Mr & Mrs Smith

Local children slowly relocate their ball game from the road, before nondescript black gates open to reveal a tropical garden. ‘Now this looks like my kind of place,’ Mr Smith finally concedes. He has been silent and underwhelmed by the landscape – a herky-jerky mix of empty roadside plots and overly cheery Waikiki-pink hotel complexes – during the ride from the airport.

Ever enthusiastic and efficient, I’ve made better use of the journey. By the time we reach Abacá’s discreet doors, our personal butler Raffie – who met us off our flight and is soon to become my new best friend – and I have identified suitable dinner venues while he pointed out historical sites and markets along the way. Raffie also informs us that jobs are now plentiful in the area thanks to Mactan Island’s tourism boom. The information partly salves our guilty consciences about this indulgent holiday, and partly explains the welcoming, friendly nature of the locals we’ll meet over the coming days.

The only interruption to our chatter is the surprising sound of UB40’s ‘Red Red Wine’ resonating from the passenger seat. It is Raffie’s mobile phone – the hotel is calling to establish our ETA. We like their style.

With only six suites, three villas and enough nooks and crannies to find some solitude, Abacá resembles a private residence. We feel even more at home when we’re shown to our room, the expansive Seaview Pool Villa. Two keys are required to get in: one to enter the bougainvillea-canopied walled plunge-pool area (our minds race with the romantic possibilities), and another for the villa proper. Floor-to-ceiling windows allow for views from the pool deck to the big blue sea. We rush through Raffie’s in-room check-in, throw on our swimsuits and slip into the resort’s sultry infinity pool.

Wrapped in Abacá’s thick, chocolate-brown towels, we sip calamansi sodas – the citrusy local fizz – sprawling on curvy contemporary furniture in a poolside cabana, a buffet of sunscreens thoughtfully provided nearby for vitamin D–deprived urbanites like ourselves. At first glance, the resort’s modern design, dark woods and cream fabrics tempt us to reference Bali and cookie cutters. We never actually do, though, because subtle elements – sinuous rattan chairs by Cebuano designer Kenneth Cobonpue (who made Brad Pitt’s bed), local antiquities and traditional handicrafts, the juiciest mangoes you’ve ever tasted, big-hearted hospitality – remind you that you are experiencing the best of the Philippines.

Mr Smith soon retires to the spa for a eucalyptus and rosemary scalp and shoulder massage, while I stroll out to the waterfront to chat with a young local girl who is knee-deep in the sea, collecting shellfish for her dinner. A valiant effort in the teeny health club follows. Of the resort’s many laudable green policies, my least favourite keeps the air-conditioning off until a guest expresses interest. The complimentary Gatorade and water and shiny new equipment, however (not to mention the decadent breakfasts), inspire me to return in the days that follow.

Instead of sampling Maya, a Mexican restaurant about 40 minutes away (also owned by the Abacá group) that night, we opt for local fare. An Abacá driver takes us five minutes down the road to the pick of the waterfront seafood restaurants, where you literally point out your preferred catch of the day. Afterwards, he walks us around the historic Magellan Marker and other monuments in a pretty community garden. On our return to Abacá, someone has adorned our pool deck with glittering candles. Behind door two, in the villa, are bedtime brownies. It is all too delicious to resist.

The luxed-up version of a traditional banca boat Raffie has booked for us arrives soon after a sinful breakfast the next morning, bobbing by the resort’s waterfront about 30 minutes ahead of schedule.

By the time we step aboard the all-white deck, Raffie has already stocked it with fresh towels, fruit, drinks, lunch and chocolate-chip cookies. Sprawled on beanbags we decide that even the most jaded traveller would find it difficult not to feel giddy with excitement. We giggle with glee much to the amusement of our crew, who take us snorkelling at the Gilutongan Marine Sanctuary, then on to the postcard-worthy Pandanon Island, where we picnic on the white-sand beach.

Mr Smith rewards himself on our return for the day’s active start with another massage. Easily seduced by a gigantic bathroom and standalone tub, I retreat to our villa. On the way, I stop by the restaurant to confirm our booking and, I confess, to scout out the best table. I find it is reserved – Raffie had already chosen it for us.

When we booked Abacá, we didn’t know that the resort was built around a well-known restaurant of the same name. Chef Wade Watson’s diverse menu includes phenomenal grilled seafood and imported beef, perfectly thin pizzas from the wood-burning oven, a decent selection of wines by the glass, and diet-busting desserts to follow. The home-made breads alone feel criminal in a place where you have to don a swimsuit the following day.

By the time we are heading back to the airport, any doubts we’d had about holidaying in the Philippines, which tends to get a bad rap from snooty travellers, have been dispelled. Abacá is beautiful, the service is thoughtful and efficient, and the food we sampled was wonderful. This is truly a world-class resort in a country full of spectacular spots begging to be discovered. From the beds to the banca and the butler, we were well and truly converted.