When I think about it, some of my favourite holiday memories are rainy ones. Like the time my parents and I ended up zipped inside one of those tiny child's play tents in the middle of a deserted Devon beach, knees up to our chins, playing word association games while we weathered a biblical downpour. Or navigating tiny, winding lanes in Cornwall with sheeting rain lashing against the windscreen and The Beach Boys blasting merrily from the car speaker. To me, the very essence of a family holiday is killing time in a series of adorably terrible local museums, taking it in turns to peer upwards and decide if there's "enough blue sky to make a pair of sailor's trousers from" yet. It’s character-building stuff. The stuff that, in a decade or two, I’ll probably be trying to instil in my own children while they roll their eyes and ask why they can’t go to Santorini.