But I soon learned that Europe is rife with hidden danger.

I witnessed random acts of violence, contracted thrush, and had close encounters with foxes, seagulls, wood pigeons, and mice. As football season came and went, the conflict in neighbouring Westminster began to escalate and then spill over into Cornwall with repercussions all along the seafront. Thousands of people were affected by the weakened currency – the very fragile “pound” – and we heard brutal tales of overpriced city breaks to Bruges.

Then one day, without warning, merry youths descended on our bay.

Taken by surprise, I spent a night huddled with others in an old Wetherspoon's, hoping not to be found as we listened to the engines of the youths’ mopeds drawing near. The next morning, I was faced with a dreadful dilemma. Should I stay and care for poor, sunburned Poppy, risking my life? Or flee to the safety of my civilised country and break her heart? The youths would surely return and the trains to leave Cornwall were not what you’d call reliable. Torn, I wept as I hadn’t wept in years.

An Uber arrived unexpectedly a few days later and – with its engine still running – its driver offered me a ride.

But as I made the decision to get in the Prius, Poppy ran wailing from the cobbled streets and begged me to stay. So I did, but within days the drunken youths came again. This time, I had no choice but to flee alone in a desperate attempt to stay alive. For hours on end, I remained on the rocky beach with no idea if I would make it or if any of the people I had come to love would survive.