Adults Go Free

Thankfully, Robbie didn't argue over what he wanted. I crept out onto the balcony with him to avoid wakening Rosie and Neil. It was sunny and warm. I felt fine, despite the aches and pains of a night of sleeping on the tiles. This holiday will be what we make it, I thought, and we'll have to make the best of it.

In due course, we were all fed, watered and ready to explore bubbly Benidorm. Neil and I barely mentioned the rammy during the night, as we didn't want to focus on anything negative on the first day of our holiday. “Right kids, what do you want to do?” I asked, waiting for the inevitable. “The beach, the beach!” they both yelled. So the beach it was.

Having made sure the two enormous beach bags contained towels, swimming cossies, sun cream, sun glasses, changes of clothes and more, we were ready for the off. As we walked from the hotel, we were aware that the beach was in a distinct southerly direction. In fact, Stalag 13 was at the top of a ruddy great hill. Not to worry, we agreed, the exercise will do us good.

The only problem was that days before we left Scotland, Neil had developed an agonisingly sore ankle that had required a visit to casualty. The doctors had been vague about the cause, but had prescribed painkillers strong enough to knock out a horse.

The pain had eased off, but his ankle was still weak and he was limping worse than Dale Winton's wrist. Undeterred, we set off down the hill in search of fun, sea and sangria.

We had decided over breakfast that the apartment was best treated as somewhere to sleep and shower and the longer we could stay out of it the better. Hence the reason Neil and I looked like pack horses, carrying everything but the Stalag sink.

On the way down the hill, we were dragged into one of the many tourist tat shops by the kids who insisted on getting buckets and spades, bats and balls, dinghies and dinosaurs. We were engulfed in a heap of rubber and it wasn't even 10am.

Off we trudged to the beach, very impressed by the long, marble promenade and the immaculate stretch of clean, golden sand. Intricate sand sculptures were proudly displayed along the edge of the strand, which we reckoned by July or August would be covered in a sea of frying bodies. The April weather was glorious - not too warm, with just a gentle breeze.

Some of the architecture was quite classy - some quite vulgar - but the overall impression was of designers with big ideas not afraid to experiment in transforming a once tacky tourist trap into a much more sophisticated resort.

We spent the day eating, drinking and playing on the beach, occasionally rousing ourselves to take a walk further along the promenade. Neil soldiered on despite his bad ankle, but his injury - conveniently in my view - prevented him from taking part in the fun beach games with the kids.

I looked at him enviously as he lay like a beached whale in the sun reading his book, occasionally muttering to me in a pitiful voice: “I feel really guilty, but the sand just kills my foot” as I bounced around the beach like a large tomato, running for the ball each time it shot off towards the sea at 200 miles an hour.