At the border, the landscape changed. On the transfer bus from Faro, pristine Portuguese marshland around the estuary of the Guadiana river stretched into the sunset.

On the Spanish side, the white buildings of Andalusian development reared up along the coast. Within 15 minutes we were drawing up outside the Isla Canela Hotel, our home for the next seven nights. On its steps, Nick Fletcher, our tour leader, was in welcome mode. “Gordon, Julie, Becky, Elaine, Martin,” he cried. “And Allan, you old rogue, you’re back again.”

On the one-hour drive from Faro airport, the group had been silently English stiff upper lip. Now they erupted into joyous camaraderie. The Solos family had come home.

Isla Canela, my choice for my inaugural Solos holiday, is a sliver of land in the Gulf of Cádiz. A very short causeway connects it to Ayamonte, a small Spanish town with a picturesque harbour 30 minutes’ walk from our hotel.

The island is devoted to tourism, with a long, sandy beach on the seaward side and a scattering of hotels facing the mainland.

For players – good, bad and indifferent – Golf can be an obsession that non-players struggle to understand. For me, it is an ongoing battle with a lack of talent that results in fatal inconsistency.

Sure, I can hit a golf ball – over 20 years, I’ve hacked at sacred turf in more than 50 countries – and I do love it, so a saturation week in the Spanish sun was a powerful magnet. Going Solos means you get a double room for single occupancy – the USP for all the company’s holidays – so I would be able to balance space and privacy with conviviality. Who could ask for more?

As we hurried in for a late dinner, more names were exchanged and instantly forgotten. Even with 12 repeaters in a group of 18, it would be several days before we could identify the Doncaster Four and the RAC (Royal Automobile Club) Two.

On this trip, the glue is social golf, with prizes for all – even those who don’t get a win over five days of “lite” competition. Not quite the 146th Open Championship at Royal Birkdale, now only a fortnight away, but when Nick distributed the play sheets for the next day’s game, heads craned, handicaps were revealed, hearts rose or sank.

At 10am the next day, we were poised for action on the first tee at Isla Canela, the hotel course we would play three times during the week. The sun burned down on palm trees, jacaranda, and rampant blue heather. Luckily, the layout is flat. Less luckily, it shows its teeth early, with wicked ball-swallowing ditches across the second, third and fourth fairways. Get past those and you are on for a flier. Fail, and you may find your confidence seeping away.

The package includes another two courses – La Monacilla, further into Spain, and Quinta do Vale back in Portugal, designed by two golf greats: José María Olazábal versus Seve Ballesteros. After an unpromising start with ugly real estate and a hostile lake, Olazábal’s design develops homespun charm. Laid out in shady pine forest, the holes are so well separated that you rarely see another golfer. Storks nest on the pylons and hoopoes provide colourful flashes as they peck for insects on the tee boxes. The challenges are fair, encouraging rhythm and rewarding decent shots with a respectable score.

Seve’s course is on a grander scale, stretched across a dramatic landscape of hills, lakes and streams. Unless you are super-fit and heat-resistant, it’s best to take a buggy. A prominent S-shaped bunker pays tribute to the maestro. The front nine are so tricky that Gordon, our self-appointed jester, organised a ball sweepstake – €2 each to guess the total the group would lose by. Answer: a costly 54. No matter, this immaculate, classy layout was a pleasure to play.

On the only rest day, we could have walked the streets near Ayamonte’s harbour for a taste of old Andalucia, enjoyed a cycle to the four-mile-long beach, or taken a €1 ferry across the estuary to Vila Real de Santo Antonio in Portugal. Then again, we could just play golf, either at Isla Canela at no extra cost or at Islantilla, a Spanish complex half an hour away, on a €65 (£57) day trip set up by Nick. With no organised cultural alternative, it was a given we all played golf.

That evening, we celebrated with a meal at La Rana on the waterfront, a short walk from the hotel. The restaurant is run by a family with a fishing boat and an appreciation of fresh ingredients. We dined on prawns, clams and fresh tomatoes, grilled sea bream, succulent black pork and crème caramel. With as much wine as we could drink, this “locavore” feast cost €20 a head.

Over extended dinners at the hotel, I learnt that between them, the 12 repeaters on the trip had clocked up more than 100 Solos golf holidays. Allan’s scorecard registered 60 since his wife died in 1992.

For some of the men, a romantic chance would be a fine thing. Barry had met his second wife on a post-millennium trip, one of three couples who subsequently married. “It took us three years to get together, but we had a good life before she died in 2011,” he said, explaining his return.

The women were more detached about Solos’s potential for love, but stressed there had been no shortage of opportunities. One serial repeater reported a year-long liaison that ended when her swain opted out. Two merry widows, both successful in the workplace, had turned down prospective suitors. Our group was gender-equal but if the spark ignited at Isla Canela, I missed it. Or it missed me – but at least I have Allan’s 90th at Baildon Golf Club in West Yorkshire in late October to look forward to.

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