Going on a vacation with little ones in tow is far from a relaxing getaway. To put it as a friend of mine does, it’s simply “raising children with less help”. Thus, it’s wise to consider holiday destinations that offer activities specifically meant for children. Indeed, my family and I recently experienced a week-long stay at Center Parcs in County Longford, delighting in what my child refers to as “actibities”.
Center Parcs is a forest-themed resort with about 450 lodges arranged in a circular pattern around a vast water park, fondly referred to as the Subtropical Swimming Paradise, and a faux village square teeming with shops and theme dining establishments. The resort also contains a man-made lake which visitors traverse via a zip line, their arms wildly flaring in quiet amazement. Although it gives off an aura of being in nature, it’s far from the real deal. In reality, you find yourself immersed in a large-scale modular hotel laden with trees.
Throughout your stay in Center Parcs, you will encounter representations of yourself at different stages of parenting: youth and parenthood-to-be. The base structure remains fairly constant with child clusters – animatedly chattering, moaning, squealing or fixating on squirrels, swirling around their ever-exhausted parental nuclei.
Speaking of squirrel-spotting, it is one activity my tribe never tires of. However, holidays in Center Parcs are not just about squirrel-watching. We do partake in typical Center Parcs activities. There’s an Outdoor Activity Centre on the premises which brings out the adventurer in me – a stark contrast to my usual predisposition of being an indoor person. Turning 40 has made me appreciate some moderate outdoor exertion as it brushes off the daunting dread of ageing. Thus, zip-lining might see me next year. For this year, there’s an abundance of childcare and enjoying with the children to be taken care of.
The events of our pre-planned, rather costly itinerary were largely put together in the hopes that they would engage our five-year-old girl and three-year-old boy. First up was Roller Tots, an indoor roller skating activity, where the girl was quite pleased while the boy didn’t fare as well, having tumbled and conceded defeat; the Mini Trek which involved pretend treetop walks and a kids’ zip line, the girl was again thrilled while the boy chose not to partake. The activities also involved a fun Family Quiz, akin to a traditional pub quiz, which the children largely dismissed while the parents sneaked in a few drinks, or as we delicately say in Ireland, “had a few jars”.
On the second day, we dove into an activity known as Den Building. In a wooded clearing, we amassed logs against each other to craft a simplistic shack while families with more mature, capable youngsters were engaged in similar activities. As I was hefting a large log back to the site, an odd encounter with another dad occurred; he gave me a knowing wink and mentioned, “That’s a decent one”. This struck me as odd. Could it be that Den Building is laden with hidden meanings? The activity, as it turns out, it’s nothing more than a wholesome family activity; a characteristic typical to Center Parcs. Its inherent wholesomeness often sets the stage for parents to indulge in some cheeky humour, making innocent jests to momentarily reconcile with their past wild tendencies.
The third day took us to an event named the Off-Road Explorers where the irony was in the name. The children were offered adorable mini jeeps to navigate around a tiny circuit within paved conditions. The word navigate being used loosely as my daughter ended up colliding with a tree. The chirpy lady supervising the activity calmly stated, “The axle’s come off”, as she delivered another little jeep to my daughter. Long story short, the exploration definitely happened on-road.
My son can be seen in the distance, precariously driving his adorable miniature jeep into a series of unlucky obstacles including trees and ditches. Despite this, he adamantly declares the Off-Road Explorers as the best part of the vacation. My daughter, on the other hand, prematurely vacates her jeep midway, vowing never to undergo such an experience again. She casts a suspicious glance my way, seemingly doubtful about my ability to keep her away from such petite jeeps in future.
In the limbo of the evening, after tucking the children into bed, I embrace solitude and set off for a quiet walk through the woodland pathway. The tranquillity is palpable, devoid of any desperate cries of children, with an exception of a distant wail that, thankfully, does not belong to my offspring. My senses are purged by the aromatic pine resin, the verdancy, and the ensuing tranquillity, pushing me further into the heart of the woods. The only sounds piercing the serene silence are the chirping birds in harmonious chorus and the incessant drone of the air conditioning and water filtration systems, tirelessly working to maintain the functionality of the Subtropical Swimming Paradise.
Behold, the Subtropical Swimming Paradise, a structure suggestive of a Scandinavian airport’s departures lounge with its smooth steel and cascading glass exterior. Inside, however, is an aquatic heaven teaming with countless families. The spectacle consists of hairy fatherly figures embodying their inner Daniel Craig as they merrily navigate the shallow water, and patient mothers vigorously inflating endless amounts of circular monkey-shaped floaties.
A myriad of facilities including tubes, slides, water fountains, and rapids contribute to the dampness of the whole area, making the tiled floor slippery. The central pool is brimming with exuberant visitors, the sheer number of which threatens to incite anxiety among the adults. Yet, the children radiate an infectious joy. My daughter, observed in her element, loudly proclaims herself as the “Water Queen,” and the reigning monarch of Center Parcs, her laughter blending with the splashes of water. Somewhere around the poolside, I spot a person engrossed in Margery Forester’s biography of Michael Collins – a rather peculiar choice of reading considering the surroundings, in my personal opinion.
My spouse queries whether I plan to pen down my thoughts on “beachwear stress”. “It’s a matter of significant relevance for every female here,” she mentions. Not limited to females alone, I realise, as I ponder over my own dad physique and consider engaging more in outdoor activities. Instead, after a struggle to get the kids out of their beachwear and dressed up, we decide to dine at another Centre Parks restaurant. Frustrations, meltdowns – we’re on Day Four.
Technically, there are five eating establishments in this “community” but essentially it just feels like one restaurant donning a variety of guises. We have Huck’s, sporting an American vibe. Then there’s Bella Italia, exhibiting Italian flavours. Cara’s, however, presents itself simply as a ‘restaurant’. Across the pond, we have the Pancake House, which audaciously prices a plain, buttered pasta for children at €9.95.
The cuisine, on the whole, is moderately satisfactory, neither impressive nor disappointing. When one consumes at these restaurants in succession – a necessity since you’re holidaying – it induces a lingering sense of over-indulgence. Coupled with the slight mental strain that accompanies child supervision, this sensation helps form what I later categorise as the fundamental experiential essence of a stay in Center Parcs. A third component of this experience is a begrudging acknowledgment of being overcharged. Standing amidst the woods at twilight, absorbing the resonating quiet, there is a palpable sense of your finances being gradually siphoned from your bank account. In the peak holiday period, Center Parcs Longford Forest manages to yield a gross revenue of around €1.7 million per week. The same could hold true for you if you enforced an exorbitant charge for a dish as basic as pasta, that costs only a fraction to produce.
Surveying photos of our journey, my spouse comments, “Purely wholesome experiences.” That’s precisely what Center Parcs delivers: wholesome experiences. It’s a grand distraction strategy for parents, an extravagant and cushy pseudo-trip aimed to generate, at a staggering cost, familial bliss.
Indeed, it worked wonders for us. “I yearn to go back to Center Parcs,” asserts my lad, a mere three minutes post our departure. However, my little girl has a more profound understanding of me. “You’ve reached your limit with the holiday, haven’t you, Daddy?” she remarks on our concluding evening. On the holiday, certainly. But on her and her sibling? No way at all.