43. Sand in my eye [Formby beach]

‘I’m at the station,’ reads the text message, ‘Where are you?’

I stab a reply. ‘At the station, too. Where are you?’

Simon and I have driven to Formby beach. It’s minus 5 outside but here in the car it’s as steamy as an afternoon in the Malaysian rainforest. The heating has been cranked up so much that a snoozing Milo has red hot cheeks. Candyfloss tufts of blonde hair stick to his sweaty head.

Everything had been going so well. Despite a late start, due, in the main, to having to put on several hundred vests, tops, jumpers, fleeces, hats, scarves and extra socks, we’d managed to get to Formby just in time. The plan was to pick up Zoe at the station and then whisk us all up the short, straight road that leads to the beach. Except I can’t see Zoe anywhere.

I call her. As we both tell each other that yes, we really are at the station and no, I can’t see you, something occurs to me.

‘Which station are you at?’

‘Formby.’

I look up at the station platform. It says ‘Freshfield’. I’ve told Zoe to get off at the wrong station, blithely assuming that the station I remember – from years ago, when as a Liverpool student I used to bring my dog here – was Formby. I tell her to stay put, and then we drive around Formby, trying to find the world’s shyest station. There’s not a sign in sight; in the end, we follow the direction of the train tracks and, eventually, stumble across it.

‘We are here,’ I text. ‘Where are you?’

‘At the car park.’

We drive over the humpback bridge to the car park. There’s no sign of Zoe.

‘There must be another car park,’ I mutter.

The car is now so sauna-like that Milo has woken up, as hot and grumpy as his mother. We turn the car around and drive back over the bridge. Suddenly, to our left, I spot another car park and yelp, ‘there it is!’ as Simon calmly drives on. We turn left. There’s no car park.

‘But I saw it,’ I whine, and Simon gives me a look which I suspect says something along the lines of oh for god’s sake, this is bad enough without you starting on me.

Simon pulls over and I run out of the car and down a road that must, I think, lead to the station. It’s a dead end. I run back, and Simon turns the car around. We drive back over the humpback bridge. We still can’t see Zoe.

‘Are you sure she meant this station?’ asks Simon.

I count to ten. We turn the car around the drive back over the bridge. This time, Simon turns right, parks and tells me to walk to the station and sod the car park. I take his advice and, just by the platform, find Zoe. I vow never, ever again to drive to Formby Station.

Later, we all pile out of the car and go for the coldest walk in Milo’s living memory. He doesn’t care, and neither do I: we are so well wrapped up that the frozen sand dunes, icy white in the bright winter sun, seem as sweet as ice cream. In fact, when Milo falls head first into the sand, he just lies there, apparently happy to be face down among the dunes. When I roll him over, the damp grains stick to his cheeks. They are a worrying shade of purple – like corned beef, only darker.

It’s at that point we decide to head back to the car, crank up the heating and drive to the station. As we wave goodbye to Zoe, I repeat to myself, like a naughty schoolgirl writing out lines: the station nearest Formby beach is called Freshfield, the station nearest Formby beach is called Freshfied. I might have it tattooed on my person as an aide memoire, somewhere painful perhaps.

Ratings. Babychanging facilities: No. Cafe: No. Buggy-friendly? No. Cost: Free to National Trust members, small fee for the car park for non-members. Worth it? Yes, Formby has it all: sand dunes, a wood, red squirrels and then the vast, flat expanse of beach and sea.