Mr & Mrs Smith

Mr Smith and I have arrived in Palma. We may find ourselves at the back of a far-reaching queue of socks-and-sandals, but the balmy, palm-tree filled air is soothing away any travel-induced stress. Mr Smith is not a fan of public transport, crowds or tourists and, soon after stepping off the plane, we’ve encountered all three. Sympathetic to his delicate and sensitive needs and reluctant to move innocent Germans and Britons out of our way with my elbow, I usher Mr Smith gently towards the taxis and whisk him quickly to the sidestreet sanctuary that is Hotel Tres.

Built on the remains of a 16th-century palace slap bang in the middle of the cobblestoned old town, the tourist-free courtyard is soundless and there isn’t a football strip in sight. We’re on target for a chic Balearic weekend. Having been handed a golden pass to use the lift (you need a room key to make it move), we are soon placed safely in our room – all clean white lines, slick light fixtures and mildly erotic artwork. The gleaming floors are made of marble, and the vast beds are edged with ponyskin stools and, occasionally, the odd Buddha’s head.

Since he’s still recovering from the crowd exposure of earlier, I allow Mr Smith a brief time-out on the vast white bed, the sheets of which have a threadcount so high you could be sliding around on silk (they almost feel wet they’re so satiny). In the open-plan shower room I spy FACE Stockholm products – our first whiff of Scandinavia. Next to get our attention is a clever-if-clinical-looking table on wheels which slides up over the bed. I can’t imagine why you’d want to stay bedridden though, as pleasant a plumped-pillow location as this is. But for anyone who can resist the charms of the vibrant city, and who might have a laptop in the role of Mr or Mrs Smith, it’s a heavensent accoutrement.

Dragging Mr Smith from his fantasy sickbed, we head up to the roof terrace to make use of the hotel’s shining showpiece – its cathedral-view sundeck, surrounded by peaches-and-cream-toned buildings and bright blue skies. The Gothic façade of La Seu is so close that if you had really long arms, you could almost touch it. Reception has been set the task of warming up the sauna – they need 30 minutes to get it piping– so we spread out a towel each and take a dunk in the splash pool. Here, we take up the bar staff’s offer of delivering whatever we’d like to this sun-topped station. Two berry-based cocktails seem just the ticket. Heated up by the searing Balearic sun, cooled down by the pool and cocktails, our rollercoaster ride next takes us into the by-now scorching sauna – just long enough to appreciate the up-close views of Palma’s Gaudi-restored cathedral through the steamy cabin’s window.

Slinking back to our suite, we stumble upon the library and lounge. Soothing sofas and homely rugs make these chill-out spaces serene, Mr Smith starts hallucinating that he’s hearing whale music. The Scandinavian link is most palpable in the pale interiors: modern and minimalist, with original features such as the craggy stone floor and enormous palm tree in the courtyard a reminder of the building’s historic past.

The old quarter has no shortage of tapas bars but we’re after something a little more substantial in spite of our weak-exchange-rate sterling, and so we head to Simply Fosh in Convent de la Missió. This is Marc Fosh’s monochrome Mallorcan outpost, serving simply fine and fresh Mediterranean food. The menu at this sleek and stylish restaurant changes daily – and we’re more than tempted to pop back tomorrow to see what’s on offer then. Afterwards, we stop off for a post-dinner gelato (picked from the many mounds at Iceberg Gelateria) and continue on an arm-in-arm stroll through the quiet cobbled streets.

Back in the peace of the hotel, we flick through the DVD catalogue. It’s the usual blockbuster shtick, injected with a few Nordic classics by the Scandinavian owner. We sidestep a CD collection which spans Craig David, Cypress Hill and Celine Dion and settle for Thelma and Louise.

Breakfast in the ochre- and turquoise-cushioned bar is a smooth affair. From a buffet of freshly baked doughs, cereals and sausages, we pile up croissants and fruity bread to the clubby sounds of techno beats. I’m sure the silver-haired couple beside us are wondering if they’ve stepped into a nightclub’s after-party by mistake. The bar buzzes all day, serving simple snacks like burgers and salads to its steady stream of guests and the occasional locals.

Our journey to the airport is interrupted by a colourful parade where the participants have donned moon-sized masks and heels (well, stilts, technically). Mr Smith paps as I pose with one of the eight-foot giants in the midst of the musical madness before we journey onwards to the airport. As we check-in, we spy a few ‘lads on tour’ emblazoned with sordid slogans across their chests. There’s not a peep out of Mr Smith. It seems the lasting calm from Hotel Tres may be coming home with us.