Love at first kick.

Some dates are just impossible to forget.

June 30, 2009, is one of those dates.

I was 15 years old, on a family holiday in northern France.

My parents had booked two weeks in Picardy, at a campsite called Croix du Vieux Pont in Berny-Rivière.

It was gorgeous, leafy, sun-drenched, and massive.

A bold move, considering my parents usually preferred the quieter kind of getaway.

We’d arrived a few days earlier with my cousin Emma in tow.

Emma and I were the same age, and thick as thieves back then. It was actually her second time tagging along on one of our family holidays – and believe me, we made the most of it.

We always had the best time together, probably because we balanced each other out so well. Emma was bold, charismatic, and completely unhinged in all the best ways. She also had this incredible knack for bringing energy to any space she entered.

I, on the other hand, was quiet, reserved, and ridiculously shy. But with Emma by my side, I felt braver, more at ease, and a little more sure of myself.

Most days, we’d set up camp at the pool while my mum, dad, and Adam stuck to the man-made beach near our pitch. It was the perfect arrangement – mostly because it meant we didn’t have to hang out with them.

You know how it is. At that age, the last thing you want is to be seen with your parents, your aunt and uncle, or your bratty little brother/cousin.

June 29, 2009.

We were in the queue for the waterslide – Emma went first. And, after what I thought was a reasonable wait, I launched myself down behind her.

What I hadn’t considered was the possibility that she would stop halfway down.

But of course, I should have known better, because there she was paused mid-slide, waiting to surprise me.

Rather abruptly, I had to find a way to slow down to avoid crashing into her, but this meant stopping myself, leaving me stuck midway down the slide, too.

But the chaos didn't stop there.

Because before long, the boy who’d been behind me in the queue was now hurtling down towards my back with worrying speed.

I shouted for Emma to keep moving, trying to push myself forward at the same time – both of us now scrambling to pick up speed before a major collision. Thankfully, light began to pour through the tunnel’s exit, and the hope of a safe landing became brighter.

But as soon as my feet hit the pool below, I felt his feet slam into me, launching me forward.

I turned, spluttering, just in time to see him splash in behind me.

But I didn’t stick around to say anything, I just climbed out, found Emma, and stormed back to my lounger. 

I didn’t see him again – at least not until the next night.

June 30, 2009.

After dinner, Emma and I went for our usual walk around the campsite, determined to avoid my parents and find the boys we’d met a couple of days earlier. Once we found them, we roped them into our evening wander, exploring the site and looking for new areas to “hang”.

That’s when we bumped into a bigger group – maybe seven or eight teens – who immediately got to know the boys we were with.

Emma, naturally, was soon deep in conversation with some of the girls, while I hovered awkwardly on the outskirts.

And then he spoke to me.

The boy from the slide.

Big cheesy grin. Bright, mischievous eyes. Full noughties vibes.

“I kicked you on the slide yesterday!” he said, laughing. 

At least he owned up to it.

 “I’m Ben.”

For some reason… that’s all it took. I was hooked.

And for the rest of the evening, I didn’t leave his side.

Emma disappeared off with the others, and Ben and I somehow ended up alone – walking the campsite in circles, chatting, laughing, slowly finding a rhythm.

But after an hour or two of doing this, it was time to call it a night.

He walked me back to my caravan – or at least close enough to see me safely off; we certainly didn't want to be seen by my parents – and I gave him an awkward goodbye hug.

But he didn’t let go.

Instead, he held me there, looking straight into my eyes.

I laughed nervously and asked, “What?” – though I already knew what was coming.

And then he kissed me.

In that moment, my legs felt like jelly. And stupidly, I laughed...again.

Out of nerves, giddiness, shyness. Or just sheer teenage awkwardness.

But after that night, I was smitten.

We spent every evening of the holiday together – walking laps of the campsite, dancing together at the disco, stealing kisses in the shadows.

It was young love at its purest.

And when it came to returning home, we exchanged phone numbers, added each other on MSN (the cool thing back then), and promised to stay in touch.

And incredibly… we did.

June 30, 2009: I met my future husband. And we shared our first kiss.

June 30, 2019: We were set to get married at the Brig O’Doon Hotel, marking ten years from that moment.

June 30, 2018: I was knee-deep in the world of leukaemia and chemo.

Would I ever be a bride? I didn’t know. But I kept planning. 

Planning for the day that had always felt like ours. 

Planning for the moment we’d been building to since that first kiss.

I had to believe that day would come.