QUINTESSENTIALLY | Insider | Travel

Sweeping through the Scottish countryside it is easy to see why Queen Victoria fell in love with the Highlands after her visit to Perthshire’s Taymouth Castle. Stepping out of the car which whisked me through the sunshine to the grand entrance, there are few, if any, places I would rather find myself.

The reason Scotland’s weather is necessarily unsettled is clear; if the sun were to shine every day it would be, quite simply, unfair. You can keep the Riviera; I would rather be in a sunny Scotland any day.

Think of the Scottish Highlands and your mind probably leaps to surging rivers, huge lochs and challenging golf courses all set amid stunning countryside. Well, with Taymouth Castle you’d not be far off the mark, although you may not expect the spectacle afforded by the row of shining Porsches from the Porsche Club which were parked outside the front door.

Today’s castle was built in the nineteenth century on the site of a much older incarnation and was the home of the Campbell family. Visited by Queen Victoria on one of her first trips to Scotland in 1842 (the suite she stayed in can still be visited today) she was astonished by the preternatural beauty of the area and later bought nearby Balmoral as a personal residence.

The castle fell into disrepair with much of it at best a shell, and at worst in danger of collapsing entirely. Now, however, it is undergoing intensive work with the aim of restoring it to former glories and turning it into a luxury boutique hotel complete with luxury rooms, spa and, eventually, a Michelin-starred restaurant.

The restoration is a superb example of what can be achieved when historic buildings are treated sympathetically. The risk with this type of work is always that the buildings will feel like theme parks, with the character and originality sucked from them leaving an ill-judged pastiche. Thankfully this particular pitfall has been avoided. The rooms feel authentic, the atmosphere real.

The estate’s extensive grounds are also being given a makeover. The golf course which runs through the grounds to be extended and brought up to championship standard with the help of Scottish professional golfer Stephen Gallacher.

The major development on the estate is the building of luxury residences, which will offer owners their own piece of this Scottish idyll. There are plans for more than 100 bespoke residences located to ensure the grounds do not lose their essential character. With access to all the castle’s future facilities as well as a management service, it’s sure to be a great way to enjoy all that Scotland can offer.

For more info, please visit – www.taymouth-castle.com

Of all of Morocco’s major cities, the least predictable is Marrakech. It’s a combination of the hectic and the tranquil, the brash and the delicate, and the aggressive and the retiring. This split personality even extends to the geography of the city, which is a mixture of the old and new almost exactly – the medieval Medina, complete with souks and winding streets could not be a greater contrast with the so-called ‘French quarter’, which offers modern buildings and busy roads. The effect of arriving in Marrakech is simultaneously exhilarating, bracing and disorientating. The pace of life is as hectic as in any Western city, but in an entirely different register. Far from being ignored, visitors are treated as objects of enormous curiosity, whether to be welcomed, sold to, begged from or welcomed into the family.

The other thing about Marrakech that has become clear over the past few years is the rise and rise of the luxury travel market. With several airlines now flying here, it’s an easy spot for a weekend break.  Additionally, there are now numerous hotels that cater to the sybarite’s every need, offering everything from a completely Westernised experience of luxury to something altogether more authentic, if no less comfortable. One of the leading lights in the latter sphere is the uber-stylish Royal Mansour Hotel, situated a short distance from the main square, Djeema el-Fna, as well as the other highlights.

The vibe in the hotel is a synthesis between classic Moroccan chic, complete with stunningly painted and designed ceilings, traditional architecture and fountains, and something more contemporary. This is perhaps best expressed in the spa, which has one of the city’s most acclaimed hammams within it. Likewise, the restaurants here are considered to be some of the finest in Morocco, offering entirely different experiences whichever of the three – Moroccan, Mediterranean and French – you decide to head to.

If you decide to opt for La Grand Table Francaise, you’re in for a treat. Described by some as the finest French restaurant in Africa, it’s under the careful tutelage of three Michelin-starred chef Yannick Alleno, famous for his cuisine at Le Meurice in Paris. Unlike some places in Marrakech, which seek to offer French dishes with a Middle Eastern twist, the cooking here is both straightforwardly Gallic, and utterly excellent. The menu is short, but everything on it is cooked to perfection, whether it’s a starter of rich, sumptuous duck foie gras, main courses of tender veal or succulent sea bass, or decadent desserts using the freshest fruit available. The wine list is intelligently divided between surprisingly good (and very underrated) Moroccan wines, and French offerings for those who prefer to cleave a little closer to convention. A glass of 2000 Billecart Salmon to begin with was a particular joy.

Whatever your own path of travel, there can be little doubt that Marrakech offers just about every option under the (blazingly hot) sun. The Royal Mansour, in all its opulence and luxury, is about as sophisticated a means of assessing all the options as can be found in the city at the moment, and seems likely to remain one of the key destinations in the country for the foreseeable future.

Royal Mansour Hotel, Rue Abou Abbas El Sebti, Marrakech. www.royalmansour.com

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Within three hours of landing in Dubrovnik I felt as though I’d come face to face with the apocalypse, abandoned on an open stretch of the city wall, with no way down.

Lightning splitting the sky, sky getting darker, darkness signalling a torrent of water – the kind of torrent in which it’s difficult to separate raindrops from sea-spray off the back of raging white horses. I dared to take a quick picture to prove the ridiculousness of the situation, and the result looks as though my point-and-shoot has slipped into black and white mode – not your average photograph of the Pearl of the Adriatic, all emerald seas, creamy walls and terracotta tiles.

So we took the total drenching and the static electricity in our hair and laughed – a lot – as is only reasonable in these circumstances, where the only option is to make like Gene Kelly.

By the time we’d managed to slip down the steps back into the film set-esque Old Town, the laughing had changed. I was the idiot in shorts, my companion the one in flip flops, who’d decided to walk the wall without umbrellas or waterproofs on a Saturday afternoon in July when a storm was obviously going to hit. Ha! How stupid!

Now we were being laughed at.

But we caught Dubrovnik to ourselves for five minutes, strolling along streets now void of tourists and cruise-goers and prams and ice-creams and tables and chairs. Everyone had scarpered as soon as the first plip-plop warning signs had bounced from the polished paving, and no-one was going to let us inside, drips and all.

Starting to shiver, we made a dash for it and retreated back into our suite at the Excelsior Hotel, ensconcing ourselves in towels and bathrobes and the fruit bowl and pastries that had appeared during our ordeal – as though when the concierge had smiled at us on my way out, he knew the exact state in which we’d return, and had planted a recovery kit on the coffee table.

The next time I was aware of anything, it was half past five, I had a creasy cheek from a feathery pillow and had been awoken by the sun streaming through the shutters – the only sign of any sort of a storm the sopping clothes dumped in the bath tub.

Squinting onto my balcony, Dubrovnik was singing again – below, sun loungers had filled, with a glassy sea lapping quietly along. It seemed that the horses had gone to bed, just as I’d woken up, such were the Excelsior’s powers for ridding storms away into a foggy nightmare. It wouldn’t have mattered if the rain had persisted – we’d have spent longer running between our three bathrooms, bouncing between bed-sofa-bed-sofa-bed, and stretching out in our very own mini-gym. But once sun won the war against cloud, she wasn’t budging.

So we swam off the rocks, and in the pool, flitting between snorkel and goggles, sauna and steam room, inside and outside as we pleased, not needing to leave the hotel. We sipped Champagne and orange juice and fresh coffee for breakfast on the terrace, with poached eggs on toast and croissants and finely sliced gruyere.

Begrudgingly, almost, we strolled into town, dodging the crowds to slip into ancient churches and tiny art galleries, up and down endless stone stairs, glossy with a thousand years of footsteps. The Old Town turned out to be full of secret coffee shops, mountainous ice-cream parlours and shady corners serving gigantic pizzas, and a bizarre Bosnian restaurant named Taj Mahal – such is the quirk of Croatia. We talked with little ladies selling hand-sewn lace and home-grown lavender pouches and coo-ed at litters of kittens playing in the dust, between groups of teenagers smoking secretly around street corners.

Stopping for mid-afternoon beers at Buza, we ended up jumping from cliffs with children cooling off after school and settling in for sunsets sound-tracked by Coldplay and Carole King.

On the third day, a car arrived and whisked us to the other side of town, delivering our suitcases to a new room at a new hotel that was going to have to try very hard to beat its older sister. The Bellevue was all big views and its own secluded cove, with winding footpaths over the headland and water-polo matches in the sea. We cracked buttery langoustine and demolished lamb steaks and peach Panna Cotta in Vapor, with a chilled bottle of Trebbiano and a cool breeze through open glass doors.

A trip to the Žičara let the Dalmatian lurking along the coast reveal herself as the cable car zipped up its wire. Island after island rolling out across the expanse of water, turning hazy towards the Adriatic horizon, from the highest point over Dubrovnik – you can imagine the view, speaking for itself with a laid-back Croatian charm.

We relinquished to the draw of Nauticka and its truffles, scallops and John Dory, eating al fresco on the terrace with a moonlit view of the Lovrijenac Fortress. It was turning out that Dubrovnik was all about the seafood.

That is, until we sneaked a peek around Villa Agave. It had gone unnoticed before, sitting quietly next to the Excelsior, half falling over the cliff-edge but, behind ancient white walls, hiding a home for popstars and actors and rockstars– Kevin Spacey threw his 50th bash here, munching canapés beneath a canopy of stars and drinking Champagne on isolated paparazzi-defeating balconies. The Villa is all rustic timber and Mediterranean stone floors, softened by well-worn rugs, thick fabrics and four-poster beds.

I stood thinking that the only thing missing was a kitchen, to be swiftly reminded that with a private Butler on call 24/7, it’s simply a case of picking whatever you fancy, whenever you fancy it.

So that’s what it’s all about, in the end. Cruising in to Dubrovnik for a long summer at the Agave, and taking the odd storm in your stride with another bottle of Champagne and a giggle at the misfortune of anyone caught out on the city wall.

That’s what I’m aiming for anyway.

The Hotel Excelsior, Hotel Bellevue and Villa Agave are part of the Adriatic Luxury Hotel Group

Interlude

The defining motto of this journey, I decided, would be ‘Eat well, Sleep Well, Drink Rum.’ It didn’t have to be rum, of course, but it sounded good, and that’s all I was really searching for in a defining motto.

I got off to a bad start. On arrival in Mali’s very 70’s airport café/boat lounge – at that moment but a hazy apparition of very happy folk bedecked with confusing sartorial embellishments – I realised that my own luggage, which itself held a collection of hats and a tiny guitar, was still at Columbo’s International Airport.

Coming out of a trance, I now saw myself quite clearly in the café mirror. The outfit I was wearing was not fit for five days in Paradise, hobnobbing with what seemed like high society at two very five star hotels.

I ordered a glass of cheap red wine. Ill fortune is best offset with a sickly glass of wine, together with the faintly optimistic odour of suncream, daiquiri cocktails and the ‘ Pirates’ theme tune ringing in your ears. I soon wore an outlandish smile, quite at odds with my vampire-pale complexion and a hat I bought off a strange gentleman selling roses.

‘They’ll bring it on the next flight, probably tomorrow morning. And besides, I don’t really need to quaff my hair. Or shave. And I really only need one hat.’ I said to anyone that would listen, before jumping aboard a cruise missile-type speedboat for Sheraton Maldives Full Moon Resort & Spa.

Now, this is a ride, a real, memorable one that you need to take the kids on. Even the steam fair of my youth that got closed down for insufficient safety measures didn’t have a ride like this one. Every five seconds I flew a few feet in the air, got a plume of spray in my face, a leg in the back and a jolly hand on the shoulder by one of a giggling trio of Chinese businessman (they also wore hats). ‘We like Maldives’ they screamed, and I wiped my Lemtosh shades with a euphoric, nauseous feeling that made me smile even wider.

‘Your hat. Where did you get it?’ The captain lisped in perfect English. He looked like a cross between a young Keith Richards and Mohamed Nasheed – the Maldivian president.

‘I found it in my attic. It’s vintage.’ I lied, too tired to explain. ‘Probably my grandfathers.’

‘Your grandfather?’

‘Yes. He liked hats.’

He eyed my clothes carefully. ‘Your suitcase will come soon. Don’t worry.’

Sheraton Maldives Full Moon Resort & Spa

The boat slowed and a sea of shining faces greeted us from Sheraton’s Furanafushi Island, just one gem in a trove of 1200 islands that, together with their surrounding lagoons, impress the mind and soul of man with the most sublime juxtaposition of form and colour this side of eternity. Slither of bright white moon and dark tropical plant against water the colour of pure green Versace dress, the water turning from amethyst to emerald to sublime tints of jade and sapphire.

I leant over as Captain Jack hit the brakes and I jumped off, scooped up a little, and got overly emotional as they fixed me a welcome cocktail that had rum in it. They then told me how much they liked my hat, and made me believe that my person, in the superficial sense, at least, was quite welcome at the resort.

This is where I met Milja, a sprightly, intelligent Scandinavian girl with a persuasive accent that reverberated in a joyful major key, picked up, it turned out, after circumnavigating the seven seas in her own good time. My five senses battling with each other to distill these vital first impressions for my audience back home, I only picked up threads of the conversation I was supposed to be having. ‘Yes, we have the best of both worlds here…The scuba diving is great…some of the best marine wildlife…dolphins? Yes, there is a cruise tomorrow afternoon…go to the Spa later for an hour long massage if…yes, amazing…no, I don’t recommend it. The surf is for advanced boarders…now promise, you’ll sleep then meet me at the Coconut Grove for lunch…’

She was very sweet, and informative, and steady like all Scandinavian’s are, and helped me into a green buggy with a couple of Latin American footballers. ‘You from England, man?’ Someone said behind me. ‘Yes. I know, I should have taken my boots off.’ I replied nonsensically, before Milja said ‘Take him to Ocean Villa. It’s the best on the island.’ She winked at me cryptically, then added; ‘Believe me. It’s to die for.’

Now, all I saw at first was a hammock. I slipped off my tattered boots, my wine-stained Savile row trousers and quickly fell into a coma as the water crashed against the rocks just inches away. I heard music playing in gasps of warm salty air – Beethoven and Wagner and then laughing from a fishing schooner on the surf. My eyes opened. I grinned, like a pirate, stretched my arm out, lifted a warm bottle of something expensive I had taken from the mini bar earlier. ‘Bring me that horizon’ I said, popping it open with a burst of laughter.

Inside, with Beethoven for company, I wondered at myself in the mirror before slipping into a bath of warm oils and creams and lotions. Basically, I threw the whole lot in, as is my wont, and gave the interior design five stars after a strong thirty minute inner dialogue that brought every detail into focus – the LA style lighting fixtures, the shabby-chic sofas and rattan armchairs, the play of white, green and tan furnished mahogany panelling and a bathroom probably designed for a beautiful mermaid that lives here in off-season. You feel important in that bathroom, drinking cold beer and reading some inane biography that makes you want to take up oil painting again.

That’s when I jumped into the swell. Now, I had been warned. I knew the risks. But I had gotten hold of the scuba gear, and instead of heading out over the quiet water like most, I decided that there was better fishing up on the rougher East Side of the island. I had a couple girls take pictures of me as I waded out to look for Stingray, Sweetlips, Snappers and Bat Fish. ‘I might even see a shark’ I told them, but they didn’t understand what I was saying and just looked horrified as I dove into a five foot wave. After an hour of thrashing around aimlessly, narrowly missing the schooner, I came up for air, my snorkelling crown stuffed up my nose. I went back in, counted 20 species of day-glo oddities, then threw myself onto dry land, chilled with wonder at the mystery of the ocean. A girl was bathing outside her water bungalow (these are for the true Romantics – with a private sun terrace right up on the lagoon), pouting at the sun with just a hat dipped low over two raven-black eyes, smouldering quietly as they do in a Peroni commercial. She rolled over and shook her finger, and I just stood there, staring, trying to remember what I had just been so excited about.

The next day, at exactly 6pm, after a delightful al fresco lunch of grilled prawn, haloumi and watermelon salad on the beach, the sun was a tiny red disc in a smoky blue sky. I stood on the upper deck of a small tender and hummed along to Keith Richards haunting rendition of ‘The Nearness of You’.

We were headed due South, looking for dolphins. The Jolly Roger wasn’t flying that day, and the Captain stood up front, staring with dreamy eyes towards the horizon, his eyes blinking quietly, waiting for his sweethearts to arrive. ‘They may not come.’ He whispered dramatically. The loved-up Chinese and Dutch on the boat around me let out a faint cry. ‘But I’ll try and find them. For you, just for you, I’ll bring them in.’

As if hearkening to that aloof gaze, or to the melancholic breath that escaped my now crooked smile, a moment later the angels flew before us, carving silver rainbows above the prow. I took off my fedora by way of salute. I had even grown a small goatee, and my pendant swung back and forth across my coppered chest in the 2ft sway. ‘Marvellous, intelligent creatures’ said I, and a girl with ringlets and little Chinese shoes tugged my arm and smiled at me for a moment.

The same night I told Milja as much. We sat down to dine at Seasalt Restaurant– a pantheon of torches and enchanted tropical faces inside a circular wall of coconut trees. They were playing Chopin’s Etude, and the chef was there, decrypting the laws of gastrodynamics. He had a fragrant smirk on his face, one, I imagined, that might only come with creating edible art for folks that really, truly, sincerely appreciate it. He liked me, I could tell, and so spent more than enough time pointing out the necessity of each dish on the a la carte and the flavours that go to make it so unique on the islands. The fish was fresh from the boat and the giant lobster and other delicacies had people murmuring the poetry of love, their hearts softening in that diffused glow, their life stretching out so long and beautiful beyond the tropical flowers, red and yellow and white, beyond the still warm sand and the cool lilac sheen where the moon had found its perfect reflection.

I commended the food heartily, spearing the fish with gusto ‘Milja, I don’t quite know what to say.’ My eyes were full of emotion, and so were hers. ‘I have never tasted such fish, so soft and tender and with that after-taste our friend was talking about.’

‘The caramelized hazelnuts are good aren’t they?’

‘Yes. Each dish is full of sympathetic flavour and texture. Nothing goes missing – the prawns are just rapturous’

‘How is the wine.’

‘Obsessively brilliant – and not too heavy with the sauce. And have you tried this cake! – I think I may just have to give the chef my compliments – by which I mean one from my collection of hats. A strange gentleman I met gave it to me – but on deep reflection, I think it would suit him far more.’

For a virtual tour of Sheraton Maldives Full Moon Resort & Spa, please click here.

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Well, that was summer. How was it for you? For many, it would have been a strange time, when blazing heat and sunshine alternated seemingly at random with heavy rain and storms, making it nearly impossible to enjoy. For others, swanning from one sun-kissed coast to another (often via yacht), it would have been a sybaritic few months of pleasure, and only now are the tans beginning to fade and attention drawing to the next opportunity for relaxation.

Yes, it’s time to think about a short break to ease you back into the long nights, colder days and, yes, unpredictable rainfall that comes with autumn. There are some outstanding hotels, within easy reach of London, which offer history, wonderfully comfortable rooms, excellent dining and the warmest of welcomes, all of which make for a genuinely pleasant mini-break. But rest assured, each is quirky and individualistic enough in its own way to mean that a visit is something genuinely unique, and a true pleasure.

The Feathers, Woodstock

The pleasant small Oxfordshire town of Woodstock is arguably the first point where the Cotswolds begin, as can be ascertained from the chi-chi antiques emporiums and coffee shops that are dotted around the place. Those of a more historical bent will enjoy visiting Blenheim Palace, Churchill’s birthplace. The hotel that most people will flock to is the recently refurbished The Feathers, situated right in the middle of town. The atmosphere is a cross between upmarket boutique and country house chic, with the rooms offering wonderfully comfortable beds, lavish bathrooms and – best of all for many – a decanter of jelly beans. The food and drink side of the operation is taken very seriously as well. An expertly prepared tasting menu might include such treats as goat’s cheese panacotta, sea bass with shellfish risotto and warm sticky toffee sponge, and those of an adventurous nature are highly advised to try a selection from the gin bar, where the ‘ultimate gin and tonic’ – Blackwood’s vintage gin, Q tonic water (sic), and ice cubes from the local spring’ – is a thing of wonder.

Market Street, Woodstock, Oxfordshire OX20.
www.feathers.co.uk

Alexander House, East Grinstead

If you’re looking for a Sussex answer to spa hotels such as Babington House or The Vineyard, you needn’t look much further than the lavishly appointed Alexander House. The piece-de-resistance here is the much-praised Utopia Spa, which plays host to a steady stream of visitors, ready to enjoy expertly administered treatments that range from the simple (neck and back massages) to more complex delights involving hot oil. Throw in a stylish swimming pool, outdoors hot tub and the usual saunas and steam rooms, and you’ve got a great reason to visit. The rest of the hotel more than lives up to its reputation, with lavishly comfortable rooms that offer a pleasant blend of old and new (half are in the old house, half are in the new wing), and a highly regarded ‘formal’ restaurant, AG’s, which, under the care of executive chef Mark Budd, offers an elegant spin on English grill room traditions with such dishes as langoustines and rabbit saddle, loin of Sussex lamb with beetroot and a splendidly decadent banana and chocolate parfait. Plan a visit soon, but be sure to book in advance – it’s generally very busy.

Turners Hill, East Grinstead, West Sussex RH10.
www.alexanderhotels.co.uk/alexander

Langshott Manor, Horley

The only incongruous note when approaching Langshott Manor is struck by the approach, where an odd mix of new-build houses and airplane noise (Gatwick is a couple of miles away) seem to contradict the idyll represented by Langshott itself. An Elizabethan property with gardens that include a croquet lawn and even a private moat, it’s a marvellously welcoming place, with touches of eccentricity (the in-room information contains some very amusing jokes, and bathrooms feature four-poster baths) that add lustre to the experience. As you might expect, the bedrooms are very well appointed, named after historical figures and places (Henry VIII, Katherine Parr et al) and boasting four-poster beds and lovely views over the grounds. It’s an excellent place to kick off your shoes and relax, literally and metaphorically, and a wonderfully peaceful getaway. The food, served in Mulberrys restaurant overlooking the moat, is an especial highlight – the regularly changing menu boasts of the provenance of its suppliers, a welcome touch, and dishes of monkfish loin with chorizo and ‘tasting’ of veal are about as delicious as anything that you’ll have in the area. The wine list, compiled in association with the highly regarded Ellis of Richmond, offers unusual vintages and types at sensible prices. Again, the hotel’s comparatively small size means that it’s an idea to book a good while in advance to avoid disappointment.

Ladbroke Road, Horley RH6.
www.alexanderhotels.co.uk/langshott

If you’re travelling to Alexander House or Langshott Manor, we recommend Southern Railways’ service, which provides the best rates for tickets booked in advance online. For further details and full information, please visit www.southernrailway.com

If you ask most people what they associate with Edinburgh, the two answers that you’re most likely to get are ‘the festival’ and ‘the castle’. Some, of a more irreverent bent, might murmur something about Trainspotting and the infamous dockside area of Leith – although these days the outstanding quality of the restaurants and nightlife down there has well and truly dispelled this cliché. For others, it’s the romantic appeal of Edinburgh that’s the key to why you’d want to keep coming back to Scotland’s capital city. David Nicholls’ bestseller One Day features Edinburgh as its focal point, with the narrative both starting and finishing there, and the recent wedding of Zara Phillips and Mike Tindall reminded the world, as if it needed to be reminded, that there’s a great deal more to the city than haggis and kilts.

With the new film of One Day showcasing Anne Hathaway and Jim Sturgess falling in love amidst the city’s Georgian granite streets, to picturesque effect, it seemed as if a visit to the city one weekend was a necessary pleasure. Arriving at the effortlessly elegant Balmoral Hotel, probably the most famous and grand place to stay in the city, it’s a hop and a skip from the Waverley train station and features a clock that’s purposely set two minutes fast, to allow travelers to catch their trains on time. We were staying in the JK Rowling suite, so called because Rowling finished the final Harry Potter book inside it and celebrated the fact by inscribing this on a marble bust of Hermes, which is now placed under protective glass. The lavishly appointed room offers all the trimmings that you’d expect, from a gloriously comfortable bed to multiple flat-screen televisions.

Anyone staying at the Balmoral really has to go downstairs to the hotel’s Michelin-starred flagship restaurant, Number One. Deservedly regarded as one of the city’s premier dining destinations, those who opt for the tasting menu will enjoy a variety of delights, which are presented simply on the menu as ‘foie gras’, ‘beetroot’ and ‘scallops’, but in fact represent a synthesis between executive chef Jeff Bland (an unfortunate name which bears no relation to his cooking) and his Scottish heritage, and the more European influences that establishments of this calibre are traditionally in thrall to. Matched with a selection of Old and New World wines by the ever-helpful sommelier, it’s a true pleasure to visit.

Of course, Edinburgh is one of the great walking cities of the world. Whether, like Dexter and Emma, you have the energy to head up to Arthur’s Seat in Holyrood Park, or if you prefer a more sedate wander down the main thoroughfare of Prince’s Street, the Georgian ambience of George Street or a trip down to Edinburgh’s upmarket suburb of Stockbridge, there’s no shortage of architectural splendour and grandiosity along the way. Wherever you go will inevitably be dominated by the panoramas of the Castle and the natural peaks (like Rome, Edinburgh is a city built on hills), but there’s also a warmth and friendliness to the place that can often make up for the piercing winds that come in from the nearby sea. Oh yes, you can see the sea.

You’re almost certain to walk down the Royal Mile at some point, the main thoroughfare between the Castle and Holyrood Palace, and your best bet to go for dinner along there is the splendidly named Angels With Bagpipes. Owned by local legend Martina Crolla (her name adorns the famous Valvona & Crolla delicatessen), it offers stylish twists on traditional favourites in a romantic and convenient setting. A starter of haggis ravioli shouldn’t work but does, beautifully; Ayrshire belly of pork with Stornoway black pudding tastes so delicious that you start to believe that it’s good for you. A sensibly priced wine list offers a good selection by the glass, and the staff are endlessly helpful and friendly, making a visit here a real pleasure.

Edinburgh exerts a strange hold over people. Both quintessentially Scottish (order a couple of whiskies in the Bow Bar on Victoria Street, which stocks over 200 of them)  and somehow European in its cafe society and unspoilt feel, it is one of the most beguiling and romantic places to visit in Britain. When you next head there, walk past the throngs of people with the tell-tale orange and white copy of One Day in their hands, and find your own romantic space. Chances are, it’ll lend itself to just as affecting and true a love story as Dexter and Emma’s.

A soft breeze parts the pure white curtains. They flutter into the room, along with the enticing scent of lavender mixed with Sicilian sunshine.

Stepping out onto the Juliet balcony the sun is momentarily blinding, before the eyes adjust and take in the terracotta coloured surroundings striped with the vivid fuchsias and purples of the bougainvillea that creeps enticingly up the buildings. Cast the eye a little further and a vast expanse of undulating green hills, sparkling lakes and sand strewn bunkers engulf the horizon.

This is NH Resorts Donnafugata located near the charming town of Ragusa on the island of Sicily, famous for the Cosa Nostra, olive oil, and now apparently its championship worthy golf courses.

Donnafugata actually has two championship courses, The Parkland Signature Course designed by Gary Player, and the 18 hole Championship Course designed by Franco Piras. Both present an enticing challenge for every wannabe Rory McIlroy, which, sadly, I am not – being hindered by an innate lack of sporting ability. However if like me you are a little ‘challenged’ in the golf department, fear not, Donnafugata has plenty to keep you occupied and out of the way of the serious pro’s.

First stop, the room – decorated in white and aqua tones, accented with golden baroque elegance, I defy you to even want to tear yourself away from the enormous white and bronze leather studded bed, settle down with that much anticipated book, and nibble on the sugary confection left carefully on your pillow, compliments of the master pastry chef.

That said when the sun is shining as it often does in this part of the world, it would be criminal not to take a lunchtime trip down to the pool. Here, along with other satisfied guests, a glass of chilled prosecco is waiting. From the outdoor infinity pool you can gaze out onto the course and wave (somewhat smugly) as they grapple with the 9th hole, only leaving the cool waters to visit the outdoor BBQ and make the crucial decision of whether to have the lobster, or the steak?

Full from the delights of lunch (I still dream of the homemade rosemary bread), a trip to the state of the art fitness centre certainly seems like a very good idea, however you might just happen to get lost on the way (as I did) and end up by some happy accident in the Spa.

With 6 treatment rooms, hydro massage pool, Turkish bath, heavenly sauna and two steam baths, it’s hard to know where to begin your wellbeing experience.

After enjoying a cup of herbal tea and biscotti from my day bed I made my way through the series of pools, hoping that the sea minerals in the water would help combat the effects of the pasta I had consumed for the last few days. After luxuriating in the steam bath and sauna, I topped off my Spa experience with a lavender massage.

Deep tissue and Sports massages are available for the more active guests, but in my case a relaxing and calming treatment was the order of the day. I would love to tell you all about the intricate movements and delicate knots that were worked out of my body over the 45 minute treatment, but after 2 minutes under the hands of my therapist, I had drifted off into a very peaceful doze. Clearly the proof is in the pudding!

After just a few days at Donnafugata I felt truly relaxed, incredibly well fed and more than capable of handling a golf buggy, though finding that perfect swing still eluded me. Still, regardless of your athletic persuasion, there is something to satisfy every requirement at Donnafugata. In fact, I recommend you go there as soon as possible, capiche?

I don’t like to dwell on the weather, but winding down the driveway to Le Mas Candille, the car dips out of the mizzle for a moment – that really annoying sort of rain that doesn’t look much, but gives you an absolute drenching. I’m greeted by a glowing-with-olive-tan Francoise, looking a little sheepish under her umbrella having soaked in the sun here for all of last week.

Nevertheless, the four and a half acres of manicured gardens, all lavender, honeysuckle and callistemon, shine through, glugging the weather faster than it can fall. Le Mas Candille (Mas for the farmhouse at its centre, Candille for its landmark cypress tree) is just a few kilometres from Cannes, and slips into the medieval hillside of Mougins like Cinderella’s foot in her slipper – and sits pretty behind Nice and Monaco, her bigger bolshy sisters.

Le Mas is less diamonds and glamour, more understated luxury with a sparkle catching on the breeze from the coast. This is where olive trees have stood for 200 years, and a peach plastered 18^th century farmhouse with heavy cream shutters bakes in the southern French sunshine – when the weather behaves, so Francoise Mirebeau, the delightful Responsable Commerciale, assures me – breathing out its warmth like a radiator through long evenings, coaxed by a chorus of crickets.

But Le Mas is not without its fair celeb share – Kirsten Dunst rested her head here, between scooping the best actress award and schmoozing on the red carpet at this year’s Cannes Film Festival, and Brad Pitt’s been known to drop in for dinner.

Little wonder, since under Serges Gouloumès – un petit ‘chef celebre’ himself – restaurant Le Candille has held a Michelin star since 2005. The food is exquisite; all rounds of asparagus mousse, morel mushrooms, giant langoustine and suckling veal, expertly crafted and perfectly complimentary, with that juicy buttery-ness that is the preserve of the French.

And then there’s the cheese cart; the star of the proverbial show, right as the sun goes down over the pre-Alps, and Serge bumbling around happily, charming guests with a cunning grin and an accent thick enough to slather on a fresh baguette.

Sleeping soundly in vast beds, sinking into rooms that have a hint of the classic Relais & Chateaux, and each with an individual farmhouse charm, the sun peeks through. Inspired by the heady scents of the garden, we venture to Grasse, the perfume capital of the world, to play at making our own fragrances in the original Fragonard factory – with debatable success, it must be said, but an excellent education in scent for a Wednesday morning

But finding your nose is tough work and though Grasse can’t help but smell divine, the soporific effect of its winding streets means that the cocoon of Le Mas’ Shisheido Spa, and a network of Jacuzzis and infinity pools and hammocks and day beds and my deep bath are too hard to resist.

I could go on, but by now you should be sipping Champagne on the terrace, refreshed and barefooted and without a care in the world – Picasso may have lived in Mougins, but with Cypress trees and terracotta roof tiles playing at complementary colours and the big clouds rolling off the Ligurian Sea, the panoramas unfolding are straight from Cézanne’s brush.

So there you have it; a haven, I suppose, where the light is special, the smells almost tangible and the feeling fine – and the kind of place that just when you’re satiated, the petits fours appear and it all starts over again.

lemascandille.com