“You're doing great!” Colm the surfer grinned as the full force of the Atlantic Ocean slammed into my surfboard, which slammed into my chest, which knocked me breathless. Breathless, but not, unfortunately, unable to draw a breath of pure seawater as I disappeared beneath the waves.

Gulping and snorting saltwater while tumbling over and over, I thought about the one piece of advice Colm - aka Big Red - had given us back on the beach: never turn your surfboard between you and the waves. Because if a wave hits you, the board could knock you out and under.

As seawater streamed from my nose and stung my eyes, I'd like to say I thought about getting right back up on that goddamn board. But mostly I just thought about the pain in my nostrils - which were burning like I'd snorted caustic soda - and whether my hair was a mess.

Taking three steps forward and two steps back, I battled back from the shore to the implacable Colm. He was waiting waist-deep in water, dressed in a wetsuit, yellow cagoule and green woolly hat.

Big Red: “One more go then?”
Wee Blondie: “One more go then.”

And another and another until finally I was up, riding my first wave. Surfing coach Colm McAuley runs the burgeoning surf school on Inchydoney Beach, just two miles from Clonakilty in west Cork. Although, you wouldn't think it when you see the car he's driving. Colm trundles down the drive to his surf hut, past the Mercs, Beamers and Audis parked outside the Inchydoney Lodge & Spa, where I am staying for the weekend. In his rusting white Ford Escort estate, tail lights missing and a window permanently down, he seems more Del Boy than Big Kahuna.

But Colm is a fully-insured ISA qualified instructor and lifeguard. His strong sinewy frame and mess of red hair speak of a life lived out of doors. “It's hard to keep a car with all this saltwater around,” he says laconically. I glance up to the car park above and have a wee smirk, thinking about the guests bent on rejuvenation while their swanky vehicles are being devoured by the grey mist of the sea.

Standing barefoot in a puddle, I prise on a damp, smelly layer of neoprene and wonder if, after only one night in Inchydoney, I could be turning soft. Because for the first time in years, I'm not really looking forward to getting into the sea.

The day before I had driven from a frenetic, pre-Christmas Dublin to the very tip of west Cork. It seemed like the edge of the world.

The Lodge & Spa sits on a headland on Inchydoney Island, and each room looks out over the pale crescent beaches to the Atlantic and beyond.

Inchydoney promises relaxation, rejuvenation, excellent food and wine and yes, unadulterated luxury; my every whim catered for. But, unusually for a member of the female species, luxurious surroundings make me a little nervous.

Claustrophobic, even. I had come to West Cork to look out to the sea and not back at the land.

My usual holiday trips consist of waking up and crawling out a tent door, not waking up, slipping on my complimentary robe and switching on the cable TV. I'd be more likely to be found showering under a cold pump than being hydro-massaged by automatic multi-jets.

But walking into the foyer of Inchydoney Lodge & Spa, the open fire and proffered glass of port is hard to resist.

The old Alsatian guarding the doorway winks and snuffles his approval. Just this once, I decide to give in and be pampered.

My travelling companion is a bit harder to convince.

En route to our bedroom we pass smiling men and women wearing nothing but towelling robes and slippers. “It's not very. . .manly,” he hisses.

By the next day, he's in his own robe and slippers and making his way to the hotel's thalassotherapy centre. The centre is divided into private rooms where you can have aeromarine baths, a seawater jet shower, algae application, cryotherapy (leg wrap of marine algae to improve circulation), pressotherapy (promotes lymphatic drainage), marine brumisation (inhalation of ionised seawater mist to improve breathing) and physiotherapy.

There is also a steam room, sauna, gymnasium, beauty clinic, and a relaxation room overlooking the ocean. Below, a heated seawater pool has counter current swimming, waterfalls, geyser spas, microbubble seats, underwater massage seats, neck showers and an aqua-gymnastic area.For Inchydoney guests willing to step outside the spa, the surrounding area offers much to explore. The hotel staff can arrange excursions to the Old Head of Kinsale golf links course, horse riding and deep sea fishing and diving. Shoppers can while away the afternoon in Clonakilty, and the nearby villages of Timoleague and Courtmacsherry provide a good day out for families. Timoleague is known for its impressive ruined Franciscan Abbey which was sacked in 1649.

The more active can arrange to go deep-sea angling or shark fishing, or book horse riding at the Courtmacsherry Hotel. Watch the windsurfers bob like Subbuteo players in the grey green seas of Courtmacsherry's Ardigeen firth; one flick of a finger of wind and they are off, careering across the waves.

If watching this high-octane living is too much exertion for you, head to the pier house pub - known locally as John Young's - and meet the locals: Dutch, Belgians, Austrians, Swedes, British and, if you're lucky, maybe even a few Irish. Contemplating the spa treatments ahead of us, we decide to stay indoors and take the plunge in the seawater pool. We marvel at the luxury of swimming in the sea, inside, while looking at the sea, outside.

Then my companion begins to look shifty. “I was thinking, well, with all this wind, it would be a waste not to get my kite up on the beach - you go on ahead and get wrapped in seaweed,” he says.

But I am adamant; I'm not going into the breach alone.

And to convince him that spas are not just for girls, I have lined up an afternoon of ‘manly' spa treatments, including a deep tissue massage - with a masseuse, of course. I decide to avoid all the pummelling, prodding and pasting the spa has to offer, and go for a Reiki session and an Elemis facial with Anna, my therapist. I ask Anna if Reiki involves all sorts of spooky goings on with body energy and spirits, while secretly believing that it's a load of hokum.

She just smiles. I discover that Reiki is a completely calming, destressing hour, where Anna's hands act like a mini solar panel on different parts of the body. She concentrates on ‘aligning the energies' in my head and shoulders, where she says I have a lot of stress.

Anna also works around my heart, which she says “needs nurturing'‘. At the end of the session, I remark at the warmth of her hands.

“They're freezing,” she says, holding them out. “The heat was your energy.” The spooky feeling about Reiki returns when I touch her hands and they are indeed stone cold.

The entire session, including a facial, lasts three hours and I emerge from the room in a bubble of calm. I find my companion back in our room, supine, and still wearing the ubiquitous cotton robe. He ouches about the rigours of an unrelenting massage while I ooh and ahh about my reiki and facial. We both realise that all this relaxing doesn't stop you working up an appetite, and rush to dress for dinner.

Sating that appetite is where Inchydoney excels.

From the first hors d'oeuvre to the last petit feure, Inchydoney is culinary heaven.

As we watch the ocean crashing from behind the panoramic windows of the Gulfstream Restaurant, I am sure Anna must be putting her magic hands to work in the kitchen too.

Inchydoney uses fresh local produce to create a fusion of modern French and light Mediterranean cuisine.

Head chef Mark Kirby excels with coastal seafood - turbot, sole and shellfish - made all the more enjoyable by the fact that the calories of each meal are kept to a minimum. And so, when I step out of the hotel the next morning for my appointment with Colm the surfer, I'm not quite the girl I was. After only one day, Inchydoney living has softened me up.

Or maybe I'm not merely put off by the rain, cold and waves. Having swam, bodyboarded, dived and snorkelled in the sea for years, maybe this waterbaby is just afraid of failure.

But then we're on the beach practising the one swift movement that brings you from paddling to surfing: pushing up with your arms, drawing your knees into your chest, slamming your feet down spread apart, knees bent, arms out. And then we're in the sea, doing it for real.

After the lesson I run shivering from the beach in my swimsuit, dripping triumphantly through the hotel lobby. Would I swap my wetsuit for a cotton robe? No thanks. Luckily, at Inchydoney, you can have both.