hotels articles

* Leaning On Love: Jonathan Haynes and the former Leslie Renee Feggans wed at the bride’s parents home in Laverock, PA. A graduate of Cabrini College and Eastern College, the bride is a biologist at SmithKline Beecham Pharmaceuticals. A graduate of Villanova University, the groom is a professional basketball player in Europe. They honeymooned at Sandals Resort in the Bahamas.

* God’s Greatest Gift: Mr. and Mrs. Melvin Raymond said “I do” at Union Bethel Independent Methodist Church in Birmingham, AL. The bride, the former Adrianne Denise Young, is a graduate of the University of Alabama. She is a program coordinator for the UAB Addiction Recover Program. The groom is a finance manager with Serra Chevrolet. The newlyweds honeymooned in Hawaii.

* Wedding Day Bliss: Marvin W. Armstrong and Arlene Young united as one at the Sequoia Conference Center in Buena Park, CA. The bride holds certifications from the American School of X-Ray and Southland College. She is a physical therapy/ occupational aide at Robert F. Kennedy Medical Center. The groom is a graduate of ITT in Anaheim. He is a quality and technology services manager with Future Media Production. They honeymooned in Stevenson Ranch, CA.

* Ribbon In The Sky:. Derek Anthony Villavaso and Genia Micole Ferdinand married at St. John Baptist in New Orleans, LA. The bride, a graduate of Xavier University, works in a health profession. The bridegroom, a graduate of Dillard University, is coowner of Exclusive Vocational Services. He is also co-owner of Hue Mono Sports Incorporated in New Orleans. Europe was the exciting honeymoon spot.

* Fantasy Island: Michelle Rene Ross became the wife of Paul Brian Humphries at Plymouth Congregational United Church of Christ in Washington, D.C. The happy bride, a graduate of Hampton University, is a computer specialist with the Department of Defense. The proud groom currently is employed by the Washington, D.C., government. The loving twosome enjoyed a romancefilled honeymoon in Hawaii.

* Fifty Blessed Years: Dr. and Mrs. Vanester Pugh commemorated five decades of bliss with family and friends at the Shiloh Missionary Baptist Church in Atlanta, GA. They both are retired from the Atlanta Public School System where Mrs. Mary C. Pugh was a teacher and Dr. Pugh was an administrator. They are the parents of one daughter, Vanessa Pugh Lawrence, and the grandparents of one, Kyndal Nicole.

ANY man who opens “country pubs” in the back of his aircraft while turning the aisles into fashion-show catwalks is either raving mad…or a genius.

As Air Jamaica’s chairman, Gordon “Butch” Stewart also runs a string of luxury resorts, a national newspaper and a company which builds and services most of his sun-kissed homeland’s refrigerators, you can work out which for yourself.

Today, the Caribbean’s answer to Richard Branson is better known in his native Jamaica than its Prime Minister. How many hotels in Britain can wheel out government ministers for the opening of a new annexe or an impressive refurbishment? Sandals can - and did - in the Bahamas.

The holiday starts the minute you board the plane. The usual meals, feature films and in-flight radio are not enough for Butch. As soon as the dinner is cleared away, the intercom announces: “All passengers are welcome to use the country bar which is set up at the rear galley for a drink or snack and mix with other passengers in a pub atmosphere.”

Butch’s resorts are equally original. I stayed at three: Sandals Royal Jamaican near Montego Bay, Sandals Royal Bahamian Resort and Spa near Nassau and the Beaches Turks and Caicos Resort and Spa in Providenciales.

His slogan is “Love Is All You Need.” And it really is…because at these resorts everything is all-inclusive.

Water skiing, scuba diving, snorkelling, swimming with stingrays and dolphins, you can do the lot…and it’s all on the house.

The Sandals resorts are for couples only and vary greatly in style.

The relaxed Royal Jamaican covers 17 acres, has 190 apartments and its own island restaurant. The five-star Royal Bahamian is Butch’s first all- inclusive resort in the Bahamas and has a selection of pubs and restaurants, as well as one of the best health spas in the West Indies.

Butch’s Beaches resort on the British Crown Colony of Turks and Caicos opened last year. Set on 12 miles of pristine white beach, the resort has 200 spacious rooms, of which 34 are villa suites with dramatic views of the Caribbean.

As well as Sandals-type attractions for adults (including the best scuba in the world after the Great Barrier Reef), Beaches has a computer games centre and a children’s camp, and plans are in the pipeline for a major pirate ship theme park.

The man who created the perfect all-inclusive holidays for adults is confident his Beaches resorts will do the same for children.

And as his countless projects in the past have proved, he is probably right. Because Butch Stewart has developed the knack of taking the comfort and quality service of European hotels and mixing them with the West Indian sense of fun.

PERHAPS it’s because we live in Milton Keynes - as far from paradise as you can get - that Jamaica seems drop-dead gorgeous.

You wake up in the morning and pull back the curtains to gaze across palm trees, beach and glorious ocean. My wife Jo and I were simply blown away day after day by the same view.

We were staying at Sandals’ resort in Negril on the far west side of Jamaica. It’s a 90-minute drive from the airport at Montego Bay along a winding coast road.

Everyone says, “Welcome to Jamaica, have a nice day” - and your nice day starts as soon as you arrive. In our case, that was in the early hours of the morning but it didn’t seem to matter. There was a glass of champagne waiting, a big smile from the night manager and we were instantly made to feel at home.

That set the scene for our seven-night stay. And apart from the scenery, it is the friendly staff that stick in the mind.

Their favourite saying was “yeah man,” and that summed up their attitude to everything asked of them.

For those who have never been on an all-inclusive holiday, the name says it all. You don’t pay for your drinks or food at the time; it’s all covered in the holiday price.

Whether this is good value or not depends on how much you eat and drink, of course.

Sandals gives you a choice of four restaurants, from Kimonos - a high class Japanese-style establishment - to the healthy stir-fries at Four Cs. There’s even a late-night fast-food joint on the beach to make us Brits feel at home.

It’s also worth mentioning the lunches where you could help yourself to a huge variety of excellent dishes. That’s where the damage was done on our waistlines.

It is perfectly feasible to go from one restaurant to another having a meal in each - all in one night. But if you did that the plane wouldn’t get off on the runway on the way back and you’d look like Bernard Manning. You could also drink yourself under the table, palm trees and anything else available. Strangely the availability of all that Jamaican rum and other free booze had the opposite effect. We ended up hardly drinking… strange but true.

This particular all-inclusive holiday even means that the staff will not accept day-to-day tips. You can leave gifts, but make sure the management know. Football and rugby shirts go down well, as do toiletries for female staff.

There are bars and restaurants all along the main beach in Negril but when you are in an all-inclusive resort the temptation is to stay in.

I made an excursion to the golf course about four miles away and returned from one afternoon looking like a boiled shrimp.

The only other time we left the seclusion of the resort was to do a quick spot of shopping. You can walk along the beach and browse among small stalls selling bits and pieces to gullible tourists… like us. We returned with a lizard to hang on the wall - I kid you not - and a ship in a bottle. Don’t ask.

If you want to be more active, Sandals can provide that. If you want to chill out, that’s fine too.

You can play tennis, use the gym (ha!) and there are competitions for those who want to spend their holiday running round more than they do at home. The most exercise Jo and I managed was the 40-yard walk out of our room on to the beach. With that in mind we also had a massage in the spa. It was a tough week, believe me.

Next summer flyglobespan launches a new daily service from Glasgow to Orly airport in Paris, pictured. For the first time flyglobespan will offer regular flights to Cyprus, Lanzarote and Gran Canaria from Glasgow while Spanish capital Madrid will be available from Edinburgh. Flyglobespan will continue to fly daily to Alicante, Malaga, Palma and Barcelona from both Glasgow and Edinburgh and Faro on the Portuguese Algarve, the Czech capital Prague and Tenerife from Glasgow. The airline is also adding extra flights to Geneva from Glasgow during the winter as the route is already proving popular.

The number of Britons taking snowsport holidays last winter rose slightly to more than 1.2 million, according to the Ski Club of Great Britain, and of these, 235,000 travelled independently. Among the most-visited resorts were Val d’Isere and Meribel in France, St Anton and Lech in Austria, Verbier and Zermatt in Switzerland and Breckenridge and Vail in Colorado, USA.

* Starting Anew:. Dr. Raheem Beyah and Kali Wilson began life together as husband and wife in ceremonies at the Twin Towers in Atlanta. The bride, a graduate of Florida A&M University and Vanderbilt University Law School, is an attorney at Powell, Goldstein, Frazer and Murphy. The groom, a graduate of North Carolina A&T University and the Georgia Institute of Technology, is on faculty at the Institute and a computer network consultant. The U.S. Virgin Islands was the honeymoon spot.

* Absolute Bliss: Michele Louise Washington recently pledged her eternal love and devotion to Athum Laneski Hand during an enchanted wedding ceremony held at the Sandals Beach Resort & Spa in Negril, Jamaica. The blushing bride attended the University of Kentucky. The happy newlyweds are both employed as fabrication technicians at the Brown & Williamson Tobacco Corporation. The Hands will make their home in Warner Robins, GA.

* This Is True Love: Michael Gales joyously joined in holy matrimony with Nicole Nichelle Nash at the Union Baptist Church in Springfield, IL. The bride is a graduate of Illinois State University and a first-grade teacher. She is pursuing a master’s degree in education administration. The bridegroom is a graduate of Robert Morris College. He is a draftsman. They honeymooned in Cancun and will reside in Springfield.

* United In Devotion: Vincent C. Byrd Jr. joined as one with Dana Crampton at the Marriott Frenchman’s Reef Resort in St. Thomas, the U.S. Virgin Islands. A graduate of the University of Maryland Eastern Shore and Miami University, the bride is a compensation and training manager for Federated Dept. Stores corporate operations. A graduate of the University of Cincinnati, the groom is a technology consultant for Accenture. They will live in Cincinnati.

* Nothing Sweeter: Erhabor Onaiwu Ighodaro tied the knot with Shannan Hanna at the Coco Plum Women’s Club in Coral Gables, FL. The bride, a graduate of Florida Memorial College and Nova Southeastern University, is an accounting coordinator. The groom, a graduate of Florida Memorial College and Saint Thomas University, is employed in the Miami Dade School System. The couple honeymooned in Brazil and will reside in Miami.

* ‘I Do’ Means Forever:. The Rev. and Mrs. John Williams of Elyria, OH, recently celebrated 50 years of blissful marriage during a surprise gathering with family and friends in Wickliffe, OH. Mrs. Willie Mae Williams serves as a missionary. Rev. Williams is a minister at International Community Baptist Church in Lorraine, OH. The Williamses are the parents of 7 and the grandparents of 10.

The term “tropical biodiversity” is more likely to conjure up images of Amazonian rain forests than Jamaican beach resorts. Yet to study the causes of species richness, we travel to Negril, home to such vacation get-aways as Sandals and Hedonism II. Like most denizens of Negril, our subjects are sun lovers; their preferred basking spots, however, are not beach towels but tree trunks. Beautiful, scaly, and found just about anywhere in Negril but on the beach itself, Jamaican anoles (lizards of the genus Anolis) are a living test case for our investigations into the workings of evolution.

Even a leisurely stroll around Negril reveals an abundance and diversity of lizards. At the bases of trees and wooden posts, two species perch head downward. One, the jamaican lined anole, prefers shadier spots, whereas the brown anole basks on fence posts out in the open. Four other species are found farther up in the trees. The two most common run and jump from branch to branch, using trunks and leaves as necessary. They have slightly different temperature preferences but mainly differ in size and color, the beautiful blue Graham’s anole being twice the weight of the smaller and paler opalescent anole. The king of the treetops, and the giant among Negril’s tree-dwelling anoles, is the fifteen-inch-long “green guana,” as the locals call it. This fearless, lime-colored lizard supplements its diet of insects with small vertebrates, including other anoles. The anole that is possibly the most numerous is also the most rarely seen. A cautious demeanor and camouflage markings make the Valencienne’s anole difficult to spot as it creeps along narrow branches and twigs in search of hidden prey. This short-legged lizard is not a sprinter or leaper; it eludes predators by avoiding detection in the first place.

Each of these six species is adapted to its own ecological niche, in particular to the surface on which it lives and moves. The stubby legs of Valencienne’s anole, for example, may not give the animal speed but are well suited for maintaining balance on narrow twigs. In contrast, anoles that spend their lives closer to the ground have extremely long hind limbs that provide great sprinting and jumping capabilities (as we determined in the field, using a portable lizard racetrack and long-jump pit). These lizards sit motionless for long periods, their athletic prowess held in check as they scan the ground surrounding their perch. When an unwary insect wanders within range, the lizards dart out to capture a meal.

Anoles have also adapted to life in the trees by evolving adhesive toe pads, like those of their cousins the geckos. These pads, which are covered by millions of microscopic, hairlike structures, allow lizards to cling to the smooth and irregular surfaces of leaves and narrow branches. Species that dwell high in the trees have a greater need to maintain their grip; they generally have more well-developed toe pads than do species that live closer to the ground.

This array of anoles constitutes a classic case of adaptive radiation, a common phenomenon on islands in which the first species to arrive, finding a realm of untapped ecological niches, gives rise to a diversity of descendant species, each adapted to use a different part of the environment. The most famous case of adaptive radiation is that of Darwin’s finches, in the Galapagos Islands, but there are many others, including Hawaiian honeycreepers and East African Rift lake cichlids.

The adaptive radiation of Caribbean anoles, however, is exceptional in two regards. First, Caribbean anoles have experienced not one but four adaptive radiations, by diversifying independently on each island of the Greater Antilles — Cuba, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, and Hispaniola (which encompasses the countries of Haiti and the Dominican Republic). Second, and more surprisingly, these independent radiations have produced remarkably similar sets of species on each island (see table at left). For example, the slender, twig-hugging Valencienne’s anole lives on Jamaica, but each of the other islands hosts a species extremely similar in build and coloration that uses the same habitats and behaves in much the same way. Each of the four islands also has at least one long-legged species that perches motionless near the ground using a sit-and-wait foraging strategy to ambush prey; a shorter-limbed arboreal species with large toe pads, which moves throughout the trees and has the ability to change colors dramatically (from green or blue to brown); and a large species that lives high in the crown of trees. Although such convergent evolution is a widespread phenomenon in both the animal and plant kingdoms, convergence of entire sets of adaptive radiations has rarely been documented — and never before in quadruplicate.

The outcomes of the independent radiations, however, have not been identical. Cuba and Hispaniola, but not Jamaica and Puerto Rico, host a tree-trunk specialist with a flattened body, while Cuba alone has a large anole that lives near streams, catches fish, and runs across water to escape predators, much like the Central American basilisk lizard. Similarly, in Hispaniola, a small anole inhabits the leaf litter of mountainous rain forests; the unusual structure of its vertebrae may be an adaptation for hopping. All four Greater Antillean islands have stream and rain forest habitats, so the existence of only a single stream specialist and a single leaf-litter specialist is a mystery. Further investigation may eventually reveal why certain ecological niches are adapted to repeatedly while others are not.

Everything is a miracle. It is a miracle that one does not dissolve in one’s bath a lump of sugar,” Spanish painter Pablo Picasso once said. Perhaps Picasso was being sarcastic, he had a point. There is nothing quite like immersing your body into warm water to melt away stress and ease tired, aching muscles.

From Pompei to Palm Beach Gardens–spas in history

It’s a water thing. Since the earliest times, cities have been built specifically for their ideal proximity to hot springs, mineral water, and sulphur water, or to other spa-friendly geologic attributes. Since Roman times, the cities of Aix-la-Chapelle in West Germany, Aix-en-Provence in France, and Castellammare di Stabia in Italy have been known for mineral baths. The Romans founded other cities, like Bath, in England and Baden-Baden and Wiesbaden, in Germany, because of their nearness to hot springs. Pompei was also known for its baths, and, for hundreds of years, the sulfur springs at Karlovy Vary, in the Czech Republic, have been considered medicinal.

In more recent times, unless it was for healing purposes, the idea of going to a spa has seemed somewhat decadent and a pleasure reserved for the rich and idle. This perception is obsolete. Spas, and spa-like treatments, either away or at home, have become a “right” that we deserve and a “luxury” that we have earned (although some would even question whether these are luxuries, at all). Whether planning a vacation or time off at an exotic resort, or spending a few hours at a local spa or your own bathtub, the result can be the difference between burn-out and rejuvenation.

Not just for the rich and famous

“I think these days people realize this isn’t luxury; it is almost a necessity now for people to be able to keep going and to carry on being effective in the rest of their lives,” comments Ann Costelloe, manager of The Berkeley Health Club and Spa (one of the Savoy Group hotels) at Knightsbridge in London.

“Once you get to the top of the hotel, somehow you do feel cut off and that all the normal ghastly aspects of life can’t get to you here. Yes, people look for the exercise and the swimming which makes them feel good, loosens them up, and helps them to relax; and, yes, it’s wonderful to have a therapist carrying out all these lovely treatments on you, but it’s more important than all of that.

“It somehow has to be separate from the rest of your life and all the problems that you have. It’s time for yourself when you do feel cut off from all the pressures that you are normally under. You can’t quantify the benefit of that. Only each individual can really understand what it has done for them and it’s all relative to what’s going on in their life at the time and how much they need this,” explains Costelloe.

To be active or to vegetate, that is the question…

Spas vary in what they offer — from being more active or exercise-oriented, including golf and tennis, swimming, gyms, and aerobics or calisthenics, to vegetative, relaxing body treatments, including wraps, various types of baths, Jacuzzis, hot tubs, and saunas, as well as facials, massages, reflexology, and beauty and hair treatments. Some offer nutritional and dietary counseling, or go as far as to provide medically oriented consultations.

There are spas designed to be get-aways for long stays, up to several weeks. There are others that are located in busy hotels, and used by guests of the hotel and area residents for one-hour or all-day treatments. Exclusive, secluded spas generally have health-conscious menus provided, while spas in hotels offer healthful choices on their menus.

Destination spas

The Berkeley Health Club and Spa in London recently refurbished its facilities located on the seventh floor of the hotel. The swimming pool is up on the eighth floor, with a roof that opens during nice weather, offering a magnificent view of Hyde Park.

Some of the services the spa offers in addition to the pool and a gym are a wide array of facials, body treatments, including a hydroactive mineral salt scrub, an assortment of massages from aromatherapy to lymphatic drainage, and many other beauty treatment services. They also have a Jet Lag Recovery retreat designed for those international travelers who come through so often.

Since the last hurricane, the Bolongo Bay Beach Club & Villas in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, has had to cut back its services, but it’s still a full-fitness center with all the latest in gym equipment, swimming pools, and access to tennis, volleyball, and basketball courts. There’s also have a nutritionist on-call and a massage therapist available.

Manager Renee Hafar remarks, “We are unique in that we are a resort with a big fitness facility. We have so much variety and a lovely ocean view. You get the opportunity to meet a good mix of the local population. Sometimes you go to a resort and you are kind of isolated from the experience of the island. Guests who stay at Bolongo Bay will have an opportunity to meet the people of our island.”

Ever since my father rigged up a sail on our sturdy little dinghy and uttered the words: “You’ll never capsize this thing,” and then watched me keel it over with an almighty splash, I’ve thought that sailing is not for me. Wind and I, so to speak, were a bad combination. Then a friend invited me on a windsurfing trip to the Ionian island of Lefkada, one of the globe’s breeze hotspots, with ideal conditions for learning. On the basis that a board might be easier to handle than a boat, I decided to go along for the ride, even if it all led to a watery end.

Lefkada is not insular in the purest sense of the word, since its north- eastern tip is connected by a causeway to the mainland, where the airport is situated. Our coach trundled across a drawbridge on to the narrow strip of stone to reach the island’s tiny capital, also called Lefkada. The name comes from the southern cape of Lefkata, from whose white rocks the poetess Sappho is said to have hurled herself after a spot of love trouble.

A sharp left turn away from this mini metropolis sent us bowling south along the coastal road. Pine-clad hills rose steeply on our right, with glassy sea visible to port. As we scooted through the lively seaside resort of Nidri, with its regimented rows of sandal- and-ouzo boutiques, I spied the forested islets of Madouri, Skorpios - which is owned by the Onassis family - and Meganissi, half-submerged like green turtles out in the gulf.

A winding descent into olive groves brought us to Lefkada’s windsurfing hub, the bay of Vassiliki on the island’s southern shore. Its long crescent of pebbly beach arcs at one end to a cluster of waterfront tavernas, shops and houses. This is Vassiliki town, home to just 400 locals. At the other, the beach comes to an abrupt halt at the foot of a vast mountain, whose vital statistics, I would later discover, help to create the desirable sailing breezes in the bay. Stretching across all this is a big banner of shimmering blue Med. Even I had to admit that it looked inviting.

My home for the next week was to be the windsurfing centre of Club Vass. The club started out with a couple of mates, Roger Green and Tony Booth, hiring out half a dozen sails on the shore. Sixteen years later, it has grown into a Level 5 Royal Yachting Association training centre (the highest grade possible), with a clutch of instructors and brand new kit every year.

Wakeboarding, waterskiing, scuba diving and mountain biking (yup, up that huge peak for the iron-thighed, otherwise through olive groves) have been added to the core windsurfing discipline. A couple of years ago the club built its own hotel, complete with pool, and this year it has introduced a childcare programme. This is a canny move, designed to retain the custom of loyal clients who have just moved into nappy terrain but don’t want to give up their annual pilgrimage to worship Zephyros.

If you’re an old hand at windsurfing, you can just pitch up after breakfast, grab some kit and head out into the bay. Otherwise you’ll be taking group lessons. I joined other rookies on the grass in front of the clubhouse for our first class. Flanking us were large sheds with windsurfing sails hanging like bright butterflies and boards stacked in orderly rows.

Our instructor, Carol, was a tanned, wiry woman with sun-bleached plaits who looked as if she could effortlessly outrun Lara Croft. She kicked off the lesson with some theory, including an explanation of apparent wind, which is a mixture of true wind and induced wind created by the windsurfer moving through the air. You trim your sail, apparently, to the apparent wind.

Carol also described how the cross-shore wind gets whipped up in the afternoon thanks to sun-warmed air whooshing over the mountain. This wind is nicknamed Eric, after the French speed windsurfer Eric Beale, whose legendary hangovers meant that he only surfaced in the afternoons. As humble beginners, however, we would not be enjoying - or risking - a one-to-one with Eric, but would take advantage of the more gentle on- shore sea breezes in the morning.

On-shore is a reassuring word when you look out into the broad expanse of bay into which you could inadvertently head, although if you went far enough you would reach the welcoming shores of Ithaca or Kefalonia. Happily, a rescue boat is always at hand to track down straying surfers.

Theory lesson over, Carol leapt on to a windsurfing board attached to a pole in the ground and began to explain how to tack (turn upwind) and gybe (turn downwind) by tilting the mast, doing some nifty footwork and swivelling the sail.

We began by standing on the boards without a sail - harder than it sounds, and a good test of balance. Then it was sails on and in we plunged, staggering with our rigs across the pebbled shallows into deeper water. Sail successfully hauled up into position, I was up and away, the wind filling the sail and the board chuntering gently across the water. Gazing at the horizon, the boom light beneath my fingers, I began to understand what all the fuss was about. Changing direction requires a delicately-balanced shuffle around the mast as you flick the sail to the other side - I can’t imagine that I looked terribly sporty or stylish in the process, but the feeling of achievement when I first managed it was tremendous.

Aworkman from the construction site blocking Herbal Hill brushes storm water into the drain outside the old house on the corner with Ray Street, a boundary stone of 1804 discreet on its wall. Pools are proper to here - this was the course of the Hole Bourne, alias the upper Fleet River where it ran through this hollow of low amusements called Hockley in the Hole.

Way beneath us, oak piles of a medieval watermill were uncovered when a sewer finally drained the nasty dregs (Ned Ward had complained in 1717 of “all the stinks that rise together, from Hockley Hole in sultry weather”). The mounts around have been lowered and the marsh raised - the cellar of the Coach and Horses was once at ground level. The pub is being renovated: most of its engraved windows have gone, but columns wreathed with gold vines still flank its saloon bar door. A high Victorian front already updated the Coach & Horses of 1811 (where was found a portmanteau labelled Turpin), and before that it was likely the bear-ward’s quarters for the baiting pit, westwards towards the electricity substation. Hockley was a Restoration zone for rough pleasures, a resort for Smithfield butchers and gentlemen gamesters, its amphitheatre with a shady gallery and “seats for the quality, none under half a crown”. They bet on how many mastiffs a tethered beast would kill. They wagered on dogs pitched at each other, or enjoyed arranged mayhem - “a mad bull to be dressed up with fireworks and turned loose” with a cat tied to its tail, an ape panicking on the back of an ass, and a bear on the rampage, too. The ursines were not toothless. Christopher Preston, who had held Charles II’s entertainment warrant, finally failed to pay enough attention in 1709 and was almost devoured by one of his own bears - no slaughterman ceased gobbling furmity, hasty pudding and other hot guttage at Madam Preston’s, though, and no rake threw up his pickled egg (speciality of the westcountry landlord of a tavern along Crawford Passage). Hockley hardly aspired upward, except for the soil infill. Shakebag birds struck with spurs in its cockpit, professional fights and duels were staged - “Will you give cuts or receive?” a Georgian sports reporter overheard a bout being rigged - and Liz Wilkinson boxed Hannah Highfield, wearing holland drawers, with half-crowns clenched in her fists to prevent scratching. Dr Johnson said “pity he has not a better bottom” was the Hockley phrase for gutsiness. The stocks mouldered at the westward junction with Coppice, formerly Codpiece, Row, and dangerous dunghills stopped the way. Hockley (renamed Rag Street for its tat dealers, bowdlerised to Ray Street) stayed tough - the Dodger led Oliver Twist across it to Fagin’s nearby. The vast industrial pile up cobbled Back Hill, now the London College of Printing, was Reveille House, pressworks for the Daily Mirror and Reveille, the lads’ mag of the Brylcreem era, three million copies every weekend: post-print, Frankie Goes to Hollywood shot Welcome to the Pleasure Dome in there. Up Crawford Passage was the workhouse, next to a slummy, crimey rookery demolished in the 1860s for improved dwellings for the labouring classes, and superseded by The Guardian offices. When the Italian church at the top of Back Hill puts on its annual procession, the floats park in the Hole while angels have their wings pinned on and Legionnaires sandal up.

I’ve a thing for islands. The best holidays I’ve ever been on have been on islands. And, to make matters more complicated, I prefer an island starting with the letter “S”. Sicily was a brilliant find, like southern Italy with the volume turned up and the flavours more intense. Sri Lanka with a new boyfriend was magical; exotic; life- changing (the boyfriend became husband). Symi - the best Greek island of them all, deliciously tricky to get to, unbelievably difficult to leave. Hiring a boat to phut- phut around the rocky coast looking for a cove to skinny-dip and sip Amethystos rose.

Then there was Shelter Island, a ferry-ride on from the rest of the Hamptons, and the dernier cri in East Coast posh - think Ralph Lauren, bagels and very, very dry martinis. Scotland’s Summer Isles - OK, they were just a day trip from the spectacular Summer Isles hotel in Achiltibuie in the Western Highlands, but still…

Er, then there was Singapore - does that count? I’m not sure, since you can drive to Malaysia. It was a bit of an Asian theme park, so squeaky clean was the atmosphere, but the street food was the best I’ve ever had. (Other islands of different alphabetical persuasions that I have known and loved include Grenada, Clare Island, Ponza, Ustica, Diu and Cozumel. I wonder if there’s a support group for recidivist isle-hoppers?)

So, a trip to Sardinia seemed logical. Little did I realise when I booked the holiday that I was heading off to this year’s grooviest European destination. This summer I haven’t been able to pick up a glossy magazine without some celebrity spouting off about how much they love the jewel in the Med. Naomi Campbell, Sarah Ferguson, Eddie Irvine, the Rothschild family, Princess Caroline of Monaco, Rod Stewart, Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, King Juan Carlos of Spain, Gwyneth Paltrow, Jon Bon Jovi and Tom Cruise are all fans. And, of course, the England squad may well have happier memories of their Italian training venue than of Euro2004 itself.

Certainly Sardinia is gorgeous. It’s big, one of the Med’s giants, and has more than its fair share of white sand beaches and craggy scenery. But most of the island is like the supermodel Gisele Bundchen without her make-up on - naturally pretty but no show stopper.

The coast is where it’s at; more specifically the Costa Smeralda, the area in the north-east of the island that was “invented” as a playboy’s paradise by the Aga Khan in the 1950s. I’m not a millionaire, so I didn’t book into one of the area’s ritzy hotels. Instead I took my family to nearby Cannigione, a fishing port just round the corner. The island has clusters of attractive towns and beaches, but the north-east is the part that attracted us - not only because of its proximity to the glitterati, but also for its white sand beaches, nearby sports facilities and the delicious-sounding restaurants. Choosing a holiday destination for a pair of gadabouts who’ve recently adopted two lively children is quite a task. Sardinia ticked all the boxes because of its mix of the groovy and the child friendly. But would it live up to the stardust-sprinkled advance publicity?

When we arrived at the villa we were renting, the first signs were not great. Two dead baby birds were splayed on the terrace in a tiny pool of blood. We averted the five-year-old’s eyes. Is it a Sardinian mafia warning? Have a good time, or else…? Any worries are swept aside by the frankly fabulous apartment - three big bedrooms, two bathrooms, a well- equipped kitchen and the aforementioned terrace - complete with big squashy sofas and a built-in barbecue. We had barely any reason to stray, apart from occasional dips at the affiliated hotel next door in the cleanest, freshest pool I’ve been in for years. Unheated, naturally, since Sardinia has long hot summers, but, a little earlier in the season, it was rather bracing. That doesn’t stop children, of course, so I had rather more of a chilly work-out than I’d planned.

Cannigione is a pleasing destination, a clean, clear bay with a bustling port and - the sign of a well-to-do resort - chic ceramic shops, a boutique selling pricey bambino clothes, and, overlooking the sea, a restaurant with lobster in a tank. Now there’s fancy. We go there on the first night and discover that the fabled Italian love of children stretches as far as making off-menu pasta pomodoro. But it doesn’t stop them charging EUR20 for it. Mental note: start using the local market…

And what a market. In the delightful tradition of southern Italy, the produce stalls are piled high with plump tomatoes, pungent garlic and a huge variety of salad leaves. We fill our bags and stop off at the supermercato on the way back to buy Sardinian sausages and some superb local fish.

Next morning, there’s a frog in the pool. Everyone has to cool off somewhere, but I don’t fancy sharing my sun lounger with an amphibian, so it’s off to the beach. The nearest patch of sand is lovely but there’s a busy road close behind, so into the hire car, round the bottom of the bay and up to Baia Sardinia, a classic seaside town, Italian-style - creamy gelatos every 100 yards, lots of caffe lungo action and a spectacular beach. White, white powder sand, crystal clear turqouise sea - did the hire car transport us to the Caribbean instead? I’ve never seen such an idyllic beach in Europe (and remember, I’ve been to a few islands in my time).