Somewhere in the dim and distant past, I can remember a time when going on holiday was relaxing.

I used to take a stack of books, a gallon drum of sun cream (except in those days it was oil with about as high a protection factor as chip fat) and an equally large container of soothing lotion to ease the third degree burns I inevitably received after falling asleep on a sun lounger with Barbara Taylor Bradford. And that was it really.

Other than slithering into the pool, sloping off to the bar or mooching to the nearest ice-cream seller, I did absolutely nothing for a whole fortnight.

By the end of the 14 days, I was so relaxed my holiday companions would have to keep checking my pulse just to make sure I hadn't inadvertently slipped into a coma.

Now, it's a whole different ball game. Literally. If I'm not playing football, I'm playing swingball. If the swingball is already spoken for, I'm ushered in to bat for the Haywood 11.

If cricket has stopped for tea, I'm steamrollered into a game of catch, or Frisbee, or kite-flying, or digging, or paddling, or pebble collecting or some mad game that basically involves me pretending the kids are invisible and them sneaking stealthily up behind me like a pair of elephants with cymbals strapped to their knees and shoving me into the sea.

I don't go on holiday for more than a week at a time now - I would have to be hospitalised for exhaustion if I went for a fortnight.

After a day at the beach, the kids are still bouncing off the ceiling with excitement at bedtime and I'm crumpled in a heap on the sofa snoring like a walrus.

Family holidays are very, very tiring, but they are also great fun. I could chuck stones in the sea for hours without so much as a fleeting feeling of boredom, and the sense of elation I feel at curving in a beautiful cross for my son to knock into the back of the net (we don't actually have a net on the beach, just seaweed on sticks) could probably only be beaten by a similar graceful, athletic manoeuvre at Wembley followed by a tussle on the turf with David Beckham, Thierry Henry and Zinedine Zidane as I fight off their congratulatory advances (to be honest, I'd put up a bit of a feeble fight).

I haven't been on a family holiday abroad for years, and on most counts I can't say I've missed it. Travelling for more than about an hour-and-a-half with kids is a complete nightmare, especially as they can't seem to go more than about 500 yards without a bag of crisps and a wee.

But one thing I have missed is how welcome children are in other countries. They are not just tolerated in restaurants and cafés, they are actively encouraged.

We are getting better in the UK, but there are still far too many eateries adorned with off-putting signs like "Only well-behaved children please" and "Dogs allowed - no kids" and "If your kid can't read this, tell them to bugger off yourself".

When we get it right in this country, it's a joy. Our favourite family haunt is a tiny caff by the beach at Sandsend, near Whitby. It's more of a shed than a restaurant, but the food is great, the coffee is warm and the welcome even warmer.

No one gets cross when we stumble in off the beach with our numerous bags, buckets and balls. No one tuts and harrumphs when the kids drop a few crumbs on the table. And no one raises their eyebrows heavenward if the faint rumble of adult conversation is suddenly penetrated by a small voice shouting "a ship, a ship, a ship".

Unfortunately, however, it's not the same everywhere. Last week, during our annual pilgrimage to Sandsend, we decided to go mad and try one of the village's two other cafés.

It was mid-afternoon, it was hot (by Yorkshire standards it was bordering on Mediterranean) and we all fancied an ice-cream. We got settled in the tea garden at the back of the caff - sorry, "espresso bar" - only to be told by the snooty staff that we weren't allowed to have ice-cream unless we bought beverages or a meal.

So we left. Nine would-be paying customers gone without so much as spending a penny (although you're probably not allowed to do that either unless you brush your teeth or wash your feet).

The café was called Wits End. You won't be surprised to learn that my family has now rechristened it.