Amagatay Menorca

‘Hold tight!’ commands Mr Smith through gritted teeth as the first drop of water landed with a splash on our parasol. ‘It will pass!’ The Amagatay staff know better. After all, 10 minutes ago they hurried to the poolside to tell us with certainty, ‘We expect rain in 10 minutes.’ Now, as the accurately predicted rain fell, they hurried towards us again. This time with umbrellas aloft, helping gather our things and walking us under cover back to our room, with not a glimmer of irritation at the stubborn Brits.

I say 'room', but our accommodations at Amagatay were more akin to a picture-perfect miniature Menorcan cottage. Located among the furthest of the post-agricultural buildings that make up the sprawling Amagatay estate, it featured a pretty walled garden and, inside, a giant bed positioned beneath a resplendent sandstone arch that would be more at home in a cathedral than the cowshed it once was. ‘They were lucky cows,’ Mr Smith observes.

The architecture of the former farm is painstakingly and thoughtfully preserved throughout Amagatay. A stone trough is now a water feature, a food store converted into a shower room. The wonderfully tactile walls and authentically worn floors of the old farmhouse, now the hotel reception, are as though plucked from an interior designer's moodboard. Everything is effortless and elegant. It’s quite intoxicating. As I wander between the whitewashed buildings in the dappled shade of tall pine trees and past the ornamental vegetable garden, it is only the occasional crunch of golf-cart wheels on the gravel path in the distance, announcing the arrival of new guests, that breaks the daydream that Amagatay is my own personal country estate.

The rain clouds swiftly blew away and it wasn’t long before Mr Smith and I retook our position poolside. We watched the sparrows hop around the pool's edge while bees buzzed lazily across the lavender. Our view past the water was of nothing more than trees and fields stretching into the sky. Mr Smith tested out the buzzer each guest is given to summon drinks from the bar, as I did nothing more than closed my eyes and listened to the quiet. The weather moves quickly across Menorca, but it might be the only thing that does.

Later, we wrenched ourselves away and took our table at El Olivar, the hotel's restaurant. Beneath fairy lights strung between olive trees, we were served plate after plate of delicious local fare and were reminded, with each mouthful, of the reasons Menorca has become renowned for quality organic food. Mr Smith’s octopus dish received a rapturous response, but it was the freshly baked bread, perfectly warm and crisp, served with local herb-infused butter, that proved unbeatable for me, although a fig leaf and carob panna cotta was not far behind.

Simple pleasures, good food and peacefulness became the hallmarks of our short stay at Amagatay. Menorca has the power to transfix, with its idyllic pastoral landscape of endless fields and stone walls, country lanes populated by farming vehicles rather than hire cars. Remarkably, ancient stone structures from the Talayotic culture sit undisturbed in fields and on roadsides like petite, demure Stonehenges. And the bountiful beaches belie the size of this small island, plentiful as they are and coming in every size and shape. All this and contemporary culture (or, as Mr Smith calls it, ‘shopping’), too. Mahón, the island’s capital, just a 15-minute drive from Amagatay, is a haven of carefully curated boutiques, art galleries and markets.

‘What shall we do today?’ I asked Mr Smith over a breakfast of green juice, eggs and Menorcan tomato toast the following day. ‘Let’s leave it to the gods,’ he replied. ‘And by gods, I mean Maru on reception.’ Our request for suggestions was met with a list of local beaches, tailored even to our preference for sand over rocks and which way the wind was blowing that day. We were furnished with a truly impressive roll call of restaurants, including everything from seafront tavernas to lively local bars.

Equipped with fast-tracked local knowledge, Mr Smith and I spent the next couple of days traversing the island from corner to craggy corner. We ate freshly grilled and salty sardines with sand between our toes. We boarded a banana-yellow ferry in Mahón’s harbour and sailed the short distance to the magical Illa del Rei to satisfy our contemporary-art needs. We devoured bocadillos at the Mercat de Peix. We immersed ourselves in the monolithic, otherworldly landscape of the Lithica quarry. We sat looking out onto the Mediterranean Sea and watched cormorants dive for fish in the crystal-clear waters.

And as we returned at the end of each excursion, driving back through the gates of Amagatay, back to the tranquillity, to the charming surroundings, to the cheerful staff and the gentle care they gave us, for just a little while longer I was able to maintain the daydream that this really was our place.