I live for summer. I spend the whole of winter glaring at the miserable grey skies and wishing the heaving clouds away. In November when I put my flip-flops away, I’d already be counting the days to June.

For the three summer months, every minute spared is saved for a beach outing – the perfect people-watching edutainment. Have you ever noticed how everyone has his or her own method of beaching? Over the years I’ve even made a little catalogue.

There are the Mermaid ones, the kind who head there carrying nothing but a towel, and erm, a bikini of course. I fall under this umbrella. I can be ready for a sand-and-sea outing in 30 seconds flat: towel, bottle of water, sunblock and car keys are the only things I need. Admittedly, there was a spell back there, when my daughter was a toddler, when I had to grasp the concept of packing a proper beach bag – but happily that phase is over and now she has her own beach bag and I am back to throwing a towel over my shoulder.

There are the Tortoise beachers: those who must carry their whole house on their little backs whenever they go to the beach. I don’t know how it came to be, but it so happens that my dearest girlfriends are all tortoises. To go to the beach they have to pack at least a day in advance. What do they pack? Food for a whole football team, picnic set, Thermos bottles with ice-cold water, Thermos bottles with tea, extra water just in case, an assortment of sun blocks and suntan lotions, stronger sunblocks for the face, first aid kit, herbal remedies kit, vinegar, sting spray, salt and pepper, €10 Lidl tent, beach umbrella, that pointless base which you’re supposed to fill with water to keep the umbrella from blowing away but it still does anyway, beach mats, beach chairs, extra swimsuits, books, torches, candles, battery-powered fan, a pair of pliers, hangers to hang beach clothes on the umbrella frame which then blow away too, and so on. They remind me of those tiny kitchen ants who can carry a huge Twistee all the way back to the nest by themselves.

One thing is sure: you are born a type of beacher and you cannot really change your ritual half way through your life

Then there are the Butterfly beachers. They are those who just flit in the sea and they’re out before they even know it. A friend of mine for example, cycles to the beach every once in a while. Once there, he strips to his boxers, swims the length of the bay and then, dripping wet, cycles home again because “there’s no better than the wind to dry you up”.

Then there are the Lemurs. Just like the ring-tailed lemurs, the sole aim for their beach visit is to sit still in a position facing the sun. Then after 10 minutes they turn round. After another 10 minutes they turn to one side, then to the next. Then they do the front and then the back, tying and untying the bikini straps to ensure that there’s no swimwear marks in their suntan. Lemurs tend to have those annoying little orange eyelid covers so they get a sun tan even on the bags under their eyes.

Then there are the Penguins. These waddle down to the beach with a small plastic shopping bag carrying a towel and newspapers. They perch on the most uncomfortable of rocks on the entire beach, read the paper, then after sometime they stretch and ever so abruptly jump in the sea and swim out. They stay floating in the same spot in manner of Turu Rizzo for a longish time. Then, equally abruptly, they suddenly get out of the sea, sit on that same pointy and prickly piece of rock, dry and head back. As you can imagine, they are particularly incompatible with Tortoise beachers.

There are the Moles. These are the ones who sit inside the tent all the while they are at the beach. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Mole swim. Unless Moles are also Owls: those very fair-skinned gents who only go for a swim at 4am or 8pm.

Last but not least, there are the Sheep beachers. They are the ones who always book a sunbed or two in a private beach. The sunbed is usually a whole kilometre away from the actual sea, and when they lift their heads up from their iPhones, the only view they have is of 50 more rows of sun beds ahead of them. They love feeling part of a crowd and they don’t mind the whiff of sweat from the neighbouring sunbeds.

I’m perennially fascinated by these beach rituals. I suppose it’s not dissimilar to a character trait: something which is innate to islanders. One thing is sure: you are born a type of beacher and you cannot really change your ritual half way through your life.

So… what kind are you?

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Twitter: @KrisChetcuti