My mum, Caroline Conran, has a mini manor house nestled in the rolling hills of the Dorset coast, a hop, skip and a jump from Devon, one of my favourite destinations. With the car packed with whatever paraphernalia the weather requires and a crowd of chatty tots, we wind our way through the narrow, verdant passages, catching glimpses of the sea every now and then.
We're heading for the gorgeous fishing village of Beer, built on a small suntrap of a cove. I'm afraid there are no hops, mash or breweries in sight. Cider's a more popular brew in these parts.
Surrounded by towering chalk cliffs, we park our car and take a wander through the picturesque village, down the high street, a babbling brook flanking both sides. The village is bursting with arts and crafts; I love to watch the potters at work. With noses full of fresh sea air - and healthy appetites - we're tempted by the darling little teashops, but have another destination in mind.
Trundling down the steep hill, we pause to look up and imagine the "oohs" and "ahs" raining down on us from the clifftop gardens, with their spectacular views over the bay. But we're on a mission, so we head for the pebble beach.
The beach is my favourite haunt. As Beer is a working fishing village, it is littered with boats, tractors and piles of nets. Clever winches are used to haul the boats up the beach to dry land. My little lad, Felix, has always been particularly fascinated by these churning machines and the strange, slow movement of the vessels as they make their way over the creaking pebbles.
Lining the back of the beach are dinky beach huts, which apparently cost a king's ransom and are coveted like nothing else. I must admit, I covet them too.
Picking our way along the beach and around the boats takes us under the cliffs to smooth slabs of stone, perfect for lolling about on like seals. At our feet are shallow rock pools filled with emerald sea kale and fascinating creatures. My daughter, Coco, takes pleasure in chasing the adults with a fistful of tiny crabs, making us scatter and squeal. Those little fishing nets you can buy at beach shops come into their own here, as fish and shrimps can be scooped up into jam jars for close inspection.
Beer is famous for smuggling and its stone, which is cut out of caves first quarried by the Romans. You step into vast caverns that look like cathedrals, with great pillars and a strangely spiritual atmosphere. Now the kids have longer legs and sturdier constitutions, we occasionally follow the acorn signs on the South West Coast Path, along the stunning route to Branscombe, returning inland via the vicarage and quarry caves.
If we're in the mood to test our sea legs, we hire a boat and fish for mackerel, slowly putting along under the cliffs, long lines with many feathered hooks dragging behind us. We usually land at least a couple of smooth, iridescent fish.
On one excursion, Felix outdid us all by pulling in a beautiful sea bass. After gutting and descaling - a job the kids always want to help with, so much so that I am convinced Coco was a fishwife in a previous life - we cooked it in butter with a squeeze of lemon. It was perhaps the most delicious piece of fish ever to pass my lips.
Back on dry land and, wellies full of water, we squelch our way to Ducky's, in my mind the best greasy spoon on the planet. The menu consists of the usual suspects: egg and chips, sausage and beans, ice cream, and marmite on toast. My all-time favourite is a mug of tea and a sensational brown-bread crab sandwich, fresh as the sea air and perfectly simple. I know it is fresh, as the boat park is always strewn with piles of sculptural crab pots.
Built into the cliffs is a tiny fish shop, consisting of two rooms. One is dark and steamy, with huge vats for boiling crab; the other has a little counter selling the day's catch - whole crabs of all sizes, some of them gigantic pink and black monsters - and a fridge filled with pots of freshly picked crab meat. Oh, the joy of taking these punnets home to mix with lemon juice, chopped chilli, olive oil and fresh parsley, then tossed into some steaming linguine. A great end to a perfect day.