A spa holiday? If you don't mind me asking, are you in your right mind? I have a family: a husband; a teenage son. Do you think they're going to be up for a spa holiday? As it is, if we're away, and I so much as drift momentarily into a shoe shop, they'll wait huffily outside, pointedly looking at their watches, perhaps putting their heads round the door and saying irritably, "But you've got so many shoes already." Plus, it's not as if I'm exactly a spa person myself. Certainly, I hanker for that kind of thing; to be pampered and oiled and rubbed down and sent back into the world all fresh and polished and new but, in my day-to-day life, I just cannot justify the time. Or, at least, I won't justify the time. Because I'm not worth it? Very possibly. In fact, I've yet to ever have a single spa treatment. Not one, once. I've never even turned up at a hair salon just to get an estimate for major works to commence at a later date. So a spa holiday? Like I said, are you in your right mind?
I'd think not. But then I hadn't heard of Forte Village Resort in Sardinia. Now, depending on which way you look at it, Forte Village is either a fabulous spa that is also a magnificent family resort, or it is a magnificent family resort that is also a fabulous spa. But it doesn't really matter, because, either way, it's amazing and gorgeous, and you can spa like a mad person - it's not so hard, once you get into the swing of it, while the rest of the family are otherwise occupied (hurrah!) and you know what? If I thought I would never go back to Forte Village again, and would never have another one of their signature underwater massages, I thinkaI might very well cry. Have I become a spa person? Heavens, maybe I have.
Forte Village is situated on a soft, sandy beach - the sort you sometimes think only exist in brochures - on the southwest tip of Sardinia, one of the Mediterranean's most beautiful islands. The sea is warm, crystal clear; a perfect blue to the horizon where it meets the perfect sky. A lovely beach, a lovely sea - what more could you want? Well, how about tennis (12 courts)? Or a (five-a-side, seven-a-side and regular-sized pitches)? Plus there is: swimming (10 pools); basketball; volleyball; bikes; squash, all the water sports you can think of; childrens' clubs for all ages; an ice rink (seriously), trampolines; an adventure playground; a bowling alley and even a 500m go-kart track. My son talks me into having a go. He is impressed. He says: "Mum, Nana walks faster than you drive." And to think, I wasted spa-time to be with him. What an ungrateful monster!
Actually, I can see now that I've made it sound like a cranked-up Center Parcs - but it's not. Set in 55 acres of lush Mediterranean gardens, and criss-crossed by little walkways, it never feels too crowded or even like you are in a resort at all. The activities are all just so cleverly masked. And there's a spa, too. Have I mentioned the spa? The Forte Village 'Thaermae del Forte' spa is one of the most famed and beautiful in Europe. It is all lava rocks and waterfalls and overhanging bougainvillea set around six glorious thalassotherapy (sea water) pools. The spa offers pampering treatments like aromatherapy and facials, but thalassotherapy, which exploits the benefits of sea water on the body, is really their thing. I start with the underwater massage in one of the warm, saline-dense pools. Nicola is my therapist. I wear a swimsuit. He wears trunks. He says nothing, which is good because, as a spa virgin, I'm not sure I'm ready for all that talk about doshas and chakras and my pittas being all out of whack. Nicola simply swooshes me slowly though the water, with my head cradled on his shoulder. He occasionally gently moves and exercises my limbs, while the pool takes all my weight. I am stiff, at first. Tense. It's a combination of being about lose my virginity (so to speak) and the British reserve thing. I am like a plank with tightly screwed-up eyes.
Nicola doesn't implore me to relax. He just carries on cradling and swooshing. Eventually, I do go, but I couldn't to tell you where. The mind just seems to dissolve, as does the body, and as someone who is always furiously quarrelling with her body - get thinner; get fitter; do it now - this is wonderfully liberating. When Nicola calls me round, it's a shock. How much time has passed? Half an hour, it turns out, but I had no idea. It is so womb-like. Any longer and I think I'd have been crying for milk and calling him 'Daddy'. I've never experienced anything like it. I put it to Nicola that maybe he could come back to London with me while my husband could be left here. It's a fair swap, I reckon. He laughs, as if I'm joking, which is a little annoying. Wobbling back to our luxurious bungalow, my limbs still feel like liquid. I am not up to joining the boys on a banana-boat ride, but do revive sufficiently for dinner at one of the 21 restaurants. These restaurants serve everything from Italian through to Japanese via à la carte or buffets; buffets piled high with langoustines as big as your forearm. Yes, I am revived enough for dinner. How do you account for that?
Strangely, as the boys ricochet excitedly from tennis to go-karting back to tennis and then onto football (there are arranged matches in the evenings), I find myself returning to the spa again and again. I have a gommage, when two people massage your body with a mixture of lemon juice and salt, then honey and chickpeas, finishing off with freshly perfumed rose-water. Nothing short of bliss, if you don't count the paper panties you have to wear. Still, I think I managed to carry them off. And my skin afterwards is so silky and soft and delicious I can't believe it's mine. Usually, my skin feels like a crocodile handbag. And then I do the full, six-pool treatment. I start with the first, hottest, sea-oil pool. It is oily and brown because of the high levels of magnesium salt, and so buoyant that you sort of end up wearing your knees around your ears. Weird, but not unpleasant. Next it's the aloe and mint pool, and then the hyrdomassage pool and you just keep bathing your way through the different pools until you get to the last, 25°C one. It takes nearly two hours - oh no, think how many banana rides I've missed! - and the effect is curious. You feel chilled yet simultaneously full of pep; relaxed yet rejuvenated.
I do think I de-stressed considerably. I didn't shout once. Usually, it is: "Pick up your swimming stuff." And: "Hang your wet trunks outside." And: "Who's bitten the cheese and put it straight back in the fridge?" The boys had a great time, and so did I. I am worth it, and it's worth it. And Forte Village also has some very nice shops. I bought a new pair of shoes. Tell me, do holidays ever get any better than this?
High Life stayed at Forte Village (Santa Margherita di Pula, Cagliari, Sardinia. Tel: +39 070 92171, fortevillageresort.com). Citalia offer seven nights at the five-star Villa del Parco at Forte Village from £1725 per person, including BA flights from London Gatwick. Contact Citalia (tel: +44 (0)870 909 7554, citalia.com). BA flies to Cagliari from London Gatwick. Visit ba.com
