Author Joanne Harris looks back at childhood holidays on France’s Atlantic coast where she would roam barefoot, swim and eat figs off the trees
I’ve always been drawn to islands. As a child, most of the games I played were on a castaway theme, and I listened to Desert Island Discs on the radio at my grandparents’ house with envy and a degree of scorn for some of the guests’ “luxury items”. At seven, I’d already decided what my luxury would be: a case of specially designed knives for gutting, skinning and filleting. I was a literal-minded child and assumed that all the guests on the show would actually be stranded.