The myth of the relaxing beach holiday

Spectator

a day ago

Picture the scene: you're on a sun-drenched tropical island surrounded by azure waters and dazzling white sand. A lone palm tree casts shadows across your lover's bronzed skin as you sip an ice-cold Campari Spritz. It's a scene pictured a million times a day on Instagram feeds and the biggest holiday cliché of them all. But does the reality of an exotic island paradise live up to the fantasy peddled by popular TV shows such as White Lotus?
T.S. Eliot wrote that 'humankind cannot bear very much reality'. I would argue that humankind cannot bear very much fantasy either. Yes, turquoise oceans, sugar-white sand and tropical flora are all pleasing to the eye, but are they enough to sustain one's interest for an entire week, let alone two? It's depressing how quickly we acclimatise to even our wildest fantasies.
If, like me, you find lounging on a sunlounger for hours on end mind-numbing in the extreme, it doesn't really matter how gorgeous the sand is or whether the ocean is of the deepest hue, you're still essentially lying around doing nothing – something you could just as easily do in Felixstowe and for a fraction of the price.
Moreover, in the tropics all that nothingness is done in sweltering 35°C heat with a billion grains of sand pricking your sunburnt skin while swarms of mosquitoes suck the blood from your dehydrated ankles. It's hardly my idea of paradisiacal bliss, especially when you consider how much you'll pay for the privilege. Maybe it's true that only boring people get bored, but being bored and uncomfortable is surely no way to spend those precious two weeks away.
Another issue for me is the authenticity of some of the more remote and exclusive islands. In an effort to live up to guests' Robinson Crusoe fantasies, the five-star hotels that largely dominate the more inaccessible islands often feel they must engineer the experience to such an extent that you may as well be on a cruise ship. Nothing is left to chance and every square foot of sand is carefully prinked and preened for the delectation of the billionaire class. And as with cruise ships, once you're on there's no getting off. But it's the promise of unimaginable luxury that keeps the yacht-owning contingency coming back for more.
In 2021 Waldorf Astoria, part of the Hilton Group, took over the tiny island of Platte in the Seychelles and turned what had once been a small coconut plantation into a playground for the super-rich. The 0.8-mile stretch of land is so remote you have to take one of those hair-raisingly noisy propeller planes from the capital Mahé. Guests are then greeted by beaming members of staff doing their best to appear thrilled to see you. Each £12,000-a-night family villa has its own butler and an immaculately groomed garden with private pool – think Dubai but without the skyscrapers. Even the palm trees had to be specially imported to give the place just the right desert island vibe.
Other than burning to a crisp, activities on these isolated outposts are somewhat limited – no ancient ruins or quaint markets to tickle the senses – so in order to give shade-dwellers something to do, the hotel chains have all landed on the same set of 'experiences' (travel agent-speak for getting off your arse).
Like Platte, the minuscule Lhaviyani Atoll in the Maldives is dominated by a single five-star hotel, Le Méridien, part of Marriott International. And as is the case with so many of these island retreats, extra-curricular activities include eating, drinking, snorkelling and… turtles.
Unfortunately, in 2016 a survey indicated that more than 60 per cent of the Maldives coral had been affected by bleaching, a phenomenon often linked to pollution and rising sea levels. As a result, the reef is no longer a thing of vibrant beauty. When you consider that snorkelling is the primary draw for many visitors it seems somewhat remiss not to consider this before booking.
Platte has brought the whole turtle experience back to shore by notifying guests whenever a pregnant female shuffles onto the island to lay eggs. Fascinating though it is to watch these creatures give birth, it can feel a little voyeuristic.
When it comes to getting away from it all, these sanitised versions of paradise are all very well, but for me the perfect example of heaven on earth is that rugged, deserted beauty that Tom Hanks landed on after his plane crashed in the movie Castaway. Surely the real appeal of these inaccessible slices of wondrousness is their raw, untapped beauty unsullied by human design and hordes of sweaty Instagrammers? How thrilling to find oneself grappling with raw, unforgiving nature, utterly adrift with only seabirds for company. Now that's what I call an experience.