I didn’t go abroad till I was 12.

While I watched my best friend jet off to Antigua in the summer holidays, I was being packed into the back of a car between my big brother and sister (as the youngest I always got crammed into the middle seat) with bags of food in the footwell and duvets on our laps on our way to a campsite for the weekend - and I loved it!

Mum and dad would get us up ridiculously early and put us in the car still in our pyjamas. That way we’d (fingers crossed) sleep through the journey and wake up just as we arrive, ready to start our family holiday.

I’m sure when my parents looks back at those camping trips they remember the stress of putting up a tent or the bad weather, but that’s not what I remember at all.

I remember the excitement of getting to sleep in a tent right next to my whole family. The ice creams, the play parks, swing ball.

Winning at crazy golf because yes you’re the youngest and your dad 100% cheated by both putting his feet around the hole and get creative with the score card.

The metallic smell on your hands after you’ve made your £1 of 2ps last ages in the arcades and then you sit in the car to eat your fish and chips because it’s hammering down with rain. You can see the sea though, so who cares?

I don’t remember that it was cold or windy or wet. All cared about was the fact that I was away with my family in a new location and it was different and exciting and fun!

Staycations didn’t stop when I became an adult either, because along came my niece and the cycle of family holidays started again. Does she go abroad sometimes, yes. Will she remember the caravan holidays in England as fondly as she does the holidays abroad - I really think she will.