As an Englishwoman living in Ireland, two things marked me out as a non-native: I had visited neither New York nor Trabolgan. New York still awaits, but one frosty April weekend I set off with three expectant young sons for Trabolgan holiday village, in Co Cork.
The notion of a holiday camp does not sit easily with my impression of Irish people's spontaneity. The words conjured up a tormented country and western weekend I once spent in Prestatyn, North Wales. I can still smell the chip fat and the smelly lavatories.
Such a scenario seemed alien at Trabolgan, which is in a wooded valley with hills rising on either side and nothing ahead but the sea. Hidden among the trees were detached three-bedroom, two-bathroom houses, with dishwashers and microwaves.
A short walk away along wooded paths is its hub, a square with a pub, a fast food cafe, a restaurant, a concert hall, a shop and, filling one side and looking out across the Atlantic, a sub-tropical swimming pool. It was this, with its water slide and wave machine, that kept my children happiest, though the computer consoles in the cafe came a close second.
Holidays are for a week, four nights mid-week, or weekends. For the shorter stays there is a policy of not letting you into your house till 5pm and ordering you out at 10am on departure day. This seems a bit harsh, even taking into account that full-size houses have to be cleaned. Service in the restaurant can be slow, but these are minor carps.
The staff are friendly and helpful. Many are English and their tracksuits are emblazoned with the Pontins motif, but they are the first to point out that Trabolgan couldn't be further away from the average Pontins. 'Much quieter,' was the general opinion. The owner, Scottish and Newcastle Breweries, has put Pontins on the market but is selling Trabolgan separately.
The atmosphere is pleasant and easygoing. Few foreigners know of the place. Amazingly, in our three days,I don't think I heard one child cry. Reser vation systems for quad-bikes, abseiling, archery and aeroball (a cross between trampolining and basketball) avoid any queueing. Although the camp was full, the pool and playgrounds were never crowded, and the clifftop golf course was deserted.
The camp is set in 140 acres and has its own private cove, so it is easy to strike out alone. On the cliffs covered with bright yellow gorse and springy grass I didn't meet a soul, and stood captivated by a shoreline which stretched to the East without any sign of human habitation. Lungfuls of fresh air revitalised my system like a shot of whiskey.
For those who prefer the real thing, there are tours of the Old Midleton Distillery, home of Jameson's. At the end of the tour you are faced with several whiskey samples to identify.We poured out more garrulous than we went in.
Back at the camp, evening brought cabaret acts - the Nolan Sisters, Bucks Fizz and a couple of Stars in your Eyes imitators. I preferred to linger over dinner, while the children flitted between the cartoon cinema, indoor 'adventure land' and the computer consoles.
I rashly signed up for abseiling the next day. 'Look at me,' the instructor said. 'Don't look down.' I glanced at the sickening drop. Nausea gripped my stomach and the blood drained from my legs. I looked at him. In the intensity of the moment every pore and pimple of his face was imprinted on my mind. He wanted me to inch my heels over the edge of the wooden platform, and fall backwards into space. I didn't think I'd bottle out, but I did. I climbed back down the ladders feeling no shame, only intense relief. The chil dren, off playing crazy golf, had not seen me.
I was a regular visitor to the sauna, where a retired garda told me about the eighteenth-century Trabolgan mansion and its army of servants. In the Forties, chalets were built for tourists fleeing food shortages in Britain - ironic in the land of the potato famine. The swimming pool now occupies the site of the mansion. I asked local people about the origins of the name Trabolgan. My favourite, even if it is not strictly accurate, was 'beach of the big belly'.
Fact file
Renting a house at Trabolgan costs from IR£275 (£210) a week and IR£190 (£145) for a mid-week or weekend stay. The resort has a caravan park for 35 vans. The weekly rates for these pitches start at IR£120 per week (about £92). Book direct with Trabolgan, on 00 353 21 4 661 551, and arrange your own flight or ferry. (The fare on the Swansea-Cork sea route is £139 return for a car and five passengers) or both ferry and accommodation can be booked through Pontins, in the UK, on 0870 604 5621, or with Stena Line (0870 574 7474), Irish Ferries (0990 170000) or Hoseasons (01502 500 500).
