Club Med Cherating is all about sport, sport and sport. Oh, alright, and the odd cocktail ...

Club Med Cherating, four kilometres of pristine beach Club Med Cherating, four kilometres of pristine beach
Images: Club Med Cherating Beach

Awhile back a friend of mine came out with a startling admission. “I don’t actually like beach holidays,” he shrugged. “I just get bored.” Now, saying you don’t like beach holidays is like saying you don’t like oxygen. Everyone likes beach holidays ‒ it’s a vital part of being human. But this bloke didn’t. And I tend to agree with him.

You see, I’m one of those irritating people who can’t relax on holidays. I’m like a toddler who’s just downed a tall glass of potent cordial. While everyone else is sleeping in, I’m the pinhead punching out a soft-sand beach run. While everyone else is lounging by the pool or selecting the comfiest stool at the bar, I’m the blowhard paddling a kayak or puffing up some local mountain. Of course I can relax, but only once I’ve earned it. Then I’m all about bars and lounges and cold bottles of beer.

I don’t admit this with pride. I’m fully aware that this behaviour is at best odd, at worst unhealthy. I’m certain it would make psychologists frown and map me at the sharp end of some behavioural spectrum. But there it is. I can’t relax for the sake of it. I can’t spend days in the horizontal just because there are palm trees about; I can’t down pina coladas at breakfast just because the sun’s shining. I need to do something first.

For this reason I’d always assumed that a weeklong stint at a tropical Club Med represented my anti-holiday. I’d always guessed Club Med was some swanky Euro deal devoted to sloth and debauchery. In my mind’s eye I saw Yves and Laurent sprawled on banana lounges sipping toxic-coloured daiquiris and turning a deep shade of mahogany while they waited for Brigitte and Sophia to finish their Balinese massages and French manicures. To me, Club Med was nothing more than a stage for carcinogenic tans, flamboyant hairstyles and inappropriate swimwear.

Well, no actually. At least not by charter. The idea of Club Med was conjured 61 years ago by a muscular Belgian with the fabulous name of Gerard Blitz. Blitz was a diamond-

cutter by trade, an avowed socialist by persuasion and a water polo player by past-time. He’d just turned 30 when the Nazis invaded his homeland. He joined the French Resistance and, in his quiet moments, wondered at the ideological rifts that divided men. When the Nazis were finally shunted back east, Blitz began organising transit camps for returning Belgian soldiers. He saw how happy the young men were in the Spartan surrounds of the camps, how content they were expending energy, how impromptu football games brought them together. An idea took root in Blitz’s mind.