Coconut Lagoon

I may as well admit it right now; my first impression of Coconut Lagoon in Kerala wasn’t great. As our boat pulled into the dock, drifting through floating lilies, hands reached down to help us off. Tiny posies of flowers were pressed into our palms and a man stood and played on a flute as we were ushered to the centre of an intricate open-sided wooden pavilion. The welcome was seamless and practiced, and as we checked in I watched the same flawless performance repeated in reverse as a French family were waved farewell. Call me cynical, but I’ve always found ceremonial welcomes at hotels contrived and awkward and my concerns grew as I looked to my right and saw the board of daily activities and ‘tonight’s cultural performance’.

My mood was softened by our small but private Pool Villa, in which French doors led out into a walled garden with a plunge pool and loungers. The master bedroom was simply furnished with a small seating area and pretty local textiles on the bed. Best of all, as far as I was concerned at least, no TV, though Mr Smith had his own opinions about that. But the best bit was the small terrace at the front that looked out onto uninterrupted views of Lake Vembanad. The view of the glistening blue waters, the far coconut-fringed shore, and the passing rice-barge houseboats and canoes was essentially Keralan, an instant snapshot of the Kuttanad Backwaters and a fitting contrast to the simplicity of the room.

We left our things and went for a wander around the grounds. The hotel is built on a series of islands criss-crossed by canals, and the reception building and restaurant are both 19th-century traditional nalukett houses that have been dismantled and rebuilt here. Amid the coconut palms and lush local plants, a family of tiny cows were grazing on the lawns and we fell instantly in love with the calf, who licked the salt from our hands with long sweeps of his blue tongue. Hot from our journey, we spent the rest of the day by the pool, ordering lassis and chilli prawns from the pool bar and watching the daring feats of boisterous crows as they swooped down to steal sugar packets from the table.

By dinnertime we were exhausted from a hard day’s sunbathing. Outside the restaurant one of the hotel’s entertainments was in full swing. Kathakali is an ancient form of Keralan ritual dance that usually takes place in epic all-night performances at packed-out temples. Here, shorn of its religious significance, it seemed a little out of place. We retreated to dinner, a vast buffet of regional dishes, piling our plates high with crab masala, freshly cooked flatbreads and a staggering array of dals and coconut-infused vegetable dishes. The dining room was filled with the lively chatter of families and no one had felt the need to dress for dinner.

The next morning I rose early and, leaving Mr Smith in bed, walked through the silent dawn to the yoga studio, perched on the edge of a vast, mist-shrouded rice paddy. No one seemed to be around so I started my sun salutation, when a voice said ‘hello’ from the doorway. I turned to see a smiling man, dressed in a traditional mundi and shirt. This it turned out was Naveen, the yoga teacher, and I was lucky enough to be his only student that morning. We spent an hour correcting the numerous errors in my practice before sitting silently together in a short meditation. For the next two days I would come to every class, enjoying Naveen’s presence and the wonderful intonation of his English as he sang his instructions out. I defy anyone, when invited to ‘reeeelaaax, relaaaax’ by this lovely man, not to comply immediately and with pleasure.

That afternoon I indulged myself at the Ayurvedic spa with a two-hour long relaxation treatment while Mr Smith lazed by our private pool. I discovered that Ayurvedic massage is not for the self-conscious or shy. Wearing a paper loincloth, I was kneaded and smoothed into a state of total bliss by two masseuses before being ushered to my steam bath. I was washed with herbal soaps and powders and, feeling a little like a child again, wrapped in towels before sandalwood powder was pressed onto my forehead and scalp in a final blessing.

That night we ate in the seafood restaurant by a clear central pool filled with koi carp and catfish. Mr Smith opted for the mixed grill of prawns, langoustine and squid (a little bit spicy), while I had grilled red snapper (Kerala spicy). This was more the candlelit supper I’d imagined although the effect was somewhat spoiled when they offered us both blue plastic bibs, which we politely refused. I looked around and saw several tables sporting the offending items. Despite these eccentricities the seafood was delicious and the service, as always, polished to a high shine.

The next morning, I said my farewells to Naveen in the yoga studio, receiving a heartfelt invitation to come and stay with his family on my next visit to Kerala. The staff lined up on both sides of the canal to perform the farewell ‘wave and smile’ when Abilash, the hotel’s pastry chef, came running towards us, clutching a bag of specially prepared cinnamon rolls, ‘for your journey’. The last shreds of my cynicism fell away and I had to admit to myself that I had never felt so nurtured at a hotel. From the fantastic yoga sessions and my incredible massage, to these personalised pastries in my hand, I had been consistently amazed by the genuinely caring service at Coconut Lagoon. As we sailed off through the lilies I felt like I was leaving something special behind. ‘Something in my eye’, I said to Mr Smith. ‘Of course’, he replied, putting a supportive arm around my shoulder.