Ara Maris

It’s officially passeggiata o’clock — that pre-dinner Italian ritual of languidly strolling the pavements, people-watching and peacocking in equal measure. For the past week in Italy, Dr Smith and I have dutifully observed the practice, usually with a gelato in hand. However, this evening we’re playing truant. You’ll instead find us lying supine one floor below Sorrento’s streets, in the minimalist marble cavern of Ara Maris's Thala Spa, savouring the Vesuvian heat of the Finnish sauna. 'This counts as a cultural activity,' I declare, as we bob about in the vitality pool like a couple of tortellini (a week of la dolce vita has left us well stuffed, yet still woefully pale). 'The Ancient Romans were, after all, partial to a spa session.' 

When Mr Smith and I emerge from the couple’s massage 50 minutes later, limbs slick with citrus-scented oil, we hasten up to the suite and fling off our towelling robes. Oh, don’t think it’s a fit of Italianate passion — we’re just in a hurry to change for cocktails and catch the last sunset of the holiday. A live saxophonist’s jaunty Rat Pack melodies are already drifting down to our balcony from the hotel’s rooftop bar, Lumi Sky Lounge. We’re just in time to bag the last curvy, panna-cotta-hued sofa and order a round of drinks — a limoncello and prosecco spritz for Dr Smith, a Sunset Negroni (a lighter twist of on the classic, using dry vermouth) for me — as a veritable Sorrento orange of a sun squeezes its juicy colours across the Bay of Naples.  

The view truly is a showstopper: stone pines unfurling like green parasols between terracotta rooftops, Mount Vesuvius glowering across the water. Even Insta-allergic Dr Smith can’t resist whipping out his phone and bidding me to pose before this backdrop. With the sax dialling up the atmosphere in this Neapolitan eyrie, our intended aperitivo turns into dinner — iced platters of seafood crudo, stuffed anchovies, and focaccia topped with oozing stracciatella and pistachios — and a go-on-then-one-more round of drinks, until the moon has hit the sky like the proverbial pizza pie.  

From this vantage point, we also see how Ara Maris, a sleek, solar-panelled newcomer to Sorrento’s hotel scene, has artfully slotted itself among the city’s more historic and palatial hotels. We can snoop into the grounds of the famous, 19th-century grande dame across the street, and spy the town’s main hub, Piazza Tasso, around the corner.  

Rewind to earlier that day and we’re dragging our suitcases across those very cobblestones, debating whether we should’ve just taken a taxi from the ferry (for me, it’s always ‘yes’ when luggage is involved). Sorrento’s quirky topography had initially flummoxed us. 'It’s a 10-minute walk from the marina,' says chief navigator, Dr Smith, consulting Google Maps. 'Right over... ohh!' He gawps up at a sheer rock face; Sorrento’s city centre, it turns out, is perched 50 metres above the marina. Relying on a combination of mime and my rusty Italian, we’re eventually shepherded towards the ascensore (public lift) by some beachgoers and clunk up to the old town.  

That sweaty, somewhat irritable self-transfer is immediately forgotten when we're stepping into Ara Maris’ air-conditioned, contemporary-art-filled lobby, and ushered over to the poolside terrace for our complimentary welcome drinks — a refreshing concoction of green apple, lime and soda with a dash of olive syrup. 'It’s non-alcoholic,' says the waitress in an almost apologetic tone. Well, no matter: it turns out there’s a surprise bottle of sparkling wine awaiting us in our fourth-floor suite, alongside a fresh fruit platter, and a balcony overlooking the bay. Both the bedroom and separate lounge are decked in glazed blue tiles that seem colour-matched to the Tyrrhenian Sea.  

The fresh-faced staff are eager show us the suite’s various bells and whistles. After responding with due reverence to the smart light switches, reusable stainless-steel water bottles and Dyson hairdryer, Dr Smith and I make a beeline for the outdoor pool — a gorgeously sinuous affair flanked by citrus trees. We ensconce ourselves in a cloud-like cabana for the afternoon and soak up the last rays of the holiday, all too aware that our flight home to vitamin D-deprived Scotland is fast approaching. 

This means we’re — uncharacteristically — among the first down to breakfast the next day. Here there are both hits (I may have had three slices of the feather-light pistachio cake) and misses (charging extra for à la carte items like avocado toast struck us as a little stingy for a five-star hotel).  

Over our cappuccinos, Dr Smith and I reflect on the stay and — unlike the matter of when taxi transfers are totally necessary rather than over-indulgent — this time we’re in agreement. This hotel may not have the ballrooms, celebrity-filled guestbooks or Michelin stars that some of its more established neighbours do, but in a region that often rests heavily on its (ancient) history-rich laurels, Ara Maris feels like a breath of fresh, salt-flecked air.