I'm alone at last. My eight-year-old has gone shopping with her father for a giant inflatable dolphin, and the five-month-old twins are trying out their swim seats with my mother in the pool. I've plastered on factor 15 and await the magic of the Algarve to transform my pallid urban exterior into an advertisement for the outdoors.

I'd thought I had my holiday childcare sussed. I'd arranged the first week with the nanny, the second with the granny. But within a few days, my eight-year-old was getting bored, not of the Algarve, but of us. She longed for the company of another S Club 7 fan.

I tried to meet her halfway (around age 18), by offering to have our hair braided at Vilamoura marina, but it wasn't enough. The advantages of splendid isolation in a luxury villa suddenly seemed limited, as my daughter pined for other children. Then, miraculously, I found a ready source of them. In Portugal, many private playschemes accept tourists' children on a day-by-day basis. (Lonely Planet's Portugal guide has some details. Local tourist offices can help.) That the staff speak little English didn't matter to my daughter. Lego is Lego in any language.

But I've also discovered new joys that can be shared. Portugal seems to have more radio stations than all of sunny southern Europe put together. And every station caters across the generations, with Shaggy's latest single running into Rod Stewart. Driving from Evora to Faro, we all had something to sing along to. It's just a pity that the cross-generational chorus had to end when we de-carred.

Next time we come to Portugal, I'll leave our individual Walkmans and tapes (my Lighthouse Family, her Britney Spears) behind. I'll pack a cheap radio instead.

If you have any experiences of travelling with kids, email: deabirkett@cs.com