There’s an immutable truth about children and holidays, and, like a boulder on the path to enlightenment, there’s no getting around it. While civilised humanity seeks culture, cuisine and climate alien to common experience, kids just want a pool. And maybe some ice cream.

But mainly a pool, with slides and fountains and bridges with signs saying “Do not jump”. Tour operators are aware of this, which is why, when you open their brochures, all you see is warm blue water full of happy children with kind parents.

So I was economical with the truth when my three hauled me in for questioning over this year’s big trip. “Is there a pool?” demanded Frederick, aged 10. “There will definitely be swimming,” I replied carefully. “And a beach?” asked three-year-old Benedict. “More sand than you can possibly imagine,” I said.

“What about ponies?” asked Annabella, aged five. That’s the other thing kids want on holiday. “You will go riding,” I nodded, beginning to feel like Lord Mandelson.“So where are we going?” they demanded. I looked from face to expectant face. “On a family adventure to Jordan,” I announced.

Jordan, easy and magnificent

A night in the desert, another in a nature reserve, plus a Dead Sea spa, Amman and Petra, a new wonder of the world

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It didn’t start well. As the muezzin’s call to fajr echoed over the roofs of Madaba, south of Amman, Frederick drew the curtains and gazed despondently across the litter-strewn streets. “It looks like Baghdad,” he muttered, switching on his Game Boy.

Breakfast brought more shock than awe: the Middle Eastern mix of flatbreads, olives and ful medames seems both healthy and exotic to grown-up palates, but for kids used to a bowl of Coco Pops, it’s cruel and unusual. They crossed their arms and glared at me. So we went swimming, like I’d promised. In the Dead Sea.

Geographically and emotionally, it was a low point. Benedict cried because the beach was made of mud, Annabella was curiously offended by the astonishingly high salinity, and only Frederick had the temerity to float out towards Israel, a five-mile swim through the heat haze.

Mine weren’t the only children unimpressed by the deepest hypersaline lake on earth. There were five other kids on our trip: Beth, Erin and Zo, vivacious teenaged sisters from Lincolnshire, and Sean and Robin from Derbyshire, all of whom would probably have preferred something blue with slides.

They had an ally in Yousef, our Bedouin guide, who admitted he didn’t really care for the Dead Sea either, even if the corrupted towers and warped walls of Sodom and Gomorrah lay beneath its oily surface.

Patient, wise and — unlike their own father — trustworthy, Yousef quickly became a surrogate dad to my kids, so the following day we formalised the arrangement.

In the wilderness of Judaea, where the rush-choked River Jordan trickles into the Dead Sea, lies Bethabara, the place where John is said to have baptised Jesus. Lost for decades in a dust-blown corner of the demilitarised buffer zone between Jordan and Israel, this holiest of holy sites is now open to pilgrims and tourists.

As usual, the Greek Orthodox Church was first on the scene, building a church and a simple font down among the rushes. I found Father Georgeos wandering amid the faithful and the curious with the slack-jawed awe of an Elvis fan given custody of Graceland.

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