“GOT ONE!”

It’s the war cry of every beach walk we’ve ever attempted. My kids can’t go ten steps without crouching, digging, and smuggling another “treasure” into their pockets. They clank like pint-sized pirates, convinced they’ve struck emeralds (sea glass), rubies (car park gravel), and diamonds (quartz with the glamour of a bathroom tile). By the end I’m staggering along like a geological pack mule, carrying half of Dorset in my backpack and wondering if the AA covers rock-related suspension damage.

But they’ve got a point. Every stone is a tiny time machine. A telegram from millions of years ago. And in their grubby little hands, those “worthless” pebbles outshine anything glowing on an iPad.

To figure out why this daft obsession feels so vital - and why every jacket I own rattles with geological loot) - I went hunting for answers. I found Jan Lakowski, a Scottish agate poet who prowls drizzly beaches for flame stones, and Cally Oldershaw, a museum gemmologist who once unlocked the secret cabinets of the Natural History Museum. Together, they convinced me that fossil hunting (or “fossicking” as the Aussies call it) isn’t just a hobby. It’s a portal: to deep time, to wonder, and to the kind of magic our kids desperately need.