find a way to stand up, trying unsuccessfully to reach my flip-flops while shooting water out of both nostrils.
At that moment, I consoled myself that I wasn’t wearing my knitted swimwear. That would have been the cherry on top.

Life is a beach
But I remind myself not to take it all for granted. If those early days on the beaches of Great Yarmouth taught me anything, it’s that even the coldest, most chaotic moments can hold unexpected lessons. Back then, I never imagined life could be so different. I didn’t know that incredible journeys were waiting just around the corner, ready to change everything.
So while I’m grateful for my warm, sunlit paradise today, I’ll always look back at those childhood holidays with a smile. Because without them—and without those knitted trunks dragging me out to sea—I might never have learned to appreciate just how far I’ve come.
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