Thinking wistfully that a family seaside holiday might have to be put on hold this year, I looked on the shelves for Hugh Walpole’s Jeremy. I’ve always loved the three novels Walpole wrote about a boy growing up in the vicarage of a cathedral town in the early years of the last century (see SF no. 65) and I found again the vivid description of Jeremy’s excitement as he gets his first whiff of the sea on the family’s annual holiday: ‘the lanes had been hot, but here the wind blew across the moor, with the smell of sea-pinks and sea-gulls in it . . . Jeremy’s excitement grew. He knew now how every line of the road would be . . .’ It was almost as good as being there, that golden feeling of anticipation that went with the beginning of the summer holidays, and as always when I open any of the Jeremy books, I want to read it again.