I grew up in a small town in the Midlands, a very very long way from the sea. On hot summer days we would go for swims in the canal, our legs bumping in a familiar way against the submerged shopping trolleys.

Family holidays were spent wrapped up VERY warm, looking at beautiful scenery in Scotland; seaside trips meant shivering on beaches in wellies and duffel coats in lovely but chilly places like Ayr and Largs.

Day trips to the seaside were to the Lincolnshire coast, to Skegness and Cleethorpes. We might look at the sea from a bus shelter; if we were very brave and hardy, and wearing a couple of Aran sweaters, we might put a toe in the sea, just briefly, before legging it back up the beach for a warming cup of Bovril from a flask.

Then, when I was about 14, I went on a school trip to The South. We were to stay in a big communal campsite run by Nottinghamshire County Council near Swanage. (No doubt long since built over with Luxury Flats, but back in the 1980s, paradise in a field.) I had never been South. I didn’t really know what to expect. And these were the days before the internet, when – if you wanted to see what a place looked like – you had to get on a bus and go there.

We arrived in Swanage late on a hazy summer afternoon and wandered down to the seafront. As we turned the corner from the side road and saw the bay for the first time, well, the memory will stay with me forever. I had absolutely never seen anything quite so beautiful in all my life. Endless blue skies. Pristine white sands. The sea was sparkling and turquoise, and – get this – it was warm! Warm enough – no, really, this is true – warm enough to SWIM IN.

In my memory I immediately stripped off and ran, laughing hysterically, into the WARM waters and didn’t come out until six days later when I was dragged back onto the coach to the Frozen North. In reality… well it was pretty much like that.

Cleethorpes never seemed the same again.

This week, I took my daughters to Swanage, expecting to be a little disappointed. But, no. It’s still a magical place, with many of the Enid Blytonny seasidey things I remember. A gorgeous old fashioned pier. 24 types of ice-cream for sale including – oh! the sophistication of it!- PISTACHIO! Lots of little boats bobbing in the harbour. Real fishermen, bringing in real fish, speaking in properly bonkers Darzet accents. Lobsters for sale in a big tank with their claws tied up. And at night, the harbour and the town are lit up like a full-on picture postcard. I even started to describe to my daughters the long swims around and between the bays that I used to take, then realised this was VERY DANGEROUS and changed my mind. Fine for me to risk drowning for a bit of wild sea swimming, not so much for my daughters. Sorry girls.

So this has been a love letter to a wonderful seaside town, to a beautiful memory and a delightful present-day. Swanage, how I love ya, how I love ya. My dear old Swanage. Maybe, just maybe, I might be able to afford a beach hut there. One day. A girl can dream.

And when this girl dreams, she dreams of Swanage.