Whitewashed lodgings

We stare across at it from the terrace of our room, part of the whitewashed amphitheatre of lodgings around the pool – simple, practical doubles with sofas where the children can bunk up at night, easily comfortable for four for a week, easily big enough to stow the luggage which, disbelieving, we have stuffed with clothes for all seasons. 

No need. Like snakes shedding skins, we slough off our winter layers in the cloudless days, grow used to flip-flopping in February; even if it is only to the buffet, or up to the sports area, where the boys can join a football game, or swing a tennis racquet. 

The pool is the centre of everything, and soon enough a new routine develops – not of rushed breakfasts and the school run, but of enjoying a leisurely bowl of granola or two, and perhaps a waffle (never fear, the full English is there too) then a dip, and before you know it, a relentlessly energetic rep has arrived poolside and is firing up the aqua fitness class. I turn to my wife to raise an ironic eyebrow at the very thought of joining in, but she’s not there. She’s in at the deep end, in every sense, pushing two, three, four, and flexing two, three, four… A little later, I am in too, dragged into a game of water polo in which absurdly competitive dads gouge and dunk each other in four feet of water while attempting to hurl a green beachall into a taped-together goal. Next day I am back for more. And the day after. On our last day – late – I hear my name being called over the tannoy, and feel a ludicrous rush of pride and belonging.