Conor Popeand his family lucked out when they were upgraded at the exclusive Forte Village Resort - at least until a group of doctors started dancing
Day 1
"You've been upgraded." Can there be three more beautiful words in the English language? Instead of a four-star room with a hedge view, we're given a four star "superior" room overlooking some pine trees in what must be the poshest family resort in Europe. Sardinia's Forte Village is where the absolutely loaded, including the Beckhams and Roman Abramovich, come for their holidays - so Lord knows what we're doing here. We're whisked off to the Royal Pineta, one of seven hotels in the 25-hectare complex, feeling a bit smug because of the unexpected upgrade. The smugness is fleeting, however, as all the other guests go into the five-star Hotel Castello next door. Room envy sets in.
Day 2
I ask for the wine list at the Castello buffet, where we're allowed to eat because of our "superior" status, and immediately wish I hadn't. Some wines cost €9,000, more than twice what we paid for our 12-day, half-board package. Frantically I turn the pages, searching in vain for a bottle under €30. With a lightly pregnant, non-drinking wife sitting across from me I choose a half-bottle of the cheapest wine on the list: €18. Meanwhile 17-month-old Little Miss Fussy turns her nose up at everything, not caring a jot that this is the finest buffet any of us has ever been in. The counters groan under the weight of gorgeous seafood platters, and fresh lobster and crayfish pastas compete with suckling pig and beef fillet for my attention. As a bonus the restaurant is also overrun with toddlers, so no one will bat an eyelid if (if!) ours starts howling or throwing pasta at the waiters.
Day 3
The morning is spent in the kids' club, trying to coax Little Miss Nervous into one of the five shallow pools. In the afternoon we board the resort's Happy Train for a jaunt around the complex, stopping to wave at pink flamingos, pelicans and parrots that are strategically positioned in the dense foliage that gives the place its botanic-gardens feel. Sitting opposite me is a dad who's the spit of a famous Irish footballer. I stare intently but discreetly. He is a famous Irish footballer! Part of me (the naff part) wants to introduce myself, but how can I do such a thing and retain my dignity? I can't, so I studiously ignore him instead. Then Little Miss Mortifying breaks the ice by puking on his flip-flops. His Prada flip-flops. As I mentally calculate how much a new pair is going to cost me (loads), he laughs. Turns out that, despite his post-match TV-interview grumpiness, he's lovely. At dinner I find out, by accident, that wine is included in our package. The chance discovery saves me hundreds of euro.
Day 4
Between 6pm and 7pm we visit the children's buffet, with its freshly cooked vegetables, pastas, fried fish and sausages. Chefs in gleaming whites whizz past on bikes while a smiling road cleaner winks and waves as he trundles by on his dinky tile-polishing buggy. There is also a lot of conference traffic through the complex. Some guests are irked by the presence of hundreds of business delegates, but it doesn't bother me.
Day 5
It's starting to bother me. Every night at 9.30pm bad rock music and wild cheering come uninvited into our room. They're so loud that the windows shake - a delight when trying to convince Little Miss Overtired to sleep. I investigate and am appalled to discover it's a Mercedes trucker convention making the racket. I watch, gobsmacked, as men from across northern Europe fall drunkenly out of the resort's church - converted for the week into an Old West saloon - and climb into shiny trucks to have their photographs taken. I resolve never to buy a Mercedes truck again. Or grow a mullet.
Day 6
It's raining and our fellow guests grow restless, bored and bitchy, so to escape the miserableness we head for Pula, a town eight kilometres away. It's small and sleepy, and, if your trip coincides with the Tuesday market, prepare to be underwhelmed by stalls selling the same horrible clothes and eccentric bric-a-brac that markets across southern Europe specialise in. Taxis can be organised by reception, but they cost a scandalous €28 each way. A bus ticket is 70c. One downside of Forte Village is that it has everything you need but at silly prices. A poolside Coke costs €4.50, a beer in the hotel bar twice that, while a side order of French fries in the beachfront pizzeria is €8.
Day 7
The truckers are joined by a cardiologists' conference. I'm quite well disposed to this group, because of their life-saving abilities, but am less well disposed to the music from their disco, which is even louder and more useless than the ridiculous truck-fest. I call reception and ask when the medics are off to bed and am assured it will be in 10 minutes. It is a shameless lie: the doctors' dance goes on for hours.
Day 8
We complain about the dancing doctors and, amazingly, the hotel agrees to move us. Unfortunately, the only room left in the entire complex is an executive suite in Hotel Castello. Reluctantly (ha!) we take it - and the old smugness returns. Our new room is enormous. The views over the Med from the huge balcony are stunning, the bathrobes fluffier, the beds bigger and softer and the toiletries posher. Leaving the room is a wrench, but we have to finally explore the three main pool complexes. The best of them is an enormous saltwater figure-of-eight close to the main reception area that comes with a diving pool and two huge water slides that a grown man has no business hurtling down over and over and over again. Little Miss Waterbaby looks on mortified.
Day 9
With time running out we swap the Castello buffet for the Brazilian bistro - one of more than 20 restaurants in the resort (there's even a Michelin-starred one, which we never visit, sadly). After 12 meat courses we roll ourselves into the nearby entertainment area. The hotel brochure says it's "the world's great theatre". It's not, but it is extraordinarily elaborate, with giant video screens and a lighting rig dwarfing the band. The brochure tells us that Kid Creole and his Coconuts have a residency here, but not tonight. Tonight it is the turn of a dull covers band to belt out Take That tunes. We take a seat and, too late, realise we're the only people in the auditorium. We have the band's undivided attention and have no choice but to smile, clap and, most depressingly, stay for half a dozen songs, after which some other holiday makers arrive - and we flee.
Day 10
In addition to the tennis courts, putting greens and football pitches (where Chelsea FC host a summer soccer camp) there is Leisureland, home to a full-sized go-kart track, a beach volleyball court, an eight-lane bowling alley and an outdoor ice rink - a wantonly excessive feature that is, sadly, closed. Not everything in the resort opens before the start of high season in June, but the €1,000 I've saved by coming in May helps me overcome the disappointment.
Day 11
The thalassotherapy spa is open for business - and very pricey. Access to the therapeutic saltwater pools costs €85; massages start at €150. We leave Little Miss Independent in the kids' club - a child-minding service for under-threes costs €15 an hour; older children are looked after for free - and immerse ourselves in each of six heavily salinated pools, the first of which has the colour, taste and texture of gravy. It is thick with oily minerals and salt, and wading through it is like taking a space walk. I lose my balance within seconds of getting in and, after some incredibly inelegant flailing, practically fall into the arms of a surprised and unimpressed BBC news presenter who has, regrettably, timed her relaxing spa visit to coincide with mine.
Day 12
I wake up sad to leave my suite, knowing that my chances of seeing its like again are slim - even if I could afford to spend more than €1,000 a night on a hotel room, I'm not sure my conscience would allow me. (Who am I kidding? Of course it would.) Loud conference music aside, this is an almost perfect family resort - although perhaps not so great for couples - where everything is made simple. The five-star fantasy begins to fade as soon as we say our arrivedercis to the driver, who takes us, in a Mercedes, naturally, to Cagliari Airport, 30km away. It's gone completely by the time we get back to gloomy, grumpy Dublin, where no one smiles and, inexplicably, there's no freshly cooked lobster linguine or smoked octopus waiting for us at dinner time.
Go there
Getting to Forte Village Resort can be difficult, as no Irish airline flies direct to Cagliari. We flew with British Airways (www.british airways.com), which flies to the Sardinian capital from London Gatwick three times a week. We booked our package through Citalia (www.citalia.ie). Twelve days half-board for two adults and an infant in the middle of
May cost just over €4,000. The resort's website, www.fortevillageresort.com, also takes bookings directly.