I was seven years old and a ridiculously happy little boy. Every day was exciting; a new adventure. I was in my second year at school, and loved it. Of course I loved it – I loved everything. But even more than school I loved holidays. And most of all I loved summer holidays. Those six weeks that stretched into infinity in which you could do nothing and everything. Six weeks was a lifetime back then.

That summer we went to Italy for two weeks. Rimini, beaches, gelati, paddle boats, sand castles. Even Dad, who was always ancient, seemed to get younger on holiday. All I wanted was the beach. There was a whole universe to explore on the beach.

I loved to wander off, and return with shells and seaweed and invented stories of distant shores. In truth, I was only wandering a few yards. But not this time. I got carried away with my shell search, and just forgot about Mum and Dad and my sister Sharon.

Eventually, I turned round to head back. I walked and walked. But nothing. No sign of them. I didn’t panic because I loved life, and this was just another adventure. I must have gone too far, so I turned back and walked the other way. Still nothing. So I turned again and walked. And again. The beach was packed with tourists like us. Everybody looked the same. I would walk up close to people, invade their space, stare into their squinting eyes, hoping it was Mum and Dad, but nothing.

I began to lose sense of time. The sun was lower, and the blazing heat turned to a late-afternoon warmth. People were leaving the beach. This really was an adventure. Wait till I tell my friends about this – the day I got lost on an Italian beach, and loved it, just like everything else.

And I turned back and started walking again. By now I had no sense of time or place. I never burned, but my forehead was beginning to feel funny. I was hungry, too. It must have been hours since I’d eaten. Since I’d seen my mum and dad.

The light started to fade. It became chilly. The last few people departed the beach. I was really cold now – goose-pimple cold in my tiny trunks, starving and dehydrated. For the first time in my life I was scared. I wanted my mummy. Really wanted her.

It was dark. There was nobody on the beach. I didn’t want to be here. I’d never had bad thoughts before. But what if nobody came back for me; what if I was just left here. I wanted to scream. But what was the point of screaming into a vacuum. The sea was coming in. Common sense told me to move away from it, and eventually I found myself on the pier.

I. Want. My. Mummy.

I sat in the cold and cried. This was a rubbish adventure. I sucked my thumb for solace, My thumb was my comforter, but even that didn’t make me feel better. I began to feel things I didn’t yet have words for – panic, loss, hopelessness, despair.

I don’t know how much later it was that a man rode up on his bike. It felt long enough to fill a whole summer. In the dark I could just make out a square cap. It turned out to be a policeman’s cap. He smiled at me, and asked my name in broken English. He put me on the back of his bike and we rode in silence to a building. I think it was a police station. By now I was brave again – the joyous adventurer with a story to tell. I was enveloped in a huge hug from Mum. I didn’t notice her face. It took her decades to tell me what that day took out of her.