Gratheland

The dwarf duo are in their swimming class with Wa'el their coach. Waeeeeeeeel!! they shout when they see him, their slightly flat feet slipping and sliding along the swimming pool tiles as they run towards him. He is grey with the strain of ramadan. Only one more week until Eid ul Fitr - when they can break their fast. Fitr - the same word as the one they use for breakfast. But you can feel people creaking their way to the end. The feast can't come quick enough.

Ten days ago we drove to the far south of Israel - through the Negev - Israel's Wild West. Remote service stations, military zones, and those familiar red rocks jutting from the desert. Just a few kilometres to the other side is Jordan - which occupies the opposite coastline to Israel - the other side of the Red Sea -and our destination for our first family holiday; the last one as a foursome.

We reached Eilat - a tacky resort with high rises reminding us of cheap resorts in Mallorca. And found our way to the border crossing. Though there were no signs. Had we known, we'd have followed the signs to the bird sanctuary, which flanks both sides of the border and is better signed than the crossing. Because no one crosses any more. No Israelis could or would. Not many Jordanians can either .With our distinguishable white plates with black letters - Diplomat - mean we can have our cake and eat it, run rough shod around this land to our hearts' content. A silent, empty border like this one does a lot to remind us of our luck.

The Jordanian border officials, also starving and a pale grey hue, on the border were obviously delighted we could speak some Arabic. The only others crossing were a rake thin couple of backpackers from Australia tracing the hippie trail - now all but defunct, between Egypt, Israel Jordan, onto Lebanon. The man was in a pink fury as the Israelis had stamped his passport. You don't want an Israeli stamp in your passport if you're back packing in the Arab world. Or at least, you won't get far. Though fortunately for us, his mistake allowed us not to make it ourselves. At this border you have to specifically ask them not to stamp.

The resort was on the beach on the East side of the Red Sea - overlooking the barren mountain ranges of Egypt. Al Mesr .70 Egyptian soldiers were murdered by ISIS that week. General SISI - an unfortunate anagram of the terrorist group, is in charge of squashing these human devils, but most agree he's just another Mubarak in a slightly different uniform. Though even the most liberal of Egyptians we meet admit there's no one else. And for all his faults at least he might maintain some order. But at what cost to their liberty?

Our family room was just as it sounds. With a precious 30 inches of 'sliding door' between the dwarf domain and ours. The hot desert wind was like a hairdryer outside, so we spent any time in our room under aggressive waves of air conditioning in cool white sheets. The soundtrack for the first few days was: 'Where'th my thword?' from Rashimi. Almost never without it. Until he mislaid it. Which was all the time. The Lozenge is getting better at looking for things - so I tasked him to find it, often.

The Lozenge also showed some incredible buffet skills. I lost count of the number of chocolate donuts on a stick he managed to put away every morning. He struck up daily conversations with his alter ego - his tummy. 'Mummy, my tummy tells me he needs a little something before we have lunch.'  Then swimming it all off in the daisy chain of swimming pools, and zooming time and time again down the slides.

We shared our holiday with a vibrant cross section of people in the hotel: Gangs of Christian Jordanians escaping the confines of Ramadan; Saudi Muslims escaping the heat and stern restrictions of their own land and living out their holiday at night, after breaking their fast at sunset, and eating for all the hours of darkness until the day broke again and they had to give their straining tummies a rest. There were Palestinian families now living in Europe, coming for a holiday as close to their homeland as they could manage. And Palestinians living in Palestine, having a break from Israeli restrictions and getting some coast line for once (Palestinians can't easily get to the sea in Israel, unless they're Gazan). And one Russian family.

There were many Kenyan workers in the hotel. The ladies we spoke to seemed sad. I don't think they have an easy time, despite earning more money than they would back home. 'We go out in Aqaba and the local men shout at us and insult us for being black - or ask us if we're prostitutes,' said Pascaline sadly, her beautiful face over decorated with bright red lips and purple eye lids, with a glossy black bun of dread locks as big as her head.

Her Kenyan friend called to Rashimi as he scuttled past with a lilo and a noodle, his goggles on. 'Hey baby! That's a great tan!' The nut brown Rashimi is so brown that he's being complimented on it by jet black Kenyans. Now that must be a tan.

The Lozenge spent time stone collecting, and practising his swimming strokes. He grabbed a life jacket, put on some flippers and leaped into the deep blue sea with a snorkel and mask - we'd gone almost exactly half the way across the Red Sea to Egypt in a boat with a great guy called Mohammad. The Lozenge was astonished by what he saw - and drew it all at dinner later.

The Lozenge and Mohammad

Rashimi got all dressed up, but perhaps sensibly decided not to go anywhere after all.

We sat looking each evening, at the red mountain range with blue sky in a gradient to pale, with the green foliage in the foreground. Hard to believe we were in the heart of the most troubled region of the world. May there always be escapes in this land. J and I watched an incredible film on iplayer: 'Song for Jenny' about 7/7. too much to bear. The pillow was wet after the hour long film. It's traumatic, but worth watching. How could we have seen what greater trouble the world would be in by now.

It was a wonderful holiday but also a joy to get back home. J has caught the nesting bug. While I had four days on a writing project, he and the boys did a feng shui on the whole house. They fashioned a new bedroom for the dwarfs out of the playroom. Bunny Floppy Ears now has his/her own abode. I got home on Saturday night after 8 hours work and J painted my toe nails in a beautiful scarab beetle blue. I can no longer reach them myself. I don't know why I've ever paid anyone else to paint them. He could be making a killing in expat circles in Jerusalem, I thought, as he meticulously coated each nail in varnish, my foot resting on a towel on his lap, while he also kept one eye on the Ashes on the laptop screen.

We've dug out the Bang and Olufsen stereo complete with LP player - as we discovered a well-stocked record shop in Jaffa recently, and wanted to listen to our dusty vinyl treasures. As we sat with a drink, and I looked outside at the warm night - the leaves in silhouette against the blue and orange sky, a rally of cars outside heading home fast for 'iftar': (same root as 'fitr' breaking the fast). I realised how vinyl makes you go slower. You read the record label, you slowly pull the black disc from its sleeve and watch as the needle swings slowly round, connects and the first note begins. It's slow. So you have to sit down and listen. Take your time. I think I even sipped my drink slower, and read a book from our coffee table I've barely looked at before. You do it properly, perhaps as we used to write better and more thoughtfully after filling a fountain pen with ink, and thinking before shaping the first word. You can't scribble or burble with a fountain pen, the way you can with a Biro, or even a keyboard. We need to preserve these considered actions, even alongside the ipods.

St Grace has given us a  tiny golden cross on a chain for Bunny Floppy Ears. It's smaller than the nail on my little finger and has an even tinier body of Christ upon it. Her eyes filled with tears. 'For the baby,' she said: 'I had it blessed in my church, so it's ready if the baby comes early.'

The boys and I listened to Paul Simon's Graceland on the way to swimming. 'Doeth Grathe come from Gratheland?' Rashimi asked from the back seat.

Almost certainly, she does, I thought to myself.