I have always had a lousy sense of direction. Really. Even at the vantage point of my mid-thirties, I could still get lost in the supermarket.

When I was learning to drive, my instructor directed me towards Sidmouth, and then asked me to drive us to the seafront.

Not a clue.

He asked, in a somewhat facetious manner, if I needed a map. I did, but I also knew enough about looking foolish, and so decided to figure it out for myself.

No map. No Compass. No sherpa. Nothing. Oh, but I did feel brave.

I examined rooftops, hopeful that I would see a seagull and divine in which direction I should drive based on which way he was facing.

Seagulls are rather maudlin, to my way of thinking. I suspected, if I did see one, it would be gazing, sad and dreamily, towards the ocean.

I was right, and only about ninety seconds from the sea.

Aimée is not one of life’s navigators and I don’t trust the satnav to do anything but report my movements to an unknown government organisation, so I have filled my passenger footwells with road maps and bottled water.

In case I get properly lost.