As we pull into Cascais, I see the ghosts. It’s a blistering hot August afternoon in what is dubbed Lisbon’s Riviera, and the Teenager and the Teen-to-be may be heads down on their phones, but out of the car window all I can see are the phantoms of their childish selves.

Our three-year-old (now 14) brimming with excitement outside Santini’s ice cream parlour; the tourist shop where we bought our then-seven-year-old his first Ronaldo top. The sign to Praia da Rainha – our favourite beach – conjures up a vision of the boys practising jumping off “their” big rock – venturing higher as they grew braver with every passing year.

My melancholia at pulling into one of our favourite holiday destinations...