Constance Prince Maurice

A drive through deserted misty fields of sugarcane in the wee hours of the morning had Mr Smith dozing away, completely immune to its eeriness. I, on the other hand, felt like I was watching the Blair Witch Project unfold.

The jumpy journey was promptly forgotten, though, when we arrived at the foot of Constance Le Prince Maurice’s grandiose staircase. In fact, from that point on, it seemed we forgot how to do anything for ourselves at all as staff magically appeared, leaving us to slip into full relaxation mode.

As the manager walked us up to the lobby, he helpfully pointed out the beautiful black-tiled sunken fountain in our path, lest we walk into it half asleep (a good call, as the grand wood and copper carvings certainly had me gazing admiringly upwards).

We were hardly expecting a welcoming committee at that time of the morning, but bright-eyed, bushy-tailed staff were there enthusiastically informing us that the culinary team were at our disposal, too, and that a table had been set up in our suite in case we fancied an early breakfast.

Although we sleepily declined the 4am breakfast offer, it was a joy to jump out of bed and perch ourselves at the white linen-clad table where we were served epic portions of warm croissants, buttery eggs, yogurt, tropical fruits and the most decadent French toast in history.

‘There goes my diet’, said Mr Smith, dusted in milky-sugary deliciousness. The chances are, if breakfast has you weeping with joy, it’s a good sign of things to come.

You know the kind of soothing white bedding with oh, I don’t know, a million thread count… that you just melt into and want to spend the whole day cocooned in? Well, our princely junior suite came with exactly that. When we did eventually end the spell of hibernation it prompted, we opened the glass door that led to an outdoor seating area, fought the compulsion to jump in the hammock and strolled lazily towards the beach.

We detoured past one of the swimming pools hidden among the foliage and surveyed the watersport-perfect depths beyond: jet skis, hobby cats, sailboats and kayaks were all provided by the hotel. On the bleached-blond shores, there were plenty of colourful oversized cushions and day beds to distract the less active.

Bars temptingly preceded restaurants and they were scattered from beachfront to poolside via some floating decks on a lake. We settled in for some local cuisine, which packed a whopping gastronomical punch: creole curries; French cuisine; seafood grills… Pashminas and reading glasses were offered as we took our seats; a toothpick at the end of the meal. It was all suavely executed and very much suited to our new eat-relax-sleep-repeat cycle.

The spa was a delightful pilgrimage into another realm of calm altogether. It began with a hot ginger tea and a cold towel scented with whiffs of Frangipani. Then I was ready for the solitude of the relaxation area where a thatched four-poster bed took center stage in a courtyard flanked by a Hammam, sauna and changing rooms. I dutifully inhaled in the steam room, baked in the sauna and dipped (my toes) in the icy cold plunge pool.

And, oh, the massage! Customized to perfection; its soothing long strokes sent me into a sound sleep. When I woke up, I was refreshed and, quite literally, functioning at a slower inner pace.

Well established and perfectly polished, clearly Constance le Prince Maurice is a Mauritian grand dame. The well-rehearsed and time-tested behaviour of staff makes for a special kind of spoiling. And if you don’t take my word for it, ask Michael Douglas – a note of his, packed with praise, is framed and hung in the library next to the other celebrity fans.