Giles Coren says

I was genetically constructed to live in the desert. With a nice pool and a shady bar

I work quite hard to provide certain luxuries for my family beyond the bare essentials of food and clothes and a roof over our heads. Such as, in no particular order: school fees, medical insurance, another roof over our heads (in Gloucestershire), and winter sun. Lashings and lashings of winter sun.

Now, when I say ,‘ in no particular order ’, I am lying. The truth is that I would sell the country house, cancel the insurance and pull the children out of their posh little private schools in the blink of an eye, before I would forego my fortnight on a tropical beach in the dark days of February.

I need sun. I am of Ashkenazi Jewish descent and thus a relatively recent arrival in these chilly climes. I was genetically constructed to live in the desert. But near the sea. With a nice pool and a shady bar serving piña coladas and chicken wings. If I do not get at least a week in Mozambique or the Grenadines around November time, and then again in the New Year, I go green. I literally go green. My skin sags, my eyes go dull. I lose the will to live.

As a kid, I was taken occasionally to Florida or South Africa by my parents, but then in my 20s I lived witha girl whose family had a beach house in the Bahamas (I loved her for lots of reasons but it was mostly the beach house) and that rather spoiled me. Since then, I have always found away to spend February somewhere nice and hot, just recharging the batteries, beefing up the old mahogany skin tone and drinking rum cocktails with my feet in the pool and my nose in the new Robert Harris.

My wife, the descendant of cavedwelling he li op ho be sin the Celtic fringe, does not understand this. She thinks Devon is a holiday and Greece is ‘t ravelling ’. On one occasion, when I raised the problem of our being five grand light of any sort of winter jaunt, and thus possibly having to sell the car, she went so far as to call me ‘spoilt’.

Spoilt! Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?

Esther thinks winter sun is a frivolous expense and long-haul flying an inhuman torture. She worries about jet lag, sunburn, foreign food, terrorism, mosquitoes, suitable clothing, swimmer’s ear… So I went without her. I took our three-year-old daughter, Kitty, to Curtain Bluff in Antigua and we had the time of our lives, hanging out on the beach all day, building sandcastles and dancing in the sea, then gobbling burgers from room service and sleeping for 12 straight hours every night.

Meanwhile, Esther stayed home with our one-year-old boy, Sam, and did whatever it is one does in England in February. Watched television, I suppose, while the rain beat reassuringly on the windows.

The next year I tried together and Sam to come with us, but not with any great conviction. I’ve got used to flying business class over the years and while two of us could get some distance on miles and vouchers, all off our of us would mean stumping up thousands. So off went Kitty and I on our own again, this time to Dubai, which was as far as that year’s miles would get me.

Hell. On. Earth. Never go to Dubai. It has the feeling of a rich man’s ‘shoffice’ thrown up yesterday by slaves who were later buried in the garden. One hesitates to dig sandcastles for fear, two inches down, of hitting R awl plugs, plasterboard and mass graves. Kitty kept asking ,‘ Why are there no fish or birds, Daddy?’ Because this is Hell, Kitty, and nothing can live here.

So this year, I thought, Oman. We’d still fly to Dubai – relatively cheap and easy – but hightail it out of there pronto, only two hours by road to a country of mountains and oases and real culture and good people and cooking and…

‘I hear Six Senses Zighy Bay is pretty much the best hotel in the world,’ said Esther. ‘The villas have their own pool and it’s right on the beach with an awesome kids’ club and nannies so that when they’re asleep we can go out for…’ ‘We?’ ‘I thought Sam and I would come.’ ‘Oh really?’ ‘As long as it’s Zighy Bay. My friend Charlotte just got back and says it’s the most beautiful place ever, right on the beach, and full of posh English families so there are no fat people or tattoos, which I know you hate.’ ‘OK, done.’ ‘And obviously we go business class,’ she added.

‘Obviously,’ I said. And signed up for yet another dubious television show to be sure of covering the cost.

And so we went, and I looked forward to it so much – sun and sea and sand with the three people I love most in this world – that I was almost ill with expectation and… it rained.

It rained and it rained and it rained. This, they said at Zighy Bay, was the first time they had had rain in February in the 10 years since they opened.

But, you know, it didn’t matter a jot. In this lovingly reconstructed vision of a pre laps arian Poly ne si an paradise, with bamboo-roofed villas huddled around a glorious bay and guarded by craggy mountains, you just couldn’t help but be deliriously happy.

As the clouds beat down on our backs we spent all day jumping in our heated private pool, and when that wasn’t hot enough we dived inside into our huge, family-sized bath. We raced in the gigantic communal pool just beyond the wall so four villa, surfed in the balmy ocean, cycled around the beautifully managed grounds and down to the beach club with its picnic sand cocktails and volleyball and sprawling, Elysian children’ s playground, and took turns to be massaged in the spa.

Then in the evenings, when it usually didn’t rain, we sat out under t he stars at one of their three restaurants, eating top-quality Middle Eastern food while Kitty and Sam sourced their own ‘elbow pasta’ from the children’s buffet in another part of the complex.

I have never seen my children so happy. Sam learnt to swim, Kitty learnt archery and to dive. We did a lot of Lego. I read five brilliant novels by Sebastian Barry and Esther got some sleep for the first time in a long time.

‘If it weren’ t for the weather ,’ I repeatedly said to Esther. ‘This would be the holiday of a lifetime.’

And she repeatedly replied, ‘This IS the holiday of a lifetime.’

Which I am taking to mean I won. Esther lost. Winter sun is fundamental to the well-being of the Coren family. The huge sums of money are justified and a little jet lag never hurt anybody. So next year I think we’ll go to the Maldives. Or maybe Mexico.