My husband and I own a timeshare in Avon, CO. We have it during the off season (late spring and fall,) and for the past few years, we have used it as a writing retreat. I'm not sure if I've mentioned it before, but my husband is also a writer. He's done the occasional story, and has written and produced several short films, but right now he's trying to get a handful of screenplays under his belt before working to find an agent.
For the first few years, our Retreat schedule was usually something like this: sleep late, have breakfast, go do something vacationy/mountainy (hiking, swimming, biking, etc), have lunch, write for several hours, critique each other's work, have dinner, watch a movie, go to bed. Ah, such an excellent way to spend the day; and something that we aspired to doing regularly, if only one (or both) of us could make a living writing!
He went on this thing at least 20 times in a row. The fun he had was definitely worth the price of admission.
We did still write after lunch, while our son napped. Unfortunately, though, we couldn't lose ourselves in the craft for hours. (His naps seem to be getting shorter, the little booger. What does he think he's doing, growing up or something??) I spent my time sifting through the critiques I received from Critters, and then working on a new story. My husband worked on a horror script. It was on this vacation that I learned of my first sale. Perhaps I ought to go on vacation more often!
The rest of our day was spent doing kid things again. More swimming. Reading board books. Playing in the condo. Taking baths in the ginormous tub with jets (what's happening to the water??!!) We didn't get to watch any TV until he was in bed. We did manage to get a little closer to catching up on Lost, though. We're hoping to finish the series in the next few months.
I was very reassured by the way our son coped with being away from home. I'd been worried about how he would respond to being somewhere alien, but he did very well, and was far more curious than worried. And he l-o-v-e-d the ceiling fans--especially the one that had its controls down at his level. On. Off. On. Off. On. Grab Mommy's hand, point to the fan, squeal. Off. He didn't even fuss much sleeping somewhere that wasn't his room--nights were fine and naps took only a little longer than usual. This gives me hope for future vacations, and for our eventual move.