A windy afternoon in Worthing...

On a windy Worthing afternoon, my family and I opt for the classic cycle and swim at the beach because, well, there’s nothing else to do and it is better than hours of Minecraft or endless YouTube videos. We throw our bikes onto the pebbles and Mum instantly strips down to a swimming costume and enters the raging water. I go for the more meek route, cautiously dipping my toes in the swirling sea.

“What’s it like?” my brother asks, freezing in just a T-shirt and shorts. “Absolutely brilliant, come in” my mum yells over the rolling waves. “No thanks” Fred and I trek back to base where the bikes are and sit down, waiting for it to be over and to be back home in front of screens.

After a moment’s reflection, I suddenly rip off my clothes, grab my waterproof shoes and rush towards the immense mass of ocean – Freddie following suit behind me – and automatically get knocked over by a huge wave asserting its power over my weak body. But I rise, saltwater burning everywhere: in my nostrils, my nose and my eyes, each step I take seaweed seems to grab hold of my legs and weigh me down like a bog, nonetheless I begin swimming, a test of beginner granny-like breaststroke first, with my head bobbing above the water, before going full-on front crawl until I reach Mum.

The gigantic waves are like a rollercoaster, every so often there is a massive build-up and then it lurches downward, bringing us back to safety yet more excited for the next one. Occasionally they prove too almighty, and Poseidon pulls me under to cause a coughing-up of brine later on. Dense webs of dingy seaweed fill Southern beaches, and are enough to put off most visitors, but not us. I just love their secretive but rewarding hues, coming out of hiding only when you look for them: a light and fiery red, an emerald green and a sunny gold in strings, bushes or tangles of the aquatic plant. I vow to one day purchase a water-resistant camera to photograph these artistic weeds.

Walking, I have found, is another great way to get away from your phones and spend some good old family bonding time together. Unlike swimming, which is immersing yourself in the elements, walking is lightly treading on the land, but at least this time the pathways aren’t masked by concrete pavements. First, you must find a walk (mostly) untouched by man, bundle kids out of the house whining and moaning and set off. Normally for long walk we bring along a couple of biscuits as fuel for our legs, or a picnic to enjoy underneath the caring shade of an ancient tree. Be sure to greet every stranger there with a chirpy: “Hello!” or “Lovely weather!”. Or, if you’re super lucky, you can find a spot inhabited only by wildlife like cheeky birds jeering at each other and sometimes even a shy deer quietly edging away from you.

A third way to get back to basics (and my personal favourite) is rock climbing. Indoor climbing is all very fun - ‘just follow the coloured holds to the top’ - but scaling cliffs is a totally different sport. Obviously swimming and walking are more immediate solutions to the technology problem, but if you are fully secure with what you’re doing (rigging the ropes, tying knots and belaying) then it can be an amazing hands-on experience with rock formations that are over a thousand years old. At first of course you will have some fears, some trust issues with Mother Earth, but she tempts you to embrace them with each handle, each flirtation with the gritty holds. For me, climbing represents a back-to-basics attitude which most climbers appear to possess.

The Peak District is the ultimate place in England to ascend these crag walls: with entire hills blanketed in thick, impenetrable gorse; clusters of rocks scattered across the terrain; majestic mountains, their peaks reaching up to the grey, foreboding clouds as if trying to get to the heavens; forests of birch and pine standing nobly, motionless - and with the mountains behind them the whole scene appears to look like an enormous oil painting. When the wind starts picking up you know a storm is approaching, and usually distant dismal clouds show how long you have to scramble up the rest of the route. ‘Man versus rock’ is the common misconception that any experienced climber would alter to: ‘man with rock’. Your soul is intertwined with the hard granite for the rest of your life after an ascent, an elegant ballet dance up the wall.