Vamanos a Espana 1: The Journos Arrive at Mar Menor Golf Resort & Spa

Buenas dias muchachos y muchachas: we have officially arrived. Six lovely beauty and fashion writers, two 5 star hotels in Murcia, Spain and one devastating cava tasting later, you had the perfect recipe for two full days of spa-time summer camp for grown ups.

It began at Gatwick. Me and my bright green car print Orla Kiely wheely were subtly checking in at the Monarch counter when the tightly suited woman asked me if I was traveling in group. When I promptly answered, "um, yes, I guess," she gestured to the woman checking in at the counter next to me whom I' d never seen before and said, "oh aren't you two traveling together?"

"um....." awkward.

Forty-five minutes later, I am seated next to said woman on the flight to Alicante, who turns out to be the lovely Jennifer Howze from the Times, the super mom behind hit blog Alpha Mummy. "So we are traveling together."

Indeed. From that moment on, it was literally take off, as all the journos one by one realized who each other were and introductions ensued. Two and a half hours later, we landed in a balmy evening, caught our first glimpse of palm trees and eased into our soon to be dubbed "Scooby-Doo" van for our hour-long sojourn to Intercontinental's Mar Menor Golf Resort and Spa. True to Spanish form, we six lovely ladies are greeted by a full on nativity adorning the Spanish traditional infused with a Middle Eastern twinge themed lobby.

We score our room keys (Eliisa from the Independent gasped with horror when given room 333, momentarily thinking she'd been housed by the PR in the room of the antichrist. We soothed her with the mistake of telling her that 666 was the accursed number, which must make 333 somewhat ultra godly. She didn't let it go the whole time) and race up to the third floor. Glorious five star, glorious five star. Two enormous fluffy beds, clothed headboard to toe in sumptuous sheets whose thread count I don't even want to fathom. Little name cards and cubes of Manchego welcome us (after a cava in the lobby, of course) and beckon towards the sweeping views from the terrace of the enormous pool below and dusky horizon.

And then there was the bathroom. Mother always said, you must determine the quality of a hotel by its bathroom--crappy bathroom, not coming back again. Enormous jacuzzi bathtub--check. Simu-rain style shower--check. Excessive freebie toiletries including toothpaste which three of us had forgotten to pack--check. But the best part? A shuttered window, which, when opened, could be swung back to provide a jacuzzi-bathing blogger with a clear view of the TELEVISION. Luxury at its finest.

Then it was off for a tour of the hotel's facilities, including a sneak preview of the spa facilities and the "J-Lo" suite. I ain't fooled by the rocks that she got, that room ain't nothing to do with no block. Enormous wrap around terrace, there was a dining table large enough to feed all the little Marc Antony's out there and a bed, well, you get the picture...

Kimberly from the Telegraph gives the ESPA products a little sniff

Room 400: the J-Lo Suite

Don't want to know what happened in there

Sophie from Style Bible and Sally from the Sun scope out J-Lo's bathroom

Jenny's terrace and view

Then it was time for dinner. In these sorts of situations, always something of a dreaded affair for myself, one of the world's pickiest eaters. So when a bowl with two little shrimp nesting in the bottom waiting for their drizzle of incoming gazpacho was placed in front of me, I found myself suddenly in good company. Turns out, Sophie, the writer from Style Bible, has taste buds identical to mine. Closeted vegetable hater no longer, the two of us proudly requested meat options and forewent the foie gras.

Sophie suspiciously eyes her amuse bush. Amen sister.

Jennifer from the Times leans in for a good whiff

Pleasantly stuffed after three courses and ever-flowing cava and now well acquainted, the six sleepy journalists trekked back upstairs to snuggle into our delicious beds and feast on television and the joy of knowing that tomorrow's work day would begin not with frantic email checking and deadline rushing, but our first spa treatment. Buenas Noches Murcia.