On route to the beach, we came across two peacocks, much to my delight.

The beautiful blue peacock displayed his fan of elegant feathers and appeared to be doing a courtship dance as he approached the less attractive, brown-feathered peahen. I was enchanted by the display.

Even the boys seemed impressed. I might not see a Robin Redbreast anytime soon, but the male peacock, a bird of the Eastern world, had just more than made up for it. Even better, my mood was rapidly improving. 

Our end of the beach was blissfully almost empty, just a couple of families watching their children playing in the surf. We set out our towels and sat on the sand, which had been combed so there were neat grooves running the length of the beach. The beach was far better groomed than my kids’ hair. 

I stared at the sea, which was still there, and the horizon, which was still there, and the kitesurfer being pulled along by the wind, which was still blowing. I realised I felt properly alive for the first time in weeks. Then we all plunged in, and experienced something else we hadn’t had much of in weeks. Fun. 

On the way back up to our room, fifty minutes later, two things came to my mind: that I felt really, really normal, and that this was the first time I had felt properly human for weeks. In the terror of the pandemic, I think we have forgotten that we are allowed to seek happiness, that having fun isn’t breaking Covid rules. 

There has been such judgment about people, that at times it’s been easier just to suffer, as if feeling anything other than anxiety or misery is in some way belittling to those who have sadly lost their lives to this truly dreadful disease.

But this Eid, I hope everyone will try to do one thing that makes them happy (as long as it’s within the Dubai government’s rules). We must do what we can to keep going. We must remember there is no Covid rule against searching for hope.

Leaving the confines of our immediate neighbourhood, I let out a gasp. “Gosh this feels so weird,” I said, taking in the sight of buildings and landmarks I hadn’t seen in ages, the fascinating signs for far-flung exotic places such as DWC Airport and Jebel Ali free zone. 

Passing the exit to the industrial port, I began to feel quite exhilarated, if only because we had done the journey in world-record time due to the absence of traffic jams.

A giant flashing sign caught my eye – warning drivers to “Stay home, stay safe’ – and I felt a twinge of guilt. Was our break for freedom a selfish idea? A friend in the UK told me yesterday that they were too scared to drive to a near-ish beach in case the locals came at them with pitchforks.

As we pulled into the carpark of the JA Resort, my heart sank. There were so many cars that finding a space was going to be tricky. Valet parking was deemed a health risk. Judging by the busy parking lot, we clearly weren’t the only people who had decided a staycation was ‘essential travel’.

DH dropped us off as close as he could to reception, and I trundled my wheelie bag over the hot paving, the boys in tow, towards the glass-door entrance.

Inside, the queue to check-in stretched all the way round the atrium. Guests were maintaining the obligatory two-metre distance from each other, but even if they hadn’t been, it would have been the longest check-in queue I’d ever seen.

There were kids sat on lounge chairs looking like they’d been brought to extra maths tuition rather than on holiday. One couple appeared to be mid-argument about the wife’s desire to “just go home!” Another man was demanding a refund from a masked customer representative whose initial happiness about being back at work was rapidly diminishing. 

“Oh my,” said DH when he joined us in the queue. “Wasn’t expecting this.”

A young girl just behind us chose that moment to start wailing. “I want to go home,” she cried. Her face turned a violent shade of pink, almost matching her bright pink backpack and sunhat.

Her dad put his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll be in our room soon, then we can go to the beach.”

Our boys, meanwhile, stood in silence, stoically accepting their fate but glum.

When our turn to check-in finally arrived, DH handled the paperwork while I politely stood back to maintain social distance. Just as I thought we were about to be handed our room keys, the receptionist went silent and stared at his computer.

Not being able to see any facial cues due to his mask, I tried to read his eyes. It’s my strategy for communicating in this new era of mask wearing: I smile (anyway), use my eyes (cue acting skills from every medical show I’ve ever watched) and gesture with my hands in a bid to connect with the other person. It sometimes works.

“Your room will be ready in about forty-five minutes,” the receptionist finally said, apologetically. 

DH glanced at his watch and frowned, as I took a step closer to check I’d heard properly. I’d calculated that if we could get to the beach in twenty minutes’ time, we’d still have a couple of hours of sunshine. I was determined we’d all get some vitamin D on this trip, especially as I keep reading it might have a protective effect against coronavirus. 

“I thought check-in was three pm,” I bleated, frustration prickling my skin. 

“Sorry. It’s the municipality’s new rules. The room has to be vacant for a full twenty-four hours before the cleaning crew can go in. They’re just on their way to the room now.”

DH nodded his acceptance as I tried to keep my annoyance under wraps. “The pools are definitely closed, right?” he asked.

“Yes. Again, Dubai government rules. But the beach is open from ten am to six pm.”

“Only until six?” I said in a slightly too high pitch. Our couple of hours on the beach was fast being reduced to about fifty minutes. 

The receptionist gave an apologetic but firm nod. “We’re operating under a lot of restrictions.”