Dorset is a great family destination
IT USED to be said, probably by people who’d never been within a hundred miles, that you can see Zimmer frames parked in driveways and walking sticks propped against every doorway.
A sleepy seaside town full of geriatrics? Well, that joke isn’t funny anymore. Although that ageing crooner Joe Longthorne is soon to be chirping on the pier.
Three days have taught me that the south coast of Dorset isn’t sleeping. It’s bouncing back after being bashed by cheap package holidays. It is reborn.
This year the towns of Bournemouth and Poole will be jam-packed with families who would, in the past, have been spending hours queuing in airport departure lounges for flights to Spain or some other over-hyped and over-populated foreign destination.
The credit crunch is biting. Pushchairs are now cramming those doorways. The sound of laughter vibrates within.
It had been over ten years since I was last in Bournemouth. That particular visit was unremarkable. FA Cup Round Three, January 1999. Bournemouth 1 West Brom 0. Business not pleasure, reporting for a Sunday newspaper.
What do I remember of the day? It was sunny.
As for Poole? I was there in 1980-something. I remember a boating lake. Mum and dad had been regular visitors in the sixties.
And Sandbanks? Never heard of it until Piers Morgan popped up on TV schmoozing his way into the affiliations of local millionnaires.
Apparently it’s the fourth most expensive spot for real estate in the world behind Central London, Upper Manhattan and Moscow.
Tottenham boss Harry Redknapp, motor-racing tycoon Eddie Jordan and UB40 singer Ali Campbell are apparently there in residence.
But what fun is there in looking at other people’s expensive housing? So I have to admit to reservations about this trip.
The distance? 175 miles according to the sat-nav. Surely too far for our three nippers? William, 6, George, 3, and Henry, 18 months – regal by name and anything but by nature. There’d be crayon marks down the chairs before we got out of the Midlands.
And it would be raining anyway.
It was cold, grey and dreary when we set off.
But just two hours and 40 minutes later we’d arrived in Bournemouth.
It was hot. We’d packed only coats. No shades.
For two nights we were staying at the 4-star luxury Highcliff Marriott Hotel. An imposing sight on the seafront.
All cream and elegant. A castle without the moat.
Perched high on a cliff (the clue was in the title) looking down on a golden beach and within five minutes walk of the town centre.
An extensive £4.5 million refurbishment has restored the hotel to its original glory, which is saying something when you consider it was built in 1874 – ironically the year Aston Villa, who dictate my every working move, were formed.
You can just imagine Queen Victoria, who granted the town the status of Borough in 1890, taking in afternoon tea.
Room 107, the Prince Edward Suite, had views of the coastline to die for.
An elegant main room, a large bedroom with separate bathroom including a tub the size of a small boat. The sauna, steam room and fitness area were popular.
But it was the Highcliff Grill restaurant which really stole the show offering a sumptuous award-winning menu only exceeded by the exceptional service.
Even the kids were taken care of. Crayons and colouring pads. They’d thought of everything.
The staff couldn’t have been any more attentive if they’d tucked into my crab cakes and lamb themselves.
Mmmmm! I can still taste the sticky toffee pudding.
Bournemouth’s award-winning Oceanarium stands a minute or two away, underneath the pier. Not any old aquarium.
