It was October half term, funds were low, my husband and I were looking pale and sickly. Then came the offer we couldn't refuse: a time-share flat belonging to a friend of a friend and a last-minute booking with Rock Bottom Airlines. Southern Spain was guaranteed to catch the last of the summer sun - or so the spouse assured me, based on the evidence of a drunken bachelor trip some 30 years before.

Our landing at Malaga was like the penultimate scene from a low-budget disaster move. The sky was purple-black, slashed by lurid forks and sheets of lightning. The plane bucked and rolled until, like WB Yeats, I was convinced that the centre could not hold. As the heroic pilot finally brought the plane to a halt after skidding along the runway, the passengers burst into spontaneous applause. Pope John Paul's ritual kissing of airport tarmac suddenly acquired a deeper meaning.

Things did not improve. Torremolinos was under siege from tearing winds that transformed the palm trees into manic windmills. Sheets of rain obliterated the sun and everything else. Mountainous grey waves smashed onto the gritty grey beach. Shivering in our flimsy summer clothes, we bought hideous plastic raincoats so that we could escape from our tiny, top-floor flat, which also swayed in the wind.

Except there was no escape: no cinemas, no theatres, no places or buildings of interest, no decent restaurants. As they served up endless versions of sticky paella, local waiters shook their heads over the worst weather in 50 years. In sheer desperation, we flung ourselves on the mercy of the elements and took a boat trip to Morocco. We were lucky to survive.

The conditions lasted the duration of our stay: a sunless, funless, cheerless week, a disaster movie I wouldn't watch again.

· Have you had a crap holiday? If so, write in and tell us about it. The writers of stories we publish will receive a copy of the Idler Book of Crap Holidays. Email crap.holidays@observer.co.uk