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.
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