I do love a fire. I don’t care if it’s in a cobalt tiled grate for roasting chestnuts and marshmallows, on a windswept, frozen inky beach after at botched attempt at lighting a floating lantern, in a metal bucket in the garden for cooking bread or accompanied by fireworks and the smell of cooking onions on the common.
This fire was on a Yorkshire beach in February. We were frozen. But the magical, flickering light and the sticky, sweetness of the toasted marshmallows warmed our cockles.