Mr & Mrs Smith

This review is taken from our guidebook, Mr & Mrs Smith Hotel Collection: France.

Centuries-old cream stonework, terracotta rooftiles – little about Couvent des Minimes’ exterior betrays that this former home to the Order of the Minimes has been reincarnated as an elegant hotel. Barely past the pastel-painted cafe?s and houses in the village of Mane-en-Provence, a driveway brings our car up past the hotel, beyond rows of olive trees. We amble towards the bell-towered main house, past the striking moat-like pond. Mr Smith looks at me with befuddlement. ‘How can such a charming old house contain two pools, a spa, a bistro and a fine-dining restaurant? Are you sure we’re at the right place?’

‘Bonjour,’ smiles a friendly receptionist as we pass through the discreet front entrance. Polished stone floors and vaulted ceiling are the only echoes of this building’s past: in its sleek entrance hall, a glass cabinet of L'Occitane products and chill-out tunes welcome us to a modern-day sanctuary. Signing-in formalities complete, the friendly front-of-house offers us a fresh raisin juice each. Mr Smith looks bewildered again. I picture his brain cogs at work, conjuring a tiny juicing contraption with someone struggling to individually press halved raisins. Once we've swilled the sweet grapey nectar, it's time for a freshen-up in our room before supper. We shun the stairs – our next pick-me-up is a lift so brightly lit we need sunglasses. A timely reminder that our tired complexions are ripe for a L’Occitane facial, perhaps? (The sweet-smelling Provenc?al cosmetics brand is in cahoots with Le Couvent.)

Taupe linens, limed-oak flooring and framed pressed lavender sprigs in our spacious suite nudge us further into relaxation mode. Morsels of chocolate cake wink from beneath a small glass cloche. Perched on the end of the bed, we greedily demolish our unexpected treats. How different this is to my last brush with a nunnery: I can still see Sister Kevin (no, really) waving that big, well-thumbed book at me, aged 12. No, it wasn’t the all-time bestseller you’d usually associate with a nun, but a tome by the rather less saintly Jeffrey Archer. I’d been caught reading Kane and Abel in an RE lesson, which didn’t go down so well. To my habit-wearing teachers, it signalled that my time in their establishment had run its course. But hey, being expelled from a convent school is up there with swimming with dolphins, doing a marathon and visiting Provence, don’t you think? It has to be done at least once in your life. Although please don’t ask me to do a marathon.

Toying with the notion of making a quick a tea in our room, Mr Smith decides an aperitif in the bar would be more like it. On a balmier evening, we’d hit one of the foliage-fringed terraces or the lavender-sown inner courtyard. Tonight, a G&T by the fireplace in the library is our cosy rendezvous. Olives, roasted almonds and blue corn chips take the edge off an appetite built up during the hour’s drive from Marseille airport.

People-watching in upmarket French hotel restaurants is first-class grist to overactive-imagination mills. Le Cloi?tre doesn’t disappoint, providing a cast of couples of all ages. A chap accompanied by a decades-younger blonde, joined after a while by another woman? It's a perfectly respectable family celebration, no doubt. My imaginings are probably the repercussions of that spell at a Catholic girls’ school. If only my convent had served bistro-style red mullet and king prawns, like they do here. And tasty Co?tes du Ventoux by the glass. I don’t think it’s even legal in France to serve custard as lumpy as they used to in Buckinghamshire.

The following day has been set aside for steaming, swimming and mostly staying supine; just the thought of such an Elysian afternoon elicits a heavenly night’s slumber. I’m pretty sure that Sunday mornings don’t get easier than choosing between a banquet of a breakfast or a splash in one of two pools. Croissants, cold cuts, muesli, yoghurt and eggs win over a mooted visit to the hotel’s gym. After eating more food groups in one sitting than I’d usually have over a week, we’re fuelled for a quick explore. Ideal for this lazy pair, Forcalquier is on our lap, a 10-minute drive away. The hilltop Haute-Provence town provides us with a 12th-century cathedral, stylish brocante-filled shops, a bustling market and many cafe?s and bistros. Nice. Now our postcards can legitimately say we did more than lie around like beached whales in white towelling for most of our trip.

Mmm, laconium and caldarium. No, not prescription drugs, nor fungal infections but, rather, the bathhouse delights awaiting us back at Le Couvent des Minimes. Robed and slippered, we drift down to the pool and collapse on a double lounger. (If we made furniture at Mr & Mrs Smith, this would be one of our signature pieces.) Squeezing into our respective saunas, our next challenge is some competitive sweating. I emerge the victor, surviving 20 minutes in the 85º heat. My beet-red colour has my Scandinavian-heritage Mr Smith smiling as he luxuriates in the cool pool. Chuckle he may, but a quick pummelling on the thighs from the jets in the indoor pool, and my circulation is boosted to turbo.

More steaming and water-dipping is punctuated by top-ups of verbena tea. The relaxation room doubles as a tisanerie, blessed with the same soothing view of the gentle Luberon hills flanking the outdoor pool. After floating into a candlelit therapy room for a facial, I surrender, finally, to a succession of smearings of local-herb-infused creams. It’s so relaxing I nod off, waking up with a loud toad-like snort – an embarrassing interruption to the new-agey swimming-with-dolphins soundtrack. What a contrast to our usual hedonistic boutique boltholing: this salubrious escape has been uplifting to mind, soul and body. Merci bien, Couvent des Minimes. Careful though – one more day in your clutches and I’ll even be considering that marathon.