Imogen Robinson
I t had become tradition fairly quickly although I don’t think that was ever the intention. Summer and six of us piled into the car in a sticky flurry of pillows and tennis racquets and a Michelin atlas stuffed in the seat pocket. A ferry crossing and a long drive and steak haché at the service station, more driving until we arrived at a campsite that looked and felt and sounded and smelt the same as they always did. They were unremarkable holidays in many respects but I can remark on all of them and I can do this because I remember the boys.