Summer at the Comfort Food Cafe. Debbie Johnson

actually has low steps cut into it and a wooden handrail, so it’s not quite as arduous as it looks. I see that over on the far side of the hill, there’s a more meandering path that’s been paved over, presumably so people can also make the Comfort Food pilgrimage if they have a pram or a wheelchair.

      Near the top, by what is obviously meant to be a little viewing station, we pause. Not just to catch our breath – which is definitely a factor for me – but to admire the vista. It is pretty amazing, and Lizzie is silently taking photos already.

      It feels a bit like we may have reached the edge of the world – all we can see is that glorious stretch of glittering blue-green water colliding with red and brown cliffs; dots of colour as back-packed walkers amble along high-up footpaths, patches of yellow sand getting smaller and smaller as they become more distant, curving off around the coastline.

      The sun is shining down on my skin, I can hear the birds and the laughter and the waves, and I feel a moment of complete and utter peace. A rare sense that everything will be all right in our family’s fractured little world. I close my eyes and turn my face to the sky and smile.

      ‘You all right, mum?’ Nate asks, poking me curiously in the side. ‘You’re not having a stroke or anything, are you?’

      I laugh and shake my head, and gesture that we should carry on to the top, where we can now very clearly see our destination.

      Lizzie bounds ahead like a mountain goat in a Nirvana T-shirt, clicking away. She turns back to face us and takes a picture of me as I smile up at her. She even smiles back – a proper smile, big and warm and genuine – and I take a solid hold of the railing to stop myself falling down in shock.

      And at the very top, I see it. An archway built over the path, of wrought iron decorated with beautifully forged metallic roses, a kind of man-made trellis, painted in shades of red and green. Amid the roses and the leaves and the stems are carefully crafted words, made up of curling letters, all painted white.

      ‘Welcome to the Comfort Food Café.’

       Chapter 10

      The café itself is one storey apart from a few attic windows and really rather ramshackle. It has the look of a building that has been expanded to suit varying purposes over a number of years, growing organically further and further along its cliff-top location. The entrance is surrounded by open green space looking out over the sea. The land here isn’t entirely flat and is dotted with slightly wonky wooden tables and benches.

      Plenty of customers are using them, families, walkers and people who have the weather-beaten look of those who spend their whole lives outdoors. None of them seem to be put off by the slope, but I notice that quite a few are keeping a tight hold of their drinks.

      There’s an enclosed patch of land off to the right, fenced in, with a wooden structure that looks a bit like an old-fashioned bus stop and offers a long, shady patch of protection against the sun. I realise that it’s some kind of doggie crèche, and although a few of the tables still have dogs sitting under them panting away, there are also about six or seven inside the little paddock. Some are running around, sniffing each other’s bits and play-fighting, but most are snoozing away in the shade or drinking from the water bowls.

      We’ve left Jimbo at home this afternoon, as he seemed perfectly comfortable curled up in his bed, merely raising one eyebrow when I offered him his lead before we left – but it’s good to know that on the longer days he can come here with me.

      There’s a decked patio section running the whole length of the building, with a few more tables and chairs, and off to the other side is a massive, industrial-level gas-powered barbecue. It’s the barbecue that’s producing the mouth-watering aroma and I see Nate licking his lips in anticipation.

      An older man wearing a stripey blue-and-white chef’s apron seems to be at the helm, flipping burgers, turning steaks and prodding chicken breasts. He must be roasting-hot himself, with the heat and the smoke and the sun, but he seems perfectly happy.

      Next to it is a large trestle table set out with salads, corn on the cob, jacket potatoes, sauces and condiments of every possible shade. A young woman with a dazzlingly bright shade of pink hair is laughing with customers as she helps them, serving up coleslaw and offering grated cheese and drizzling a huge bowl of rocket with olive oil.

      The woman with the pink hair looks wild enough to have once been Jimi Hendrix’s girlfriend, but definitely not old enough, so I rule her out as a potential Cherie Moon. And as the barbecue master is most definitely male, that’s not her either, unless she’s in disguise.

      Lizzie has disappeared over to the doggie crèche and is taking photos of the sleepy hounds, and Nate is drifting towards the barbecue, nostrils flaring, one hand rubbing his stomach.

      ‘I’m just popping inside,’ I say to nobody at all, as both kids have forgotten I exist, and I walk through the open patio doors and into the main café building.

      Inside, it’s surprisingly cool, which means there must be some kind of air-conditioning. Predictably enough, though, on a day like this, it’s completely empty, which gives me time to take it all in.

      It’s not actually huge – more long and thin than spacious – and probably only seats about forty people at most. There are tiny circular tables meant for two, square ones for four and longer ones with benches that could sit families or groups. All of them are made of the same battered-but-beautiful shade of light-hued pine, and all of them are decorated with fresh flowers in tiny pottery vases.