Just Back: the battle of Pärnu We were in the town of Pärnu, Estonia's "summer capital," whose population is slightly less than Watford's. It was week one of a backpacking trip in which we slept in a succession of creaking, peeling hostels and sampled the staples of every Baltic city: Orthodox cathedral, KGB Museum, Irish pub. Other backpackers might stay up all night, but our pleasures were going to be simple, and our consumption of ale and hog so frighteningly ample that we would be in bed by 10.30 every night. We stood by wondering what to do for approximately seven minutes, while they assumed control of our painstaking building work, ignoring our carefully sketched blueprints and throwing mud all over the place. It is sadly still socially unacceptable in some countries for two men in their early twenties physically to attack small children who try to steal their sandcastle. The only way we could demonstrate our indignation at these children having fun was by generously enriching their English vocabulary. After about seven minutes of steadfastly ignoring us, the elder child decided it was time to drive us off. He reared up to his full height of 4ft 2in, and made a series of threatening gestures, accompanied by growling. He then punched me in the stomach. Amazed by his audacity, we could manage little more than "No! No!," speaking to him much as you would to any badly behaved animal. He backed off, stung by our wagging fingers, but his retreat was merely an attack in a new direction. He paused, and turning to face us, scooped up a fistful of wet sand. As it dripped from his fingers, and a gleeful smile spread over his face, I knew decisive action was required, and so I kicked water at him. He instantly backed off. Victory was ours - instead of throwing mud at us, he lobbed his handful of sand directly into the face of his younger brother, who darted off bawling. Our nemesis followed him, older and now wiser, but not before turning to salute us, acknowledging us as his betters. I can't wait to get a job and have some money. Maybe we could go somewhere nice, like France. Email your entry of no more than 500 words (with the text in the email itself rather than attached) to justback@telegraph.co.uk by midnight on Wednesday, October 3.