1. Down on 'the farm' in New Zealand
One… two… three… four... FIVE pukeko birds, dad!
Wow, five pukeko, I remark excitedly to James, my four-year-old son, as we circumnavigate another 180-degree bend, on New Zealand's Old Russell Road, which winds its way like an elaborate Maori tattoo around the Tutukaka coast. We are on our way to "the farm", a semi-mythical destination that holds the same allure to me – a 35-year-old "parentpacker" - as Alex Garland's The Beach did 12 years ago.
The "family friendly" backpackers' place had been revealed to me, conspiratorially, by a Swedish backpacking parent with a combi van and two impossibly beautiful barefoot kids in a café on the K Road, 24 hours after we'd touched down in Auckland. Observing my two charges jack-in-the-box around having been hemmed into a pressurised container for 28 hours, he handed me a crumpled hand-written map and said, "I think they'd like this place".
Still clutching the map as the 100th pukeko of the journey is sighted, we drive up to the old homestead that is tucked neatly into undulating bush-clad hills and are greeted in spontaneous fashion by a charging sow and its piglets, two hyperactive farm dogs and a band of wild things in bare feet. Our two children are immediately involved in a frantic game of touch rugby orchestrated by Vinny, an Irish backpacker, who is WOOFing his way around New Zealand.
It is difficult to leave behind the claustrophobic parenting conventions of the land of the low grey cloud, but "the Farm" is an uninhibited, unruly and unfettered place. A place where kids can run about in packs unpoliced until dark.
Richard Clements, Pagham, West Sussex
2. Summer in Salcombe
A family holiday is an oxymoron. So is a British summer. Thus, with little expectation of either fine dining or the sun shining, we planned our break. With two small children, the boot was full, the journey short. We were going from Somerset to Devon.
For the second year running we had booked into The Crab Pot, an ex-fisherman's hut situated on South Sands beach near the mouth of the estuary about a mile from Salcombe. The cottage has everything we could need: the presence of frighteningly high bunks for the courageous three-year-old and the absence of (frighteningly high) stairs for the outrageous one-year-old. The décor is "spartan-chic", having been recently redecorated.
Like the children, our holiday world is small. Besides the cottage, where time is spent being amused by the children and the view, the week is played out in three places: the beach, the nearby National Trust property and Salcombe.
The beach is only a few steps (seven, to be exact) from the cottage. It has plenty of yellow sand, which responds well to childish manipulation — which, frankly, is all that matters to half the family. The kids prefer the rock pools. We all like the locally produced ice-cream sold in the boat house.
The National Trust property nearby is Overbeck's Museum & Garden, situated a 15-minute toddle away. It supplies all necessary aspects of family activity: a garden for running races, a tearoom for filling faces, and a museum for hiding spaces (in this instance, a children's secret passage). And back to the beach, it's all downhill. Which is more than can be said for the journey to Salcombe, the third pillar of our holiday experience.
Salcombe is reached via hills, which on foot require mountaineering gear, and by car require first gear. If you prefer, a ferry service runs half-hourly from South Sands to the centre of Salcombe (adults £2.70). Salcombe is a picturesque town overlooking a beautiful estuary. It appears to be populated by models from a Boden catalogue. Luckily, they must have an appetite, which is well served by numerous cafés and ice-cream parlours. We like the Wardroom, which overlooks the water. For more space, the Marine Hotel has a fantastic view — and fantastically few visitors in the afternoon.
We're going back to the same cottage next year, trusting that with slightly larger children the journey will be easier, the boot emptier. It will be family; it might even be a holiday.
Tessa Dean, Taunton
• The Crab Pot cottage: from £795 per week, thecrabpot.co.uk.
3. The Isle of Arran
"The seafood shack is down the hill if you fancy some lunch; you can leave your kids with us if you want." Cracking langoustine, sipping white wine and looking out over the Kilbrannan Sound to the Isle of Arran, we used this rare childless window to reflect on how nice it was to go away with the kids. PGL, famous for their children's activity breaks, also run Family Active breaks where, instead of Parents Get Lost, it's Parents Go 'Long. The field studies research centre in Lochranza on the Isle of Arran is almost too good a secret to share. Open just for the month of August, accommodation is in basic family rooms with baths; cooked breakfasts, buffet lunches and three-course dinners that punctuate days filled with activities.
In seven short days we played golf, boarded a paddle steamer, went pony trekking, fished, watched a falconry display, dug through seaweed looking for starfish while seals basked on the rocks around us and cycled to Skipness – and we were taking the easy options. Others climbed mountains, abseiled, went gorge walking and we all met in the evenings for family entertainment. While this may sound like a hectic schedule, you do have the option to drop in and out of activities to suit, and there are always at least three to choose from. Our family of two adults, a seven-year-old and an 18-month-old was at the younger end of those there for the week, but that didn't seem to matter. The kids all played together and often organised games tournaments and hide and seek to fill their few spare moments. Arran is the seventh largest of Scotland's 790-plus islands. Reached by ferry from Cloanaig or Ardrossan, it is described as "Scotland in miniature" with its lochs, mountains and stunning coast. What we liked most about it was the peace, quiet and security it offered. Walking to the pier, we were passed by a red deer ambling down the road. Browsing the local paper, the headline Bike Not Stolen jumped out at us (a man had reported his bike stolen but found it two days later). Our seven-year-old particularly loved the freedom that a holiday in such a safe environment provided. After every meal, he would grunt like a teenager, "Off to the games room, all right?" And we would gather him up later, sweating Iron Brew after two hours of frenzied table tennis. At the end of the week, exhausted, we watched the Highland Games before starting the long drive home. What we hope our children will remember is not the foul tempers of frazzled parents but maybe watching Mum bounce in last in the space hopper race or playing golf and chipping a sweet shot over the river while Dad's ball plopped irretrievably into the waters beneath. Our son's adventure log (only half filled in – so little time) reads "Day 3: Golf – I was better than Dad." At least we're building confidence.
Clare Haines, Bristol
4. Paris camp
Family holidays are sometimes an uneasy compromise. Parents want to spend their hard-earned holiday seeing interesting parts of the world while their offspring's priorities are probably a swimming pool and the company of other children. A bijou campsite at Versailles perhaps offers the solution.
A short stroll from a train station, which takes you into central Paris in 25 minutes, Huttopia Versailles is a leafy campsite within easy reach of the chateau. With a number of sites throughout France and Canada, the Huttopia campsite chain bills itself as an alternative to those that offer "mobile home suburbia". Instead, they offer a small-scale developments of chalets and camping pitches in beautiful settings.
We stayed in a wooden roulotte. Its exterior gave it the romantic appearance a gypsy caravan; inside it featured the layout and mod cons of a luxury mobile home.
And so we set out to explore Paris and Versailles. When you have children in tow, you get a fresh angle on city tourism. It was strangely liberating – we didn't feel under pressure to tick off "must-see" monuments and museums. Instead, we cherry-picked fun sights that we thought would be fun – the Eiffel Tower featured, of course, and the monumental kaleidoscope that is Saint Chapelle with its walls of stained glass, and also the Conciergerie with its gory history of housing candidates for the guillotine. We enjoyed crepes while marvelling at the gargoyles outside Notre Dame without feeling the need to join the long queues waiting to shuffle around the interior.
Paris has a wealth of children-focused attractions running each summer. There were gaudy fairground attractions in the Tuileries; the annual Paris Plage converts the banks of the Seine into a beachside resort; and if I ever return to the Jardin du Luxembourg as an old woman, I know I will joyfully recall the memory of seeing my children float hired toy sail boats in the pond.
We couldn't avoid Disneyland Resort Paris. Though it provided a great day of consumerist fun, I found myself smugly pitying the folks who spend an entire holiday in the overgrown shopping mall atmosphere of the resort.
Our July visit coincided with the spectacular Grandes Eaux Musicales at Versailles at which the extravagant excess of fountains in the chateau gardens are transformed into an enchanting theatrical production with music, lights, steam, smoke, fireworks… and, to the children's particular delight, millions of bubbles.
But we weren't lacking in opportunities for rest and relaxation. While my husband and son (aged eight) caught the finale of the Tour de France, I lounged by the campsite pool enjoying my book, while my five-year-old daughter splashed about. Other days we did little more than graze on goodies we found at the market situated just beside the campsite.
So, more attractive and cheaper than your average French campsite, with easy access to some of the world's greatest cultural treasures, and the opportunity to enjoy cheap French wine from our balcony, Huttopia felt like Utopia to us.
Jane Scott, Edinburgh
huttopia.com From €79 per night.
5. The Costa Blanca, Spain
"Not hot sand again!" wails Sadie, screwing up her face in horror. The prospect of a second day at the beach has turned her face hot with fury. Luckily, she is pacified with the promise of another €3 ice-cream. Ed has escaped for a leisurely swim out to Xàbia's diving platform. The water is crystal clear and entices elderly Spanish ladies and beautiful bronzed toddlers with downy necks. After two days, I relax, though the endless application of factor 30 to wriggling bodies is starting to wear thin. The Costa Blanca, though unfashionable, has transformed us into a Boden family of brightly coloured clothes and brighter smiles. Friends nodded sympathetically when we revealed our destination, but while Rock and Suffolk are soaked with rain, we sit happily under a beach umbrella.
Thursday brings a trip inland in search of the mysterious Fonts d'Algar. We drive though valleys swathed in vast veils that protect the region's citrus crop. It's a vision of the Spanish countryside as imagined by Cristo. As we park the car, tinny music and a man carrying a huge paella seem to suggest that a celebration is taking place at one of the local restaurants. The children walk hugging the sides of the street to find some much needed shade as the temperature rises to 35 degrees. The fonts are breathtaking: we climb up rickety walkways and steps that weave in between waterfalls and shady pools. It's a race to put on our swimming costumes but only Ed is brave enough to plunge into the icy mountain water, the rest of us paddle and picnic under ancient trees.
Back at the apartment, we long for the cool of the evening. For Alice it is the first taste of adult freedom as she accompanies us to candle-lit beach bars. Although very much a resort, Xàbia is refreshingly free of tacky karaoke bars and it is possible to find good tapas and Valencian paella. The children discover the rare treat of churros (fried doughnut sticks) and hot chocolate for breakfast, they stay up late and sleep in every morning as we all agree that the Spanish pace of life is so much more civilised.
After a couple of days at the pool we investigate neighbouring Dènia to compare the quality of its beach. Dènia is pleasant enough but we feel satisfied that our own golden crescent of sand is superior. What really impresses is the journey through the rocky Serra del Montgó which towers above our beach resort. Montgó stands at 753 metres and is said to resemble an elephant (if you happen to be looking at it in exactly the right way). On a clear day, you can see across the water to Ibiza, 100km away. It's hazy so we can't see the white isle, but the girls are amused by the sight of hardy cyclists attempting the tortuous climb. When it's time to leave, we wave goodbye with regret, making heartfelt promises to return.
Melanie Seddon
