Salvaterra Country House & Spa

RIBATEJO, PORTUGAL

The first time I saw a stone pine was in Rome. It was exotic to my foreign eyes—tall, slender and inordinately top-heavy, its canopy cutting a silhouette so perfect it seemed factitiously formed. But here, it stands transfigured. Mature and majestic, its branches outstretched and leaning under the weight of their evergreen crown. The route to Salvaterra abounds with captivating trees—a fitting prelude to the wonders ahead. I make do with a mental note of their features, wishing my camera wasn't disassembled at the back of our hire car. 

Once inside the hotel's cinnamon gates, the mister and I are greeted by a profusion of palm trees and, unexpectedly, bugs. The insects are preserved in resin and fill a wall at reception in systematic distribution, like an entomologist's pièce de résistance. The result is oddly captivating: my camera stirs. Then we're met by Raquel, who gives us the grand tour via a labyrinth of terracotta paths flanked by towering and immaculately preened layers of vegetation. I'm relieved that, contrary to what the hotel's Instagram page had me believe, couples are not canoodling at every turn. In fact, we barely see another soul here during our eight-night stay.

A starfish float by OGO awaits whoever dares enter the shaded pool. "It's unheated, thank God!" exclaims Raquel, positively not selling it to me. She shows us the temptations of the honesty bar, takes us past the alight-by-night firepit and through the thatched-roof communal kitchen, where, come the evening, a long, candlelit table and a velvety soundtrack coax us to dine al fresco.

The scent on entering our room is so divine that I wish there were a Shazam for smells. Failing to pinpoint its source, I put it down to wizardry. We've split our booking between a sumptuously sized Suite and an extra luxurious Private Villa. I'm already thrilled with the former; to think it gets better! As tradition dictates, I send my parents a video of the much-awaited reveal, indulging my excitement and their curiosity. I point out the twin sinks, throwing an obligatory wave at a mirror as I pass. I flaunt the tiled bath, though I never use it, and the tranquilising bed with its suspended nets emulating four-poster grandeur. I home in on the practical props—patterned kimonos, straw hats, a matching woven fan and beach bag—and swoon over the floor-to-ceiling window and panoramic doors framing the enveloping emerald Eden. 

Our days unfold with slow mornings cocooned in plant life. We linger over breakfast, delivered in a basket to our terrace, and follow it with a stroll of the grounds and hours of exploring. Salvaterra's tropical playground of waxy leaves and drip tips is home to butterflies, lizards, turtles and koi. I dote on their details daily through my lens. Consequently, not once do we tackle our itinerary before midday. 

When we do, we visit the placid Tejo and watch glossy ibises glide over the water from the riverbank. We wander beneath streaks of tinsel in Lisbon for the festival of Dia de Santo António, and we are serenaded at the gates of Óbidos, a mediaeval town set within castle walls and brimming with bookshops. Aesthetically, the city of Tomar surpasses our expectations. Willows and palms coalesce along the enchanting Nabão River, and the chequerboard centre of Praça da República is dramatically backed by a verdant cloud through which the battlements of Castelo de Tomar peek. We delve into the historical heart of Santarém and are awarded with sweeping views of the Rio Tejo from the Moorish citadel at Jardim das Portas do Sol. We admire peacocks and convincingly "ancient" ruins in the fairytale Jardim Público de Évora before surveying the skulls of approximately 5000 dead humans that decorate the macabre Capela dos Ossos. An ornate cemetery lies a stone's throw from the hotel. We peruse its mass of marble carvings, bestrewed with bouquets and rosaries, to further satisfy my fascination with death's rituals. 

We pepper our days with meals that amplify the pleasure of each excursion. Restaurants of note include Black Frog for modern Portuguese fare and Amassa for Italian, plus bar-cum-shop Arinto & Touriga by Renata Abreu for cheese and wine, all in Santarém. 26 Vegan Food Project in Lisbon is a wonderfully experiential affair, and sourdough margheritas from À JANELA perfectly round off a day in Óbidos—we nab the best pastel de nata of our lives (I stand firmly by my hype) from Real Casa do Pastel next door.

Our move to the Private Villa—bungalow number five and neighbour to Balu, the resident giant tortoise—incites episode two of The Virtual Tour, gratifyingly met with resounding enthusiasm, and deservedly so. Our new abode is detached and open-plan, with all four walls formed of glass and strikingly wrapped in foliage. The furthest opens onto a paradisical garden where staggered stepping stones lead to a plunge pool whose flowing water babbles in soothing synchrony with birdsong. Out here, our sky is green, while the blue beyond is spied only in fragments between fronds. True to the hotel's plucked-from-Bali theme, bamboo, rattan, and jute neutralise the interior, while the accent of colour comes from the surrounding landscape.

Time here is spent in shifts as we move from chair to swing to lounger, following the warmth of the dappled sunlight that dances in the breeze and seeps through the room's periphery. Each morning, I wake to watch the jungle brighten from shades of black to viridescent. And when the moon claims the sky, as softly as syrup snails from bottleneck to countertop, I slip into sedative sleep.  

At least, that's mostly the case, with just one momentary exception. You see, the trade-off for a sojourn in an isolated bungalow over a more connected suite is the accompanying, albeit small, spiders—a repercussion, perhaps, of being further embedded in nature. Alas, one night, while on the verge of dozing, my nightmare of eight hairy legs skittering across my pillow becomes a horrifying reality, made worse by my mosquito tent imprisonment. With surprising agility, I leap through a small gap between the mesh drapes while the mister, clasping his Kleenex shield, pounces on the perpetrator. Having survived the ordeal unscathed and feeling unusually unfazed about diving back beneath the sheets, we deem our stay irrefutably worth it.

Click here to view my album.

A Serendipitous Garden in Greece: Discovering Doris’ Wonderland

It was a melting hot day in the wildest depths of Greece when I emailed Doris Schlepper to say I'd heard about her garden and was staying just around the corner if she wouldn't mind a visit. She invited me over that morning, and I went without preconceptions, for Serpentin Garden is not widely documented. Doris' playground, attached to her Pelion home, was far more spectacular than I ever imagined. It's sizeable, for starters—roughly three-quarters of an acre—and its boundaries impossible to distinguish amid all its lofty foliage. It has a pond, a plunge pool, a showstopper of a glasshouse, fountains, art and animals (both the live and stone kind). It unveils itself in layers, revealing curiosities and treasures with every dip, step and bend. I spent the morning as Alice in her wonderland; only Doris was far kinder than the Queen of Hearts. We spoke at length about the intricacies of her garden—where she'd found the mannequin legs that now sprout a thorny bouquet from the hip, how she'd saved a cactus (that bloomed that morning!) from a bin, and what life is like when she's snowed in here in winter. When her friends arrived, she invited me to sit at their table for a drink and a natter, which I did before skipping out of her blue, iron gates on a botanical high. 

See more at Blumenhaus.

A Note on Stockholm

I could barely sleep through my anxiety thinking about what minus ten degrees with a real feel of minus seventeen would do to my already blistered toes and fingers—chilblains brought on by living in a poorly insulated house (the price paid for Victorian character), the UK’s wind-stabbing winter and my Raynaud’s disease deciding 2023 was the year to take my circulation issues up a notch. My rheumatologist’s face read both bemusement and concern at my announcement of heading to Stockholm for Christmas, having just spent the last ten minutes analysing my ballooned, purple digits. He added thermal shoes and electrical gloves to my shopping list, wishing me “good luck” with immense gravity. But here’s the thing: Sweden’s December, though colder and darker than England’s, didn’t shake my bones or chill my core, nor did it eat away at my extremities. Instead, its crisp air soothed like a eucalyptus rub to my weather-beaten body, and behind its every door, there waited a warm, marshmallow-soft hug (and a beckoning pastry). Somehow, under the white blanket of the Swedish capital, I healed.⁣

Click below to view my photo albums:
Stockholm
Miss Clara, my city base

A Day in Spetses

It's October, and I'm in Porto Heli, southern Greece. The rain has stopped, but the mosquitos haven't. My arms and legs bear the marks of my enemy's feasts. I have a skin infection, and my ankle—swollen—is crowned with a fluid-filled balloon that has just popped. It's done this daily since its recent materialisation, however gentle I am with it. It fills, bursts and deflates, fills, bursts and deflates. The joint steadily fattens despite all the purging. The dresses in my suitcase lay miserably untouched; my trousers, smug, rise to the occasion. I'm wearing hot pink, lest the bougainvillaea outshines me. I spend the morning attending to my wounds: undressing, cleansing, treating and re-dressing. Given this lamentable ceremony, I don't reach Spetses, just a fifteen-minute water taxi ride from nearby Kosta, until the afternoon.

I count myself lucky: the annual Mini Marathon, which I didn't know about, has seen its runners pass the finish line, so the unsightly flag poles and inflatables are being cleared away, and the hordes of people spilling from tavernas and crowding the waterfront slowly disperse. Within the time it takes to find a bakery that hasn't sold out of spanakopita, the town is restored to my memory of it: pristine, painterly and glittering with irrefutable beauty. For the most part, the island is car-free. Popular modes of transport include horse-drawn carriages, motorbikes and bicycles. In a vision of wealth, mansions sit atop thrones of evergreen pine. Backstreet shops are chic—they sell things I'd like to own. The resident cats are full and fluffy; they can access doll-sized hotels where food and water are on tap. 

Peering through my lens, I find a perfectly framed, gold-lit corner of sea, hills and intermittent action. I rest there for an hour on a wall, watching life through my camera, my arms aching beneath its weight. The sun sinks lower; the light gets richer. I head to the Old Harbour, where I spy a fisherman. I'm drawn to him, to them—their primitive patience, self-sufficiency and stillness—the quintessence of slow life. He lands a catch quicker than I can adjust my settings to capture it. A few days before, in Ermioni, I came across a cat waiting in anticipation, as I am now, and was elated to catch it on camera running off with the freshly pulled prize in its mouth. The Spetses hunter is the Van Helsing of the sea; the fish don't stand a chance, but I'm awarded a second shot. Satisfied, I give him a cheer and move on. The sun falls deeper; it tints the boats and casts a glow over the towering blue and white domed Church of the Three Spetses Martyrs, a postcard landmark. I linger, tapping at my shutter, and head back the way I came, seeing off the last rays at Dapia's port. 

It's late when I fill my stomach with rice and mussels cooked in ouzo at Patralis. I'm sitting at the back, away from the sea, because those tables are full. I like this spot: it's warmer and intimate. I've a carafe of semi-sweet wine, my favourite, and I finish with baklava. The boat back to the mainland is due, and I walk to it as fast as my bloated belly and ankle allow. There's a blood moon. It's a rarity I've seen only once before, in Monemvasia. It's as captivating now as it was then, and I'm witnessing it with my favourite human, as I was years ago; my husband is with me. I wouldn't have navigated my way around this island so smoothly without him. I'm love-drunk, wine-drunk, sailing in red ink. As I disembark, I look to the sky, seeking the fiery face that lit my journey. But the moon I see is clotted cream without a hint of jam. It's a trickster trying to fool me into believing the whole day was a dream. But he saw it too, as did my camera, and they don't lie.

Click here to view my Spetses album.

The Agora Hotel

PANO LEFKARA, CYPRUS

Opened in December 2022, The Agora Hotel is the place to be for those seeking a dash of cool with their luxury. Its standout façade is reminiscent of Ladurée’s caramel and pistachio macarons, while inside is an elegant ensemble of eclectic pieces, earthy tones, brushed gold accents, swathes of velvet, and a touch of tassel. Its eighteen rooms circle an open-air courtyard pool—book a ‘Grand’ if free-standing baths send your heart aflutter. The hotel is an adult-only zone, so leave the tots behind and split your hours between the retro lounge bar and snazzily dressed heated pool, setting your alarm solely for pizza o’clock. Alternatively, you can hire a bike from Agora’s fancy fleet and zigzag your way through the hilly landscape or rent a car to explore further afield—Cyprus is small enough to make day trips to all its corners. In-house Med-inspired restaurant Novél is open to the public, as is the hotel’s array of events, such as cocktail-infused jazz nights and summer Club Tropicana pool parties, all of which draw islanders to Pano Lefkara, Agora’s oh-so-charming home, a lacemaking village at the foot of the Troodos Mountains.

Links:
My album for The Agora Hotel
My interview with The Agora Hotel