Fuchun Resort

‘I can’t make it stop!’

A scream. The soft whirring of advanced technology. Gushing of water. And an explosion of giggles. Our room’s avant-garde auto-toilet is a long way from the hole in the train floor that Mrs Smith struggled to target during our journey to the hotel. Fuchun Resort hotel is only a couple of hours from Shanghai by train, but it feels like another realm completely. From grey to green, from bustle to seclusion, and, best of all, from chaos to quiet.

There’s another reason I’m glad to have left Shanghai. My Mrs Smith is the genuine article: an illicit partner. It’s tricky for me to be seen with her in the city, and Fuchun feels far away enough to be safe. It also feels solid, with dark-wood carvings and heavy grey stone that give an impression of depth and permanence. As we enter, the outdoor humidity is replaced by the kind of cool and peace that I associate with castles and monasteries. Citrus notes follow us through hushed corridors, wafting from oranges that line the walls, each one imprisoned in a small metal cage.

We’re staying in Lake View, the hotel’s best room. Light streams through the balcony doors over the white walls and dark carved wood.  The furniture is substantial – a heavy trunk covered in cushions, a giant door leading to the bathroom, a complicated screen concealing the bed – but the room is large and light enough to take it. The slate-grey karate-style dressing gowns are inspired, making you feel like a warrior in your own bedroom. (I’m doing a slightly fey Chuck Norris in my white towelling slippers and purple sash.)

Fuchun Resort is fantastic to explore. It feels as though we have the entire place to ourselves. Coolly seductive, passageways stretch ahead of us, leading to yoga rooms, bars and lounges. Taking one turn, we arrive at the palatial swimming pool. It’s square, which is surprisingly satisfying, with dark water, and heavy pillars stretching up to the bare rafters. The place encourages indolence, floating – nothing vigorous.

From the pool to one of the three outdoor granite Jacuzzis. We watch the stone lions protecting the garden, sip champagne and enjoy the solitude, until a professional-looking photographer sets up a tripod to take pictures of a father and son. It seems a lot of serious equipment for such a small family unit, and soon I’m telling myself a story that involves Mrs Smith’s husband, a private detective and me getting hurt. We ditch the Jacuzzi and head over to the Club House. We’re shown the golf course, and offered a round, but Woo Woos and tennis feels more like it, and soon we’re smashing balls at each other, pausing only to take another chilled towel from the icebox.

Mrs Smith and I both suffer from a short attention span, and my initial suggestion of a two-hour spa treatment is met with ridicule. ‘What? Lie still and do nothing for two hours?’ is her natural response but, as she reads details of the Hangzhou Silk Cocoon, she gets into it. It has more options than a dim sum menu.

The spa is somewhere underground (I’m careful to scatter some of the omnipresent rose petals as we’re led down deep, twisting corridors). In our private room, we begin with a footbath and scrub. Then it’s over to the table for the main course. Gentle stroking commences and something warm and soft is placed on my eyes. Lavender and black rice, a voice tells me, and time dissolves into a stream of hands and fragrances, powders and liquids until somehow I’m floating in a bath among rose petals and orange slices, staring vaguely at Mrs Smith, who is drinking lemon hibiscus elixir.

Smiling, our two therapists assure me that we have experienced a jasmine and pearl scrub, had all kinds of essential oils rubbed into us, and benefited from a clay massage, as well as a silk cocoon body wrap with arrowroot powder and fresh roses. They show me some dusty red silk, so I believe them. Whatever they did to me, I feel fantastic.

Evening arrives too quickly. Out of habit, we throw on our favourite wigs before we make for the Asian Corner. It’s another sexily subdued affair: the hanging red lanterns and intimate booths put us in a world of two. The menu is Hangzhou-inspired, and created by a local chef, Chen Peng. Our duck is crispy and succulent, the greens are garlicky and the gingko and pork stomach soup tasty. From dinner to the Lake Lounge, where we drink cocktails and Mrs Smith beats me repeatedly at some version of checkers or Chinese chess. Back in our room, we hang our wooden Do Not Disturb sign – a wise man putting his fingers to his lips – outside and doze off.

Breakfast is taken overlooking the lake; a junk crosses lazily as we sip on excellent fruit juices. A Frenchwoman provides our first conversation with another visitor. We agree that the place is beautiful and calm, and I remark casually that I haven’t seen anyone else. ‘Perhaps you see what you want to see,’ she replies, before turning, Sphinx-like, back to her breakfast. As we’re leaving, I mention to our host that for such a magnificent and luxurious setting, there seem to be very few people about. ‘Most are in their villas,’ she tells me, gesturing at a row of houses further up the hill. ‘Each one has its own swimming pool.’ So, that answers my curiosity about the feeling that we have Fuchun Resort all to ourselves, and I promise to return with more people and take control of a private villa.   As we drive away, only one thing bothers me: what were the oranges guilty of?

As featured on our television programme for Discovery Travel and Living.