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There comes a point in motherhood when a coffee in peace starts to feel like a spa break.

When wandering around Zara alone is classed as self-care. When someone asking “Mum, where are my shoes?” while standing approximately three feet away from said shoes is enough to make you consider changing your name.

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Enter: the mumcation.

Not a hen do. Not someone’s 40th. Not a trip organised around a milestone birthday, wedding or obligatory celebration.

Just a group of mums collectively deciding that, actually, disappearing somewhere fabulous for 72 hours sounds like an excellent idea.

And we are very much here for it.

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The group chat that actually makes it out of the group chat..

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Every friendship group has one.

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The WhatsApp conversation that starts with “We NEED a girls’ weekend”, receives approximately 37 enthusiastic replies, three destination suggestions and a screenshot of a hotel in Ibiza… and then dies quietly somewhere between checking the school calendar and finding out who can have the kids.

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The mumcation requires commitment. Because once you’ve successfully coordinated husbands, grandparents, football matches, birthday parties, swimming lessons and the child who has apparently got something really important happening at school that Friday, you deserve to be somewhere with a sea view. Preferably holding something cold. And no, we don't mean Magaluf

Although no judgement if you do.

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The new mumcation is a little more grown-up.

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Think long lunches that accidentally become dinner. A beautiful hotel where nobody has brought an inflatable crocodile to the pool. Beach clubs. Linen. Massages. Rooftop cocktails. Getting ready together with music on and nobody shouting through the bathroom door asking you to wipe their bottom.

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Absolute luxury.

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Mallorca works brilliantly. So does Ibiza when you do Ibiza properly. Lisbon if you want food, wine and wandering. Marrakech for something a little more fabulous. Seville for tapas and sunshine. Paris if you can survive 48 hours without discussing the children.

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And then there is always the ultimate move: three nights somewhere genuinely gorgeous with absolutely no itinerary whatsoever.

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The strange thing happens approximately six hours in...

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You remember who you were before you became somebody's mum.

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Not in a deep, existential, Eat Pray Love sort of way.

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You just realise you’ve had an entire conversation without discussing phonics, packed lunches or whether Calpol can be given alongside Nurofen.

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You’ve ordered the expensive bottle because there are six of you sharing it.

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You’ve worn the dress you bought six months ago and have never had anywhere to wear.

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Nobody needs cutting up their dinner.

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Nobody cares what time you get back.

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And for one glorious weekend, your only real responsibility is remembering where you left your sunglasses.

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Then you go home...

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And this is perhaps the best bit.

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Because by Sunday afternoon, after announcing approximately fourteen times that you could definitely live here, you’re ready for them again.

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The noise. The cuddles. The chaos. The tiny person climbing into your bed at 6am.

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You walk through the door with duty-free sweets, slightly questionable finances and 486 photos that will never see Instagram.

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And somehow you feel a little more like yourself.

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Which, when you think about it, makes the mumcation less of an indulgence and more of a public service.

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So, where are we going?

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The trick is keeping it easy.

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Nobody wants to spend their one child-free weekend dealing with a 5am flight, three connections and a two-hour transfer.

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Give us somewhere beautiful, a great flight time, a hotel worth getting excited about, brilliant food and somewhere fabulous for a long lunch.

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That's where we come in.

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Tell us who's coming, how long you've managed to escape for and the general level of “we deserve this” you're working with.

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We'll take it from there.

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Because the hardest part of a mumcation should be getting everyone to agree on the dates.

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Family Luxe Travel Co.

For family holidays. Grown-up escapes. And occasionally, holidays away from the family.