Tom Parker Bowles hated the thought of a ‘corporate prison’ holiday – until his children found the kids’ club and he discovered the buffet
THE all-inclusive resort. Words that send a chill down my spine, an unholy alliance of the drab and mediocre, a corporate prison disguised as sundrenched good times. A place where independence, adventure and free choice come to wither and die.
The all-inclusive holiday goes against everything I hold dear. As a food writer, restaurant critic and man who lives almost entirely at the whim of his belly, I travel to eat. Even on holiday. I don’t care whether it’s Palermo or Philadelphia, I just want a taste of the local tucker.
Yet at the classic all-inclusive resort, anything outside its gleaming gates is kept deliberately at bay – a strange and hostile land, filled with unscrupulous crooks and endless tropical ills. Not only do these resorts want to imprison you inside their compound (there are always ‘extras’ in these places, at wildly inflated prices) but, more importantly, once you’ve shelled out for a holiday for four, going out to eat elsewhere makes little financial sense. So you spend your time chewing on ‘safe’ mass-catered food and knocking back cheap cocktails sweet enough to make your teeth ache.
So what am I doing speeding from Cagliari airport to the sprawling Forte Village Resort in Sardinia? It might be known as the most upmarket all-inclusive of them all, a place with more restaurants than the average British town, but it’s still a damned all-inclusive. As we whizz past endless trattorias serving up golden porceddu (the Sardinian version of porchetta), wild boar salami, chilli-flecked sausages and fresh fish, I keep reminding myself why we’re here – the children, Lola, five, and Freddy, three.
In the past we have shared a villa with friends near Catania in Sicily. It was near enough to the city to ensure daily trips to a glorious fish market, and perfectly placed for the restaurants of the region. But last summer, we couldn’t make it work, hence the Forte Resort decision.
Lola and Freddy chatter excitedly about waterslides, bike rides, ice cream, pizzas and sandcastles. We, on the other hand, are less thrilled. Sure, the sun is beating down and the Mediterranean is glittering, but as soon as we pass through the gates, I feel as if we’ve left the real world.
The first thing that strikes me is the sheer size of the resort. It must be half a mile from the main road to the white sandy beach. Most people get around by bike, but I hate bikes. Instead, as we’re driven by golf buggy (a measurably superior form of transport) to our room, I study the map – and panic. There are seven hotels on the site, more than 20 restaurants, shops, villas, endless pools, spas, tennis courts, football pitches, discos, bowling alleys and even a church.
The children, on the other hand, are now sitting in awed silence, gazing at youngsters on BMXs and drinking in the squeals from the pool. ‘Can we go to the pool now?’ asks Lola as we pull up outside our room. ‘No,’ moans Freddy, ‘I want to go in the sea.’ Different country, same old chat. I’m still worrying about dinner when the doors of our temporary home are flung open to reveal great glass windows gazing out on to that brilliant blue sea.
Our magnificent room has space, light, big TVs, and a balcony that hangs over the beach. Even better, the