As I pack for my trip with my nine-year-old daughter Erin to the Pine Cliffs resort on the Algarve in Portugal, it occurs to me that the phrase 'single-parent holiday' has to be one of the cruellest oxymorons of modern times. Put bluntly, such excursions, while always eagerly awaited and enjoyed, often tend to be three parts 'single parent' and one part 'holiday'. No, make that half a part. As any parent, single or otherwise, knows: on holiday, much of the slog of normal existence remains - feeding, dressing, bathing, calming down the tantrums, wiping away the tears. And then there's the kid to think about.

That's a joke by the way. (I think.) But make no mistake: it's an exhausting business going on holiday with a small person at the best of times. But just try doing it alone, without another big person to share the heartache and the glory.

There's usually a distinct pattern to the Single Parent Holiday outward journey and, on the whole, my trip to Pine Cliffs was no exception. The sequence is as follows: arrive at airport, followed by an undignified one-handed scrabble for a trolley to ensure that neither your child nor your luggage is abducted. Emit near-scream of agonised relief as the carry-on bag, containing half your child's toy cupboard, is dumped on the trolley. Quick rub of dent in shoulder, then check in. Yes, you did pack those bags yourself, and extremely badly too. As the luggage rolls through the crematorium-style flaps, you can see the strap of your daughter's swimming costume dangling gaily out of a bulging side pocket.

Then a quick nip to the loo, and a much longer locking of horns in duty-free. NO, she can't have the Gameboy game. For once, pester power will get her nowhere. Your word is final. Ten minutes later, you purchase the Gameboy game, but that's it, nothing else for the rest of the holiday, no buckets, spades, rubber rings, nothing.

Then you're on the plane, letting her eat your in-flight pudding. She's sleepy. You hold her in your arms, tantalising her with the joys to come - buckets, spades, rubber rings, everything. So far, so déjà vu . Then, magically, you arrive at Faro airport, and everything starts going your way.

The natural order of Single Parent Holiday is instantly upended by the fact that transport is waiting for us, with a man holding a sign with my name on. Rather overcome by how smoothly things are going (is this a trick?), we journey to Pine Cliffs. Even though we arrive at night, first impressions are excellent - a sensual explosion of tinkling fountains, rolling golf lawns, pure white architecture, and almost impudently beautiful gardens.

Even better, our apartment is a sultan's palace of delight. There's a microwave, dishwasher, CD player, mini bar, three televisions and two bathrooms. Ten minutes after arrival, my daughter and I are perched on the massive sofas in our complimentary towelling robes, smirking like Lady and Little Lady Muck.

'Can we live here forever, Mummy?'

'Let me work on it.'

During our stay, we get to audition our new home, Pine Cliffs, which is a huge complex of apartments, some privately owned, some, like ours, for hire, spread out over vast, beautifully maintained grounds framed by a spectacular cliff view. The Sheraton group manages the complex and has a magnificent hotel on site (think Versailles with bellboys).

The clientele seems diverse in a straight kind of way (if you see what I mean): ranging from the retired rich and family groups to young couples and golf and tennis enthusiasts (each sport boasts its own academy, and there are several sparkling swimming pools). The mix seems to be evenly divided between British, American and German. Only the staff are Portuguese. I doubt whether the indigenous population could afford Pine Cliffs.

Passing the time turns out to be easy for the single-parent family, and it could have been even easier. Officially, there's a children's club my daughter should be attending. It looks safe and pleasant, but maybe a little bit too babyish and regimented for my tweenie. When the club organiser's back is turned, we creep away and take the lift down to the well-kept award-winning beach.

I'm not much of a beach bunny, but even I appreciate being able to walk across the sand without scooping up Coca-Cola cans with my big toe, and paddling in the azure sea without being carried away by a shoal of used condoms. To top it all, there are enough great restaurants, bars and cafés here to tempt Geri Halliwell off her carrot-and-ego diet. The bars have a tendency to bring you bottles of wine when you ask for a glass. Yes, we could be happy here.

My only criticism is that the night life wasn't up to much. Not for me, you understand, for my daughter. On holiday, we like to put on our glad rags and attend a child-friendly disco, her entering fancy-dress competitions, me sitting at the side drinking Chardonnay. There was nothing like this at Pine Cliffs - it seemed that children were meant to be babysat by staff while their parents sampled the restaurants, clubs and bars. Which seems a bit hard on the children - after all, they're on holiday too. In the end I took my daughter to the piano bar with me, but it was Sacha Distel hell.

Fortunately, the days were glorious. My daughter and I spent most of them splashing about in the pools, taking it in turns to creep up on each other in a Jaws-like fashion, and upturn our rubber rings. Again and again and again. This is the reality of the Single-Parent Holiday: Forget reading, forget relaxing, you've got to play with your progeny.

The only solution is to find someone else for them to play with. That's why I usually spend half the holiday looking for likely children who can be as spoiled and obnoxious as they like, so long as they are a British nine-year-old's definition of 'Fun!'.

Sadly, I then have to spend the rest of my time trying to escape from their parents, who usually come in couple form, feel sorry for you, and force you to hang out with them. This makes them feel good about themselves (they have rescued the lonely single mum!), while you feel like a charity case. A bored charity case, at that.

Although, in this instance, not for long. At Pine Cliffs, the weather was balmy, the surroundings exquisite, the food lovely, albeit hellishly expensive, the apartment several million times more comfortable than my own home. Yes, we were definitely happy there.

Fact file

Barbara Ellen and Erin travelled to Pine Cliffs (00 351 289 500 300) in the Algarve with specialist firm Wentworth Travel (01344 844 541). Wentworth offers seven nights for £2,369 for a family of four, based on two adults and children sharing, including return scheduled flights, taxi transfers, seven nights B&B and two green fees. Price valid for travel this October.