"You're going where? To help the homeless?"
"No," I say patiently. "Not Centrepoint, Center Parcs."
"Ah, lucky you," smirks my friend, who is not such a good friend that he can be persuaded to join me.
I'd won the prize at a party - a family break to one of the four UK Center Parcs Villages. The idea works well if you have children: you stay in a self-catering villa in a woodland setting, choose from a medley of leisure activities (for a price - nothing is free here) and enjoy access to a spa, lake, swimming pool, sports hall, and food and entertainment village.
Only I don't have kids, and it's not my cup of tea: too contrived, too kitsch. But the prize is non-transferable. So I think, what the heck? Why not invite a few friends, and make a girls' outing of it? Center Parcs is also popular with hen parties, stag dos, and assorted soap stars (Tamzin Outhwaite, at any rate), so it's not all about families.
There is just one problem - oh, dear, how to put it delicately? - no one wants to come with me. Two friends have plans (so they say), one feigns exhaustion, another - a mother-of-two - snorts in derision: "I'd rather die than spend a holiday marooned in a sea of snotty-nosed kids." Feeling miserable and unpopular, but loath to throw away a freebie weekend, I resolve to go it alone. Which makes me the first ever human to holiday solo in Center Parcs - and Erica, the company's spokeswoman, will vouch for that: "People just don't come here alone," she says, depressingly, when I broach the subject.
Feeling like a pariah on the train to Newark North Gate station (the closest one to Center Parcs' Sherwood Forest Village, although it's still a 25-minute drive away), I try to cheer myself up with the thought that a) I have a whole "executive" three bedroom villa to myself, b) I won't have to suffer the humiliation of a "table for one" in noisy, family restaurants; instead, I'll be able to rustle up my own chow in the equipped kitchen and c) I've booked myself some nice spa treats and ample activities, so surely there won't be time to wallow in despair?
I'd forgotten about the children, of course. Arriving in an expensively priced cab - there are no buses plying the route - I watch as they drift about in the clearing, an alien tribe. And I spot more moody teenagers than cherubic toddlers. Dear God, is it too late to turn back? "Don't worry," cackles the cab driver as she drops me off, "you'll survive."
Center Parcs is hot on bicycles (and they sweetly offer grown-up sized tricycles, too, if you've never learned to ride). So vast and spread-out is the village that you need two wheels to get around. There are acres of trails to explore, and within minutes of picking up my own cycle (at the centre manned by velo-saints in overalls), I suddenly feel a wave of relief wash over me: it's going to be OK.
"Wheeee," I think, the wind in my hair, the puff in my lungs, "I can go sooo fast." So fast that I nearly annihilate a squirrel (the forest is full of creatures: ducks, swans, adders) and miss the signpost for my villa. But find it, I do - eventually.
From the outside, it looks like a toilet block - squat and flat-roofed - but it blends into the forest, and is cosy and filled with mod cons and en suite bathrooms. Best of all, even though it's attached to another villa, I can't see or hear my neighbours (apart from one childlike wail) - which is very clever, really.
The first night, too pooped to cook, I order from Rajinda Pradesh, the Indian restaurant in the village square. The food arrives piping hot and tasty. I spend the evening revelling in satellite TV (there's a screen in every room) and yet more chances to watch re-runs of Friends (I only get terrestrial at home). There is central heating - welcome on a frosty May evening - and even an outdoor sauna, but I round the evening off with a soak in the bath, and pray for sunshine.
Alas, it is not to be, and the next morning - perhaps blessedly, given the steady, dull drizzle - my Nordic Walking class is cancelled. I can hardly believe it, but it seems I am the only person in the whole of Sherwood Forest who wants to learn how to walk fast outdoors, with poles. So I join a yoga class instead. This takes place in the dance studio in the cavernous sports hall, and is attended by sleepy adults and one mum-and-daughter duo. Oddly for yoga, everyone - except for the teacher and me - keeps their socks on.
The class is gentle, more stretching and unfurling than yoga as I know it, but I emerge calm as a log. Not for long though. A peddle back to the villa and a hastily gnawed slice of toast later, it's time for a bit of Aqua Spa mainlining: 90 minutes of Carita Warm Stone Therapy to be precise. This involves being scrubbed, polished and then stroked by hot stones. Satiated and ravenous in equal parts, I decide to lunch in the Spa's peaceful Conservatory café. The Food Doctor is here, which is quite thrilling. Not Doctor Ian Marber (he of the sexy "Get it On" fruit and seed bars) in the flesh, admittedly, but menus inspired by him.
"Ah! I think. "At last: a chance to pig out in healthy fashion." I order a green salad with mung beans and seaweed, but it arrives sans kelp. "We were wondering where it went too," says the waitress vaguely, when I take my plate back. She doesn't know if their bagels are wholegrain or not, either. "They have seeds in them, if that's any help..."
Food doctor, food doctor, where are you? You really have to come back here and perform a Jamie Oliver-style intervention on the staff, who I suspect would be more enthusiastic about the Essential Grocery Selection you can order at the Parc Market. The contents include: a large bottle of Coca-Cola, a 12-pack of Walkers crisps, a loaf of white bread, Wall's sausages and a multi-pack of sugary cereals. And just to ram the message home, a bag of sugar! What a shame no one has thought to do a healthy version, promoting the shop's plentiful supply of fruit and veg. Why, I'd even spotted tofu, and - joy! - Green and Black's chocolate.
By mid-afternoon, I'd like nothing more than to crash out in the villa, but, instead, cycle determinedly to my Foil Fencing class. I'm the last to arrive, and end up in a 'duel' with a shy 13-year-old girl. (Picture two crabs in straightjackets scuttling back and forth and you get the idea.) It's comical really: my opponent's polite pokes with the épee are no match for my wild, testy lunges. Fencing, I discover, is the perfect antidote to PMS. But I can't bear to lord it over a mere child, and magnanimously declare her the victor. Grrr.
And on it goes, the relentless whir of activity: in the evening, after dinner in the villa (a bowl of pasta), I stomp my way through line dancing - sadly, there's not a spur or cowboy hat in sight, but yee haw! - as our instructor would say - it's a giggle, and - take note Pedometer fanatics - a fast way to notch up 6,400 steps.
Come Sunday, my body is screaming blue murder, but in the interests of research I try out an Aqua Fit class in the Subtropical Swimming Paradise. It's full of annoyingly jolly, skinny girls in skimpy bikinis who shriek and flirt with the instructor. Then the sun comes out, and, hair dripping, I jog round the lake.
Yes, I've overdone it. But by the time I collapse, one last time, in the spa (love the Japanese Salt Bath!), I realise that bar the odd twinge of loneliness, I've rather enjoyed myself. Who says solitude can't be splendid?
It's not to everyone's taste, but with upcoming Fitness Motivation Weekends and Pamper Breaks, Center Parcs is working hard to broaden its appeal beyond families - and it looks like it might just be working.
For more info, visit Center Parcs
