I remember my first holiday without my parents as if it was yesterday. Aged 16¾ , I ventured around Israel with a rebellious youth group. The memories, friendships and a few of those piercings from that momentous adventure still remain. But it is the feeling of that thrilling freedom that reminds me most of the trip.

Thirty odd years later, more accurately since Smalls entered our lives, and I now have no issue with the odd parental supervised holiday. Not only do I enjoy their (sometimes quirky) company, I am endless indebted to anyone who can lend me a child-rearing hand whilst feeding me with home cooked (as well as restaurant) treats, washing all of our clothes and allowing me limitless sleep.

So, at the start of each summer I put 'real life' on hold and three generations escape to an undiscovered (by us) part of the UK. For one week, I properly reset my on/off button. Catching up with their news, aches/pains and political thoughts, I also really relish observing the Smalls enjoying their company too. The whole trip feels properly precious.

This week we pressed flowers, walked in the rain, read books and ate a certain number of roast chickens. Story telling always features high at Yablon mealtimes. Tales of my youth, our ancestors and some amusing recounting (from all age groups) of 'what happened when' regularly reduce us all into full flow giggles.

Last year Camber Sands, this year Lake Windermere. Who knows where next year – let's just hope we're all still together and laughing.