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While the hids shim the wdueg surrender yourself to the Portuguese pleasures of seaweedfacials and alfesco lunches,-says Jud,'ith Woods faraway figure dressed head-to-toe
in neoprene is crouched, arms our, in textbook pose on a surfboard, commanding the Atlantic swell. Is it...? No, it cant be. Surely not. I must be look.ing ar the wrong child. But then I get a thumbs up. Good Lord, itt my 10-year-old. \X&o has learned to surf, just like that. Five minures ago she was being put through preliminary drills on the beach with fucardo. her (disrracringly ripped) instructor, and now shet ridine the swell like a born-again dolphin. Yes, surfing was the reason we'd come to Martinhal, on the pristine westernmost tip of the Algarve - but I hadnt expected her to get the hang of it quite so easily. I was supposed to be learning as well. But once we arrived, I felt that a faciai followed by an alfresco seafood lunch and a chilled glass ofbest Portuguese Douro would be an equally, if differently, invigorating way to spend the day. And you
know I got the hang ofthat quite easily too. The majoriry of families are British, a prospect that, before I had kids, Martinhal would have had beach-club pool me swimming
L^-- c,il,. clothed, but which
these days transpoms me to a state of punchthe-air-to-the-roar-of-the-crow.d elation. \Vhy? Because my offspring plus their offspring equals an afternoon nap, and maybe a civilised sundowner with the other Darents. Once surfing is over For the day. there is rennis and biking and windsurfing. rhe glorious USP of the Algawe being the blowy breeze that ameliorates the Iberian heat and positively promotes hearry sportiness. In some. For tiny children the menu of activities is no less appealing. The superbly kitted-out kids'club would have an Ofsted inspector
misting over with high emotion. Only a churl of a child - and, for once, my four-year-old wasnt that child - would prefer to annoy Mummy all morning, because we all know that when in sunny climes (authorised) absence does make the heart srow fonder.
Bur Marrinhal adds up to iuch more rhan the sum of the numerous praias that surround
it or the gung-ho
games
that
see
your children
flaked out by 9pm. It is, quite simply, a gem of a place that melds Designers Guild indulgence
ivith barefoot informaliry and staffwho radiate warmth and professionalism - and actually li ke chrldren. We stayed in an oceanfront villa, and although'home
itt
from home' is a hackneyed expression, snappier than 'home but with a vastly superio: coffee machine, covetable moderniste sofas and a stunning vie#. The villas are cleverly designed to make th. most of the panorama - upside down, with bedrooms on the ground floor so the balconr. opens off rhe living area upstairs, with a kitchen better appointed than my own. Not that I cooked much when Martinhal's
contâ‚Źmporary restaurant, O Terrago, offered
wild boar loin for me and homemade fish fingers for them. The lunchtime seafood restauranr, As Dunas, overlooks the playpark. obviating the dreary need for parents to eithc: eat alone orwatch alone, on a shift basis. We stayed for four days, but a private villa meant I would have happily frittered away a fortnight, by which time the l0-year-old woul.. probably have been headhunted by rhe Quiksilver surf team, the four-year-old migh: have been persuaded to leave the trampoline without tears and I, having enjoyed two week. of rejuvenating R&R and TLC spa treatments, would have been able to oass myself offas their big sisrer.
fom t,1,083 for seuen nighti B&8, with Mr and Mrs Smith (mrandmrssmith,con;
Double,
0845 034 0700), British Airways flies to Faro a . t affom LIz,/ return.