FOR MY son it was heaven, a holiday park with pony rides, battles with laser guns, and a pool with a rocky ride through the rapids to a whirlpool of foaming, bath-warm water. But for me, the spirit slayers were the communications. Or lack of.

I was staying in an “executive” lodge, and pretty pricey it was, too. Taking all the activities, meals and Lego toys into account, essential items to offset the tedium of the driving British rain, five days at CenterParcs must have cost almost £800 for the two of us. For that, you would expect at least some kind of internet access or a mobile phone point. Or broadband. Just something.

The closest we got to technology was the land train, a green swinging thingy that zips around the park at about 7mph. Several other frustrated professionals and I would huddle on the train each day, having discovered about ten yards of accessible mobile point on its journey. But by the time I had discovered I had seven messages, the train would have moved on.

To be fair, this cannot entirely be CenterParcs' fault. There are probably lots of Nimby mobile-phone-mast protesters in Wiltshire, all busy organising opposition to the 21st century - on their mobile phones, of course.

But where were the computers? There had been a half-hearted attempt to allow the internet in. You put a pound in an antique object that claimed to be a computer and prayed. The customer help adviser told me not to bother. It never worked, she said.

Back in the (executive!) lodge, I discovered this strange object on a table. It was a telephone, of a creamy white plastic kind that I had not seen for several years. I dialled hungrily. But because it was now past 10pm, nobody was around to get me an outside line. The last time that happened to me was in a post office in Congo about a decade ago.

The next day, I got the line, and was given the charges. They were so insultingly extortionate that I only just resisted hurling the thing through windows and on to the waterlogged wooden decking outside.

Occasionally, in the pool or rambling in the forest, we met adults and children who had become separated from friends in their parties. They had no way of arranging a rendezvous, or of finding out if someone was in trouble. I couldn't help but think of a spring skiing trip at Klosters. I could call friends from the chairlifts and clifftops, and e-mail photos from my phone of tumbles in the snow. With my new Blackberry, next year I'll be able to update my blog while waiting in the queue for the gondola.

At CenterParcs, in the heart of England, I couldn't even talk to my husband, who had stayed at home to look after the cat.

Back home, and finally able to access my e-mails, there was a message from CenterParcs: “Welcome home.” They proceeded to try to sell me some insurance.

Too expensive, indeed. There is a greater cost to parsimony than money, and with any luck CenterParcs might be about to find out what it is. Having said that, we'll definitely go back. Shooting people was too much fun to give up on. But next time I'll have to persuade The Times to give me a sat-phone. In a war zone, nothing less will do.

Ruth Gledhill's blog timesonline.co.uk/gledhill

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