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Telegraph
15-05-2025
- General
- Telegraph
Treating toddlers as ‘trans' is cruel. But blame activists, not parents
'I think,' I announced in 1966, when I was 7, 'that I might be one of those people who isn't either a boy or a girl.' My mother simply carried on with whatever 1960s household task she was busy with, said 'Mm-hmm?', then a comforting 'Oh well, you never know. What shall we cook for supper?' If a seven-year-old me had uttered the same words in 2025, to a mother less sure of herself and of her daughter, there might have been months of 'sitting down for a chat', of 'going up to London to see that nice doctor again'; lots of probing of my 'feelings' by adults I'd never met. I would have felt strangely important; I'd have felt I had put my finger on something deeply significant. And all the time, that seven year old might never have been able to articulate what I clearly remember was going on in my head. Contemplating the endless mini-skirted legs of Twiggy or Diana Rigg on television, then looking down at my own chubby, scabbed knees, I decided that it was absolutely impossible for the latter to morph into the former; equally unlikely that my stumpy digits could lengthen elegantly, or my round tummy become a waist. The idea of becoming an adult is too big to deal with. The physical transformation seems quite impossible. Every parent should be aware that it is far more important that a child enjoys being themselves than that they fit into a stereotype. The increased gender-specific nature of children's lives is dismaying for my generation; as a grandmother I am depressed by the racks of clothes for five year olds embossed either with pink unicorns, or fake Superman six-packs. But today's young parents may not realise that things were not always so. In the 1970s Lego had an advert showing girls and boys, with near-identical (if tragic) Lesley Judd type pageboy haircuts, building Lego towers together. Unthinkable now: someone in Marketing realised that dividing all toys and games into girls' versions and boys' versions sells twice as many toys. Thanks to their brilliant parents, so far all my grandchildren are allowed to be themselves first, their gender second. If my three-year-old granddaughter doesn't want to wear the dress Grandma made, we all know that it's because she's the most stubborn little person on the planet, not because she is experiencing gender dysphoria. The parents who take little children to gender clinics are not evil. They have a woeful lack of common sense but are trying to be caring, in a world that has become fixated on excessively narrow and arbitrary definitions of 'normal' gender characteristics – such as that a prize chump like Andrew Tate is the pinnacle of masculinity, and that to succeed as a woman in American politics it is essential to look like a Barbie doll. What is truly evil is that the anxiety of such parents trying to navigate such a world is being fed by professionals whose real duty is to bring them down to earth and encourage them to let their children be children and to develop their own personalities. I never did get Diana Rigg's legs, but at least my parents never doubted I was a girl just because of something I had said.
Yahoo
15-05-2025
- General
- Yahoo
Treating toddlers as ‘trans' is cruel. But blame activists, not parents
'I think,' I announced in 1966, when I was 7, 'that I might be one of those people who isn't either a boy or a girl.' My mother simply carried on with whatever 1960s household task she was busy with, said 'Mm-hmm?', then a comforting 'Oh well, you never know. What shall we cook for supper?' If a seven-year-old me had uttered the same words in 2025, to a mother less sure of herself and of her daughter, there might have been months of 'sitting down for a chat', of 'going up to London to see that nice doctor again'; lots of probing of my 'feelings' by adults I'd never met. I would have felt strangely important; I'd have felt I had put my finger on something deeply significant. And all the time, that seven year old might never have been able to articulate what I clearly remember was going on in my head. Contemplating the endless mini-skirted legs of Twiggy or Diana Rigg on television, then looking down at my own chubby, scabbed knees, I decided that it was absolutely impossible for the latter to morph into the former; equally unlikely that my stumpy digits could lengthen elegantly, or my round tummy become a waist. The idea of becoming an adult is too big to deal with. The physical transformation seems quite impossible. Every parent should be aware that it is far more important that a child enjoys being themselves than that they fit into a stereotype. The increased gender-specific nature of children's lives is dismaying for my generation; as a grandmother I am depressed by the racks of clothes for five year olds embossed either with pink unicorns, or fake Superman six-packs. But today's young parents may not realise that things were not always so. In the 1970s Lego had an advert showing girls and boys, with near-identical (if tragic) Lesley Judd type pageboy haircuts, building Lego towers together. Unthinkable now: someone in Marketing realised that dividing all toys and games into girls' versions and boys' versions sells twice as many toys. Thanks to their brilliant parents, so far all my grandchildren are allowed to be themselves first, their gender second. If my three-year-old granddaughter doesn't want to wear the dress Grandma made, we all know that it's because she's the most stubborn little person on the planet, not because she is experiencing gender dysphoria. The parents who take little children to gender clinics are not evil. They have a woeful lack of common sense but are trying to be caring, in a world that has become fixated on excessively narrow and arbitrary definitions of 'normal' gender characteristics – such as that a prize chump like Andrew Tate is the pinnacle of masculinity, and that to succeed as a woman in American politics it is essential to look like a Barbie doll. What is truly evil is that the anxiety of such parents trying to navigate such a world is being fed by professionals whose real duty is to bring them down to earth and encourage them to let their children be children and to develop their own personalities. I never did get Diana Rigg's legs, but at least my parents never doubted I was a girl just because of something I had said. Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.
Times
09-05-2025
- Times
The secret Portuguese paradise that's less than an hour from Lisbon
James Bond had the worst honeymoon in history in Arrabida. Just after getting hitched during the 1969 film version of On Her Majesty's Secret Service, 007 and Tracy are interrupted along a coast road by Blofeld and his henchwoman Irma, who kills Diana Rigg's heroine. Just before George Lazenby's lovesick spy starts stammering and the film ends, the camera pans — and one of Portugal's most criminally unsung regions looks postcard-perfect in the background. And it still does today, thanks to a protection order that has been in place since 1975. Comprising nearly 70 square miles of land and sea, the Arrabida Natural Park lines the Setubal Peninsula's southern coast, close to Lisbon, and provides a compelling landscape: densely vegetated mountains slanting down to a series of white-sand coves whose aquamarine shallows recall the tropics. Despite that, it doesn't seem to draw much attention beyond Portugal's borders. Adding to the allure is a winning convenience on offer. Less than four hours after leaving Gatwick, including a 35-minute drive south from Lisbon airport, I'm quickly checking into Casa Palmela, one of very few hotels inside the park. Five minutes later, a poolside view of rippling vineyards, gardens and woodlands soundtracked solely by birdsong is mine and mine alone. There's only one thing missing. 'Would you like your welcome drink now?' murmurs an apparently-psychic waiter who has materialised out of thin air. Casa Palmela is a whitewashed 17th-century manor house that was once a Jesuit college's summer residence and is now owned by a local duke and duchess. Its 400-year-old stone floor, many azulejo tiles and first-floor chapel are emphasised by bright white walls and occasional blocks of sage green. The old refectory hosts a restaurant where kitchen-garden produce anchors rustic but formally delivered riffs on local dishes: I devour sizzled grouper with clams and tomatoey risotto rice on one night, then fresh chestnut soup another. Surrounding a lounge, with its mounted stag's head, are 21 airy bedrooms; on the ground floor, mine pairs flowery fabrics with a pitched-roof terrace looking towards jungle-green hills. As well as the main pool, a second one in cork tree gardens neighbours an annexe where five apartments sleep up to eight people and offer families some privacy. Guests — mostly Americans; a few Brits — are encouraged to walk or cycle around the 75-acre quinta using maps available at reception. I settle for a gentle meander, enjoying the acidic tang of orange trees; cavorting butterflies near a small, simple wellness centre; neat rows of vines used to produce honeyed Moscatel de Setubal, one of Portugal's lesser-known fortified wines; and the sudden, joyous waft of rosemary atop a hillock. In an office next to Casa Palmela, guests can arrange sustainably minded guided days out, from weaving or wine-tasting workshops to traditional tile-making at a company that's a favourite of Elton John, horse-riding , sunset yoga, snorkelling — the park encompasses 20 square miles of clear, clean sea — or boat trips around the Sado river's wide estuary, looking for one of mainland Europe's few resident bottlenose dolphin pods. 'Ninety-nine per cent,' promises Salvador Holstein, the hotel's communications manager and cousin of the owner, when I ask about the likelihood of encountering dolphins. 'We also take guests for picnics on tidal sandbars' — these appear around the spindly Troia peninsula, which narrows the estuary entrance like an extended harbour wall. 'We've hosted a marriage ceremony there as well.' Unseasonably wet weather precludes a boat trip or marriage ceremony for me, but I am able to investigate Arrabida's headline act: that series of beautiful beaches. All are south-facing and thus, while their waters are cold, they're spared the surf-tastic swells found elsewhere along Portugal's west coast. Among the biggest is Figueirinha, whose wide lozenge of sand juts out from plummeting limestone and has its own low-tide sandbank extending seawards. Further west comes elegant Galapos, with a sleek beach club where hot dogs cost just £3, and then wilder, smaller Galapinhos and Coelhos, both accessible only on foot or by boat. Portinho da Arrabida is the other long shore, overlooked by a small fort turned oceanographic museum. Most have lifeguards and loungers during summer; you'll encounter crowds then, plus hawkers of creamy doughnuts, yet breathing space won't be impossible to find. Traffic and parking are extremely restricted, in keeping with this being a natural park (although Casa Palmela's guests can book private transfers to Galapos, plus sunbeds). Such carefully managed tourism is thrown into sharp relief by what's happening over on the Troia peninsula. This is supposedly protected too, yet a big resort, Na Praia, should open next year after getting the go-ahead, despite fierce opposition from environmental associations. Holstein discusses Na Praia with sadness, but cheers up when I mention Arrabida's Unesco Biosphere Reserve candidacy, with the verdict due in September. 'We need to fiercely protect Arrabida's authentic, distinctive offerings,' he tells me, 'without our being misleading, such as simply promoting beach holidays. Having Unesco involved will help. Sustainable tourism here must be grown responsibly — not like we are seeing in Troia.' The estate neighbouring Casa Palmela includes a grand seafront residence, Palacio da Comenda, where Jacqueline Kennedy and her children supposedly recuperated after JFK's murder. Numerous websites reproduce this story, yet Holstein doubts its veracity. What he does confirm is that Queen Elizabeth II visited Arrabida in 1957, joining Prince Philip at Holstein's great-grandparents' house for a few quiet days before a state visit. • 10 of the most beautiful places in Portugal (and how to see them) 'They wanted somewhere quiet, to be incognito,' Holstein says. 'He was only ten years old at the time, but my father still remembers her with great affection.' Following in the Queen's footsteps, I tour the former 16th-century Nossa Senhora da Arrabida monastery complex high on a coastal hillside. It's no longer in religious use, so its vivid white buildings — embellished by flowerbeds, azulejo panels and seashell installations — echo a Cycladic village. Water trickles along gently-slanting pipes; otherwise, stillness reigns, be it in the plain bedrooms or the main chapel (from £7, book ahead; Further uphill is a hermitage established, according to legend, in the 1200s by a shipwrecked British merchant called Hildebrandt upon instruction from the Virgin Mary; around it, seven small, bulbous monastic cells line the slope like pearls on a string. An hour later I descend 200 steps to the sea-level Santa Margarida cave, in which there's an improbably located shrine and altar, likely established by 17th-century fishermen. Later I visit sturdy old defensive fortresses above Palmela, a quaint hilltown, and the port-city of Setubal. A café-bar in the latter's castle affords marvellous views over the Troia peninsula, and is perfectly positioned for sundowners. With its faded pastel buildings, Setubal itself feels tired, but remains worth visiting for the indoor, 150-year-old Livramento food market, whose back wall hosts a glorious, colossal mural depicting the lives of fishermen and farmers. Seemingly the only tourist, I try two of the Sado river oysters at one stand before scrutinising strange toadfish at another. • Where to go in Portugal: 10 secret spots the locals love Unhurried driving turns out to be my favourite Arrabida pleasure. There are some wonderful roads, hugging the shore or climbing to panoramic viewpoints like the one beside which James Bond's new bride met her end. From another, further along the ER379-1, I gaze seawards at a Portuguese coastal destination more familiar to Brits: glamorous Comporta — where the prices are higher, the mosquitoes are a notorious summer pest and the secret is most definitely out. 'Comporta has become a place where appearances matter above all,' Holstein later says. 'Arrabida is the complete, authentic opposite: here you come to escape and simply be yourself.' Just like James Bond did, I think— but hopefully without any Blofeld to worry Mellor was a guest of Casa Palmela, which has B&B doubles from £175 ( and TAP Portugal, which has Gatwick-Lisbon returns from £116 (
