The sun brought a gentle warmth to my face as I weighed up my next move.

To my right, Scarbrough’s cliffs rolling up towards the sky, echoes of grandeur sprinkled over Victorian hotels.

To my left, the rhythmic rumble of the sea and a satisfyingly simple horizon.

Ahead, a dog running in excited circles on damp sand.

I grinned as I rolled gingerly down the short, cobbled ramp, tensing as I moved onto the firm sand, the withdrawing tide having left it the perfect consistency for my wheels. I pushed my thumb down on the accelerator and took off, making big arcs as I raced along the water’s edge.

I could hear Leftwing Idiot’s laughter and my support worker Pete’s as I raced past them.

I haven’t enjoyed a beach in this way in over a decade, but the combination of the right wheelchair, my powered wheel, a dry sunny day, a ramped beach, the right tide and our openness to adventure, meant I could move fast and free.

We weren’t on the beach for more than ten minutes, but it recharged my soul in a way I didn’t know I needed. I left with a massive smile, a lighter heart, and a sandier wheelchair.