“Daddy and I are going on a romantic break,” I said to Theo. Theo was eating his breakfast and reading the BeanoMax. He is 9.

“That’s disgusting,” he said, without looking up from his comic.

My feelings exactly. But before you decide I’m a grumpy old witch, allow me to clarify. I am all for romance. What I loathe is Romance, the kind that ends up looking like Katie Price and Peter Andre, the kind that drives the commercial machine behind such revolting institutions as Valentine’s Day.

But Daddy and I — sorry, I mean my husband — had indeed decided that after five weeks spent on opposite sides of the Atlantic it might not be so bad to spend a couple of days together, just the two of us, our darling son ensconced with his Nana in Frinton-on-Sea.

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I’d never have mentioned the words romantic break if it hadn’t been on the hotel website. Once you decide you’re going to have . . . let’s just call it a weekend away, shall we? . . . you have to decide where to go. In my book, what qualifies as romance in a place usually means somewhere by the sea, but don’t get any funny ideas about the Tropics.

I mean the kind of place that even in May is likely to be windy and cold, a place where you zip up your park a to walk along the sand, and where you might find yourself swimming with a seal if you dare to plunge in the freezing water.

By these lights the north Norfolk coast qualifies perfectly. Qualifies, too, for husband and myself, as we met a decade or so ago in the fine city of Norwich.

In those days I had my first little car, a rusty, boxy Renault; one day before we were even dating he and I — with a couple of others — headed out for a beautiful day in Blakeney.

That’s the thing about true romance: it’s nothing to do with greetings cards that look like the flock wallpaper in a curry house. It’s to do, instead, with echo and resonance, with forging connections that will be visible only to those who know to look.

But Titchwell Manor, a family-run hotel (the son of the owners, Eric Snaith, is now the fine head chef, having lived on the premises since he was my son’s age), was offering two nights’ dinner, bed and breakfast with a half-bottle of champagne thrown in and calling it, yes, a Romantic Break. So off we went.

Titchwell is west of Blakeney, near Brancaster and Burnham Market, which (even in supposedly perilous times) should really be called Burnham UpMarket these days.

It’s hardly a village, but it’s certainly home to true romance, in the shape of the rare marsh harriers that return, year on year, to the RSPB preserve on the marsh at the edge of the sea.

These great birds of prey, rarer than golden eagles, were gliding and looping in the brisk blue air over the reed beds as we walked out towards the wide golden shore on Sunday morning. It was thrilling to see them, visitors, it seemed, from a higher, purer world.

Romantic, too, to rent a bike from the pleasant folk who run Bircham Windmill and pedal round the fens a bit; we’d not biked together since before Theo was born and we went for a chocolate-stuffed long weekend to Bruges. There wasn’t any chocolate at Bircham, but they bake a fine scone, it must be said.

We had a rolltop bath in our lovely room at the hotel; and everything we ate in the pretty conservatory dining room was delicious — fresh, local (including sea beet, sea purslane and dandelion) and pleasingly presented. We drank cafetières of coffee with foamy hot milk; I didn’t check my e-mail, which is, perhaps, the height of romance.

We picked up Theo on Sunday afternoon. “We missed you,” I said, which was true. “I missed you too,” he said, “but I’m glad I wasn’t there. Because of all the kissing.”

Need to know

Titchwell Manor Hotel, Titchwell, King’s Lynn, Norfolk (01485 210221, www.titchwell manor.com). Two nights’ romantic dinner, B&B, with champagne, chocolates and flowers, from £215pp. Bircham Windmill (01485 578393, www.birchamwindmill.co.uk) rents bikes for £11 per day.

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