In the 18th century, doctors prescribed a trip to the seaside for those suffering from tuberculosis, fever, hysteria, and melancholia. It was thought that the sea air was more oxygenated and that the cold sea water would shock the patient back into a state of revitalised health. Even drinking the sea water was said to have benefits, a belief dating back to Galen and Hippocrates. The sound of waves crashing and the sight of gentle ripples on the shore ought to heal the mind as well as the body. In short, the seaside was a cure for most ailments.

“The fresh air just made me exhausted”

What a load of waffle. For as long as I can remember, I’ve hated the beach. The feeling of sand in your toes, in your sandwich and in your hair. The seagulls swooping down to snatch your overpriced chips. The bitterness of the sea as you’re dunked in by an older relative. I’ve never liked ice cream, or fish, or searching for winkles. I’ve always felt that the “luxury” of living next to the coast was wasted on me. The fresh air just made me exhausted.

However, with less than three weeks until I moved back to this landlocked city, I felt as though I was suffering from hysteria from being stuck in the same place all summer, from turning twenty, from my mother’s silent treatment, I decided to give the beach another go. It was a better historical alternative to a lobotomy, anyway.

“Usually found in South America, these common marmosets were now honorary Geordies”

After an hour-long bus and a 30-minute metro, I finally pulled into Tynemouth station. The forest-green arches and rickety wooden bridge reminded me of being dragged around the weekend market as a child. Instead of stalls and food vans, I was greeted with ghosts. It was at this moment I questioned why I was even here: I didn’t know where I was going, I didn’t know what I was doing and I didn’t know anyone around me. In a moment of pathetic fallacy, it started to rain. Great. I decided a long walk along the seafront was the goal for today, and wherever my legs took me would be enough. After half an hour, my legs walked me into an aquarium. The only other time I had been here was as a six-year-old, and even then I had to be bribed into letting the receptionist stamp my hand. Nonetheless, I paid the eye-watering entry fee and walked through the turnstiles.

It had all the usual suspects: turtles, fish, seals and even a few sharks. The one thing I hadn’t anticipated upon entering into an aquarium was a monkey enclosure. Usually found in South America, these common marmosets were now honorary Geordies. It was unsurprisingly empty for midday on a Monday, just a few screaming kids that weren’t blocked out by the Kooks singing Seaside through my headphones. It was a very relaxing hour, even if I admittedly didn’t learn too much from the information signs dotted around everywhere.

“It was the Cullercoats beach that I left footprints on”

I decided to keep walking along the front, ending up in Cullercoats, when I realised it was 3pm and I hadn’t eaten so far. Cautious of seagulls waiting to grab anything edible in sight, I decided to sit in somewhere. Eating alone was something I hadn’t quite tackled in the journey of enjoying my own company but it was too late to back out now – I’d already ordered. After less than 10 minutes, breakfast/lunch/dinner was served in the form of fries… close enough to fish and chips. Now it was time to be brave and face the beach.

Despite starting in Tynemouth, it was the Cullercoats beach that I left footprints on. The rain from the night before and earlier in the day meant it wasn’t the sand that got in every crevice you didn’t know existed. It was here that I first caught a whiff of the sea air, despite walking all day. Though an 18th-century doctor would probably have diagnosed me with hysteria, I put my foot down at getting in the seawater and I refused to ingest it. Sitting down gave me the chance to ponder many of the early experiences I had of the beach. Climbing over the rocks coated in moss with my dad, chickening out of cave exploring with my grandad, burying assorted family members in the sand, and the end-of-year school trips to the beach where I’d inevitably forget to bring a towel. I didn’t mind the feeling of sand between my toes; it was just the leaving that made it annoying.

On the walk back to the station, I realised that while they may have gotten a lot of it wrong, 18th-century doctors did have a good point about the beach. My mood was a lot better, I felt far more lot more relaxed, and I was much happier getting on the metro than I was when I’d first stepped off. Though I doubt I’ll be making the journey to the nearest beach when I start feeling the week five blues (also read as Cambridge melancholia), it was comforting to know that, after eight weeks, I know where I’d find my cure.