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A reasonable answer. The airport was a sea of golf bags being dragged along by men in crisp blue and white linen; the customs queue was populated by women so shiny they could have been the Plastics from Mean Girls , if the Plastics were 65 and from Surrey. The pull of sun, sea and golf has been encouraging Brits to invade the Algarve for many years. Even in the May school holidays — when I visited with my partner, Tom, our two-year-old, Isaac, and our four-year-old, Hope — Brits were thin on the ground.
First we drove a little inland, passing through an explosion of bougainvilleas and orange trees into the hills to Moncarapacho. When we pulled into our first hotel, the Octant Vila Monte, I gulped with dread. A swish lavender-lined drive brought us to what was most definitely a boutique joint, with whitewashed walls and carefully strewn cushions.
A haven of minimal tranquillity, which is not how anyone would describe Isaac. In fact Isaac and his, erm, energy were very welcome. Meanwhile, Tom and I sat under an olive tree and ate a superb dinner of tuna tartare, and roasted cod with black shrimp acorda de camarao an, ahem, authentic bread-based stew that arrives in a little pot , and had an actual conversation.
Each morning it was time to hit up the beaches, the nearest of which was a minute drive. This translates to calm waters, tidal flats, dunes, grassy marshes, shellfish and all manner of birds, even flamingos. In a matter of minutes it takes you from crab-scuttling mudflats, through Jane Austen wildflower-strewn sandbanks, and deposits you at a wide stretch of dark-mustard sand with miniature waves to jump over. All for about a pound each.