Best for: accessibility
A sandy dot in the candy-blue Baa Atoll, Amilla is tucked into a forest where coconut palms tower above the screw pines and hibiscus, and flying foxes chitter and fuss in the canopy. Our usual daily soundtrack—alarm clocks, traffic, heavy-footed upstairs neighbors—was swiftly forgotten, replaced with jungle sounds, the swish of bike tires, the call of koel cuckoos and the tinkling of glass from coral pieces tumbling in the surf. Amilla has everything: diverse, excellent food, a butler service that’s all too easy to get used to, an impressive spa, a tennis court—countless pleasures on land and in the sea. But because of my disability, all of this—as indeed any holiday on a remote island, with its sandy paths, jetties, air and water transfers—would not normally be possible for my family. However, everything about Amilla gave me confidence.
Last year it became the first resort in the world to be signed off by accessible holiday guru Inclucare for how it responds to mobility, and sensory and cognitive needs. Because of the way it has trained its staff and invested in special equipment, I could visit the Blue Hole, an extraordinary underwater cave and popular dive site, and drive a jet ski around the island looking for dolphins. Things I would never have dreamed of being able to do. But the pampering was at its best when it came to our daughters Poe, six, and Hedwig, five. They had dolls left on their pillows, backpacks in the shape of the native white-tailed tropicbirds and nameplates on their bikes. The all-day kids’ club was a riot of photography, pizzamaking, crafts, face-painting, henna tattoos and treasure hunts. Watching my girls run to hug the staff at the club—which they insisted on staying at all day—I knew they were well cared for.
This meant that my wife and I could spend time together, which is hard to come by. We would have lunch overlooking the sea, not having to remind anyone to use a knife and fork or take their feet off the table. We went snorkeling in the reef—it was the end of the manta season, when hundreds of those unworldly giants feed upon plankton in Hanifaru Bay. Some days we would go our separate ways. Sarah paddleboarded or did yoga while I lounged on the pillow-soft sand and read my book. The staff made sure there was always a beach wheelchair nearby. At the end of the day, we would retrieve our daughters and eat together as a family. The kids’ favourite was the Japanese restaurant, where they watched nurse sharks laze in the water below. Then they would race me home on their bikes, the air sweet from the neem trees, and quickly fall asleep to the sound of the waves, while we stargazed, with a bottle of Champagne chilling, contented that our family was able to enjoy a once-in-a-lifetime trip. —Jarred McGinnis
