Escape

We went to Phuket for half term. Judging by the number of children the boys recognise in the pool a few other Hong Kong families have had the same idea. For us it is a well-timed get away, just the break we need with four days in the sun and lots of sleep.

Except that we arrive in the rain; heavy tropical rain at the tail end of the monsoon season. As the plane descends through thick cloud and emerges into a grey, blustery Thai evening we all hold our breath.

Our hotel is sited in acres of lush tropical garden on the shores of Mai Khao Beach and its low lying villas are largely hidden amongst the palm trees. I am taken aback by the quantities of green space and the fresh sea air. Despite the rain the atmosphere is tranquil and the gardens are stunningly beautiful. As we wander along the winding paths I recognise birds of paradise, frangipani, bougainvillea and huge water lilies in the lakes but there are other flowers and trees I could not imagine, much less name.

We lie by the pool under hot grey skies. The children spend all day in the water and hardly notice the sudden heavy showers of rain which take us by surprise. Adults wrapped in warm towels huddle under umbrellas meant for sun while their offspring stay in the water, unable to get any wetter.

We eat well, we go to bed early and we sleep late. Buffet meals suit the children’s varying tastes and they return to our table with plates piled hight with the strangest combinations of food and not a vegetable in sight but as long as I am not having to prepare it I don’t care. They are content and so are we.

On our second morning I miss the sunburst and slip off to the spa, where a silent woman with magical hands works miracle cures into my tired face and has me believe she’s smoothing away the lines. She washes my feet and massages my head to the sound of gentle music and tropical birdsong. In the distance I can hear the sound of the waves and my spirits lift. One of her unguents sets on my face and she peels it off with a resounding snap, like a rubber glove. I smile in my semi-sleep. The laughter lines are still there after all.

We are away for Halloween. I spend an afternoon helping the Little Ones colour in bats to decorate head bands. Our two year old wants hers in pink and purple, blue and yellow. As they bob about on thick orange pipe-cleaners above her head they look pretty but not so very bat-like. A children’s party is laid on with Trick or Treat for great swarms of children around the hotel’s boutiques and restaurants. It is a blissfully warm evening. I don’t have to buy a single treat, cut a pumpkin or make a costume and I can’t say I mind.

By the third day the rain has moved on and it is hot and sunny. A man brings a baby elephant to the beach and a small crowd gathers. The elephant poses for photograhps and accepts money in its trunk to put in its driver’s pocket. For bananas and soya milk, he tells us. Our nine year old clambers onto the elephant’s back and the four year old has a turn but doesn't like it. The others hover at a safer distance and when our two year old spots the elephant returning along the beach she runs to me crying, elephant going eat me.

On our last day I swim in the Andaman Sea. The drop into the water is sudden and steep and within seconds I am out of my depth. Our eldest comes onto the beach to join me. The water is still stormy from the recent windy weather and the waves toss me back on the beach, tumbling me through the sand as I swim to meet him. We laugh as the waves throw us about and we are left with sand in our swimsuits but the water is stronger than us and we leave the waves with banged heads and scraped knees.

Returning to Hong Kong, I wonder if it will seem like home. I am pleased to see our pictures on the walls and to be back in my own bed but the following morning Hong Kong is grey and smoggy once more. And on our little deck a single bird of paradise has bloomed to remind me of that exotic, dream-like garden.