It’s a far cry from the sun-kissed beaches of Cape Town where she grew up, but the simple pleasures of a seaside village in Cornwall draw the author back year after year

The idea of the sea that I grew up with was associated with sundowners and souped-up cars and skipping classes to sunbathe with the models who took over Cape Town’s beaches each summer. As a student, long nights would end, not infrequently, with a swim at sunrise (until, one morning, the police arrived to remind us that sharks feed at dawn). So it’s hardly surprising that, after moving to Norwich to study in my 20s, the British seaside trips I made felt tepid. Cromer, with its swathe of beige sand sloping into water an almost identical colour, seemed to suggest that over here, land and sea were really not that different from one another. That the sea as I’d known it – with all its ecstatic, annihilating energy – was an unruly part of the Earth whose existence was best disavowed.

It was only several years later, burnt out from a soul-destroying job, that I took a week off and boarded a train to Cornwall. I was 25, poor and suffering from the kind of gastric complaints that often accompany misery. With a pair of shorts, two T-shirts and a raincoat in my backpack, I arrived in St Ives and set off to walk the Cornish coastal path.

Italian sweets, Irish smoked fish, honey cakes in Belgium … travel writers choose the stores and local delicacies they make a beeline for when travelling

I fell in love with Belgian snacks when cycling the amateur version of the Tour of Flanders some years ago. The feed stations along the route were crammed with packets of Meli honey waffles and Meli honey cake. I ate so many that I suffered withdrawal symptoms after finishing the last of them at the end of the 167-mile route.