It’s Quiet. Too Quiet... By Sarah Oliver, Journalist with the Mail On Sunday
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We were sitting on our terrace, dusk falling, the hills in the distance turning violet and ginger, and the only thing we could hear was the birds trilling their evensong from the branches of the bougainvillea below. Our sons Rufus and Felix always come in stereo, laughing and fighting at maximum volume or plotting in stage whispers. But tonight? Nothing. It was bliss, actually, being alone with my husband Ciaran feeling as if ‘me’ and ‘us’ time was something we’d magically been able to order on room service. We’d spent the afternoon walking hand in hand by the Atlantic, reading our books against the natural windbreak of the dunes and now we were having an aperitif ahead of dinner - for two. Darkness brought a ribbon of pretty white light around Four Seasons Fairways and outside our apartment the sound of squealing brakes, mountain bikes bumping down steps and a 13-year-old and a nine-year-old using their own much-prized key in the door. ‘We’ve been at the ice cream parlour practising our Portuguese,’ they said, trying to keep a straight face. And before that? Apparently they’d been playing football with a bunch of other kids, the match organised the oldfashioned way - via word of mouth - by one of the lifeguards. In a neat reversal of roles, we were now being ushered out by them for the evening so they could have pizza delivered and squeeze the net of oranges that the resort delivers daily as part of its Active Living package. F O U R S E A S O N S FA I R WAY S M A G A Z I N E
