How a kid-free trip to Thailand can pack months of relaxation into a week

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I’m not sure if it’s cultural appropriation, and if so, which culture is appropriating which, but at this point I am too relaxed to care. My sister and I are deeply immersed in what is called a “Thai hammam experience”. We have been scrubbed, steamed and ice-bathed into the sort of oblivion some people spend their whole lives chasing. This is the signature spa experience at the Amatara in Phuket, a “welleisure resort” at Panwa Beach, on the southern tip of the peninsula.

The scenery in Thailand is like stepping into a movie set.

After the hammam, we each get a full-body massage in the treatment rooms upstairs. Then, as we loll on sofas in the reception afterwards, we are offered herbal tea and an amuse-bouche of betel leaf, coconut, ginger and a hint of chili jam. It is utterly delicious and we melt, only to reconstitute ourselves for cocktail hour a short time later.

My sister and I have snuck away, ninja-like, to Phuket, aiming to escape our family responsibilities for a week and to do, well, as close to nothing as we can manage.

We arrive late on the red-eye from Sydney and collapse in our comfortable suites - with bathrooms as big as hammams and Andaman-Sea glimpses from our balconies. In the morning, I wake early and walk through lush, landscaped tropical gardens to the resort’s private beach. It is so hushed and perfect – white sand, azure sea, topped by a big pink sky and scudding clouds – that I feel as if I’ve wandered onto a movie set.

We soon lapse into a delightful routine: an early workout at the excellent gym followed by a long graze at the resort buffet, some reading or swimming, then lunch, perhaps a massage, more reading, then happy hour by a languorous infinity pool sparsely populated by phone-wielding fellow guests who look very much like they’re harvesting content for Instagram.

I can’t blame them – the views are too perfect – although I do take (silent) umbrage with the young woman who films herself on a mini tripod during a yoga class, presumably to serve up to social media later. It seems to contradict the spirit of yoga, as does my (also silent) observation that her poses aren’t that good.

We venture out of paradise on a few occasions, notably for a boat trip to Phang Nga Bay and James Bond Island (so named because it featured as a location in 1974’s The Man with the Golden Gun), where we kayak on glassy waters through sea caves and beneath green-clad limestone cliffs.

The beauty of the scenery is somewhat undercut by the crowded hilarity of the boat trip. We are wedged between a large crew of Iranian multi-level marketers, in Phuket for a conference, who know how to party while asking for your contact information, and a group of 20-something bros from Dresden in Thailand on a boys’ trip.

Another day, we take a taxi to Phuket Old Town to browse the gorgeous laneways with their candy-coloured Sino-Portuguese townhouses. Here, we ease our consciences by buying gifts for those we abandoned at home.

The red-eye flight home is entirely manageable – relaxing even – and the Amatara glow stays on me for weeks. In less than one week, I have read two books, had six massages, countless swims and naps, and eaten more pad krapow gai than I care to say. These are the kinds of statistics few holidays can supply.

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