Hotel Pastis

‘Quick, take this – and read it later,’ urged the gentleman, slipping a note under my croissant. Then, with a wistful look, he picked up his cases, scuttled off through the lobby and was gone forever. I didn’t come to this boutique hotel in St Tropez to have an affair. In fact, I hadn’t even noticed my fellow guest, let alone encouraged him to pass me a love letter when Mr Smith wasn’t looking. But hey, that’s St Tropez for you; something about the sun-drenched, A-list ambience makes people do crazy things I guess.

Obviously it’s tempting to proffer this hand-written love poem (‘If you were a bird, I’d want you in my sky…’ and so on) as an analogy for the romantic, poetical virtues of this St Tropez boutique hotel. But a hideaway where style speaks for itself, Pastis is basically way too cool for such a literary cop-out. They welcomed us with fashionably open arms. Arriving drenched from a freak Tropezian storm late the night before, we were ushered into our room in a whirl of umbrellas, howling winds and rain-battered pastel shutters. Pulling billowing curtains – and dressing gowns – tightly together, Mr Smith and I were happy to be tucked in for the night.

It was only upon waking to a turquoise-infused St Tropez light, that we could finally see this French boutique hotel for what it really was; total, unconscious design heaven. Art is prolific at Pastis Hotel. Splashes of colour from glass-encased canvases hit us between the eyes as we spiralled our way down the staircase to breakfast. ‘A Hockney,’ nudged Mr Smith as we took our table in the lobby and breathed in coffee fumes from the huge silver Gaggia number behind the bar. Nibbling pistachio and hazelnut bruchette and sitting on basket weave chairs, it was just the two of us; although a murmuring from the terrace told us fellow guests dined nearby – next to the outdoor pool, steaming in the morning air. Yes, the sea view from our table was interrupted by a road (the hotel is on the route in to St Tropez) but we could spy waves over our mini pain au raisin, so who cares?

Walking through the boutique hotel à la Golfe de Saint-Tropez, a 360-degree mélange of dazzling design pieces in a pastel-French cool setting, we looked up and clocked the owners’ wicked sides; spying a framed Sex Pistols LP over the bar telling us to Never Mind The Bollocks. Fair enough. Loquacious design gurus who swapped their movers ’n’ shakers London lifestyle for St Tropez, Pauline and John’s personalities seemed to be stamped all over this place. Ex-graphic designers turned retail designers (they were responsible for rebranding one of the UK’s biggest supermarkets a few years back, they informed us) they know what they want – and everything is just-so. A Lichenstein print here, a collection of Pastis jugs there; we could feel the glamour of St Tropez running through the hotel, punctuated with a distinct fresh-scented touch of London know-how.

Eyeing the hotel’s palm-fringed pool, we decided to head Tropezward bounds before making the most of promising mercury fluctuations. St Tropez is tiny. Moving with celerity along the port for a neck-craningly nosy view of the fibre-glass monster yachts, to my Mr Smith’s horror I managed to trip, almost acrobatically, over a huge electricity cable. Stumbling into the path of a man wearing a blindingly white suit being filmed at the waterfront, thankfully no one yelled or yanked me embarrassingly out of shot. Dignity dashed (and praying I wouldn’t be the future butt of their comedy out-takes) we headed past the gleaming super-yachts and on up to the main square: Place des Lices. A jumble of dusty boules games and cafés, it’s worlds apart from the ostentatiously OTT bars and boats below at the port; it’s the Saint-Tropez behind Tropez – metaphorically and literally. Popping into France-famous La Tarte Tropezienne, we picked up some pistachio-sprinkled tarte aux pommes for later; resisting the risotto in favour of our so-touristy-but-so-what lunch reservation at Café de Paris. Perched on ruby-red velvet chairs under gawdy chandeliers, hanging out at this iconic beast is rather like floating on a 1970s cruise ship. With the pipe-smoking sailing fraternity huddled next to Joan Collins-alikes who’ve seen too much sun, we dined on succulent sushi, crème caramel and nerve-jangingly strong coffee. Promising Mr Smith that it was safe to go back to the scene of the love-letter crime, we headed back to Pastis.

Distressed Louis XV decor and a propeller-proportioned chrome ceiling fan welcomed us back at the room, before a hammered silver platter of Côte Bastide products tempted us to soak in bubbles for a couple of hours. Outside, as guests draped on rustic poolside seats next to twinkling twilight candles and a group of guys started sinking Dom Pérignon at the zinc bar, the sky turned an indigo-blue colour across the bay and out towards the mountains.

Watching a gaggle of footballers’ wives totter out of a black limo – and straight onto the black-sand floor of yacht-side bar Le Quai Joseph that evening, we popped in to Hotel Sube for our before-bed cocktail. You either have to sharpen your elbows or bribe the barman to nab a table on Sube’s balcony (the best viewpoint in St Tropez, we decided) opposite the port full of yachts. We did neither, but somehow managed to bagsy a table anyway – spending the rest of the evening counting boob jobs and hairy-chested millionaires on the promenade below.

In a St Tropez world where Dior dominates café culture and stilettos feature on beaches, chalky-toned Pastis Hotel is a serene break. It doesn’t try too hard, it just is; white-shuttered heaven after the hot Tropezian crowds. And hey, there’s even the prospect of being propositioned by a fountain pen under your partner’s nose at the breakfast table. If you’re very lucky.

Review: Charlotte Crisp