As soon as I left the vestibule, with its intricately sculpted cherubim and seraphim, and stepped through the Gothic arch into the Great Hall, where a huge dining table was lit by torches and a hanging chandelier, I knew this was no ordinary sandcastle – at least, not one of Black Country design. Yes, Reg Cabot could tend at times toward the baroque, but the wall of skulls beyond the decorative water feature was a bit much even for him. For that matter, I even had to admit that the detailing appeared of greater skill than Reg’s or even Les Bryant’s best work. As I approached it to get a closer look I soon saw why: this magnum momento mori was fashioned not in silicon but in calcium.

“That’s against the rules!” cried Madge Dudley’s brother Trevor, pointing indignantly at the crania. Nothing else registered in his eyes. He was still wearing a sun hat he’d folded out of my Daily Herald, though the early morning brightness had long left the sky and we’d been wandering the corridors, labyrinths and chambers of this castle for well over an hour now. I wasn’t comfortable with the way his big day out was shaping up, but was glad that, as yet, he seemed to feel all right.

A wall of skulls is not a very encouraging location for a door, but the only other way out was back the way we had come, and I didn’t fancy negotiating that labyrinth again. The doorway led immediately to a set of spiral steps, dimly lit by occasional shafts of daylight fed by mirrors and strange engineering.

At the foot of the stairs was a long chamber, lined by figures of sand, mostly seated, some supine, and a few standing ready at arms. They were life-sized and unnervingly real in the gloom. We followed flickering firelight through another doorway and looked all around us: no exit was visible. I looked up to gauge the height of the ceiling only to see a terrible sight: thousands of crabs falling towards us. They landed and started to chase us, snipping at our ankles. We had no choice but to turn and flee but as we did so we noticed that the opening through which we’d come was now blocked of with thick wooden boards.

“That’s against the rules!” cried Trevor, pointing indignantly.

The crabs snapped mercilessly at our ankles for over half an hour, and it felt like this would be our terrible fate, but fortunately nature had another idea. With a mighty crack, thunder heralded a downpour, and within seconds the walls of this once impenetrable fortress were washed away, leaving nothing but the stone figures who, washed clean, revealed themselves to be Reg Cabot and Les Bryant, along with some other members of the Horseley Fields and Wednesfield Castling and Sandsculpting Club. They told us the strange story of their abduction, paralysis and petrification as we walked out of the ruins into the murky day, where there was no longer any sign of rain. Two other sandcastles had been built under a temporary roof (“That’s against the rules!” cried Trevor), but I decided that there was no time for any more beach activities as we only had an hour until kick-off and the escape from mortal danger had made me rather thirsty.

This did not go down well with the little ‘un.

“You promised Aunty Madge!” he kept saying, dragging me by the hand to the next castle. Eventually I gave up, slipped him half a crown for ice cream and chips and left him to explore the remaining fortresses alone, while Reg, Les, the Castlers and myself saw the Wanderers turn over Bournemouth and Boscombe and advance to the Fourth Round.

Trevor met me on the sea-front at half-past five, looking pale and rather shaken. He said nothing about his experiences then or at any time in the future, allowing me a welcome kip on the train back home. Come on you Wolves!