Something happened on our family trip to Cornwall, back in May: I almost died. Now some people will say I’m being melodramatic about things and that I wasn’t anywhere close to death and that also I shouldn’t make light of death, or near-death, and to those people I say this: try climbing up the world’s steepest hill with over thirty pounds of wriggling child hanging around your neck whilst your inadequate walking trousers (old Abercrombie and Fitch jeggings) repeatedly fall down. And then tell me it’s not a near death experience.

Honestly, at a number of points during the climb I thought that my heart had actually stopped, but it turned out that my heart was just beating so fast that the beats had blurred into one. My vision went cloudy. My hands were tingling. I had childhood memories rushing through my brain and a strange metallic taste in my mouth. (That was thirst, apparently, but let’s not dwell on the specifics.) It was my idea to walk up the road back to the carpark in Clovelly – Mr AMR was all for piling into one of the 4x4s that went up and down the hill, transporting people who had made it down to the harbour but were unable (or unwilling) to pick their way back up through the village. But no, I won that particular argument and basically became the architect of my own (near) demise.

Have you ever been to Clovelly" It’s a gorgeous, unspoilt fishing village in Devon that has what must be one of the steepest inc...