Anantara Lawana Resort & Spa

The path to Anantara Lawana Resort & Spa straddles a creek with flames coming out of it; life here is so mellow, even fire and water get along. At the massive, open-air structure serving as a front desk, helpful concierge Christian gives us cold towels to beat back the tropic swelter, then pours us ginger tea from a small wooden urn. Footmen whisk our bags to the room as Christian shows us the massive estate. There’s the beachside, multi-tiered pool area, the spa, the bars and a restaurant where each table is its own treehouse – however ridiculously fictional that may sound. We made reservations when we booked the room; we recommend you do, too. ‘Table eight is the highest, but seven is the best. I’ll take care of it,’ Christian says with a smile.

The tour ends at a private gate. Beyond is our Anantara Pool Villa. ‘Is this all ours?’ we ask; ‘Of course,” responds Christian, as though anything less would be silly. Then he’s gone. The villa has vaulted ceilings made of hundreds of wooden slats, like a gravity-defying game of Pickup Sticks. Here we discover the resort’s hallmark: options. There are myriad shampoos, lotions, a plate of fresh local fruits and a TV with international channels (one features a Russian-speaking police dog). By the bed is a menu… for pillows. Firm? Soft? Angel-feather? It’s your choice. The divide between bed and living areas is a swinging partition, so the layout is customisable. We create a giant rumpus room immediately. There are three bathing options: indoor shower, outdoor shower, or enormous soaking tub by the pool. The pool! It must be 40 feet long, 15 feet wide and – most importantly – all ours. I hop in and, with only my eyes and ears above sea level, I hear Mrs Smith inside yelling, ‘Cold beers!’ I pause. ‘Iced pint glasses!?’ She runs out, hands me a brew and takes hers to the covered seating area, which becomes her home for most of our stay. Its symmetrical elegance evokes a religious shrine, making my wife the goddess of this yard.

Dinner is at Tree Tops. Up and up we walk, to lucky table seven. Christian was right – the view is 270 degrees of perfection. The clouds loaf about over the sea. The sunset shines gloriously on our faces. Romance is in the warm air. Dinner is collaborative: we choose sashimi, three kinds of scallops, and steaks. To drink, the sommelier suggests the perfect pairing. Each treehouse has its own iPod with multiple playlists, and we settle on Nineties R&B. Between courses, a citrusy, seafood amuse bouche arrives in a sardine can. A salt specialist offers selections from all over the globe: Himalayan Pink, or South American Smoky? For dessert, colourful macarons arrive. Sated and sloshed, we stumble home. I don’t remember what happens after returning to our room, but I’ll bet a gallon of French truffle salt I passed out in a satisfied doze. The next morning we’ll be more active. We promise. After breakfast.

It’s the biggest buffet I’ve ever seen: a dozen food-and-drink bars, plus a refrigerated room of cheeses, meats, and whatever else I pile on in a frenzy. We gorge. When the food coma wears off I decide to stretch, but accidentally cough and pull something in my neck (a hazard of being 34). There’s nothing else for it, I must be rubbed…. My 90-minute spa massage is 30 minutes longer than Mrs Smith’s manicure (‘it was very thorough,’ she says. I don’t ask questions) and involves aromatherapy, guided contortion, and tons of me going ‘ahhhhhhh’. This place is classy, so I’m not fully naked. Instead, I’m given a disposable mesh Banana Hammock that makes my man-parts look like a manatee caught in a fisherman’s net.

Revitalised, we hop on a free kayak and row for five minutes to a totally deserted island. There, we play at being scientists, taking measurements, rubbing sand between our fingers, testing the water temperature relative to the air. It’s conclusive: this is the perfect day. Back on the mainland, we flop on the big red day-beds and drink coconut juice garnished with blue ‘Curaçao caviar’ for three hours.

Before nightfall, we have drinks at Tamarina on the bay just northwest of us. We lie on hammocks and watch the waves crash in. To our right is the famous Big Buddha, a giant gold statue who, facing inland, is missing one of the best sunsets I’ve ever seen. Next up: nightlife in Chaweng Beach… At Starz Cabaret, gorgeous kathoeys (perhaps better, if more controversially, known as ‘Lady Boys’) lip-sync pop classics with Vegas-level choreography. One drink minimum; fun to the maximum. The night ends at Ark Bar, Koh Samui’s biggest beach party, where fire-dancers put on a spectacle that can be seen for miles.

On our final morning we bathe in both showers, take a victory lap of the breakfast buffet, check out with the ever-gracious Pancake and Yam at the front desk, and fly off into the sky that, again tonight, will deliver legendary sunsets for the folks we’ve left behind at Anantara Lawana…