Cristine Bedfor Sevilla

The scene that greets us as we trundle our little cases into Cristine Bedfor Sevilla is straight out of a Pedro Almodóvar film: a ludicrously glamorous, all-female poker game in full flow. No, seriously. It might actually be the most chic thing I have ever seen in my life. Thirty or so Spanish women of all ages, beautifully dressed and Loewe-handbagged to the nines, are seated at card tables, blood-red manicures flashing as they place their bets. The room is thick with gossip, orange-blossom scented candles and Chanel No 5. I half expect to spot Penélope Cruz. It is very fabulous and slightly eccentric, which turns out to be this hotel in a nutshell. 

Cristine Bedfor is the fictional alter ego of Cristina Lozano, the Spanish hotelier who has added this delightful Seville establishment to already beloved retreats in Menorca and Málaga. No, I didn’t know hoteliers had fictional alter egos either, but it tracks, when you think about it: hoteliers are storytellers, because hotels are fairy-tale places. Cristine Bedfor, this entirely imaginary hostess, was born in London to a diplomat father (Pablo) and a philosopher/archeologist mother (Victoria), and raised in the Mediterranean; and her blend of British eclecticism and Spanish heritage sets the tone — warm, cosmopolitan, cultured — for her guests. Cristine Bedfor is, in other words, exactly the sort of woman who would host a high-rolling girls’ poker night. 

But first things first. This place is a stunner, from the moment the taxi pulls up outside. The hotel was built as a theatre, in the distinctive Neo-Mudéjar style of Seville, which blends Moorish elements — red brickwork, horseshoe arches, rich ornamentation — with airy Spanish elegance. (The same architect, Aníbal González, designed the Plaza de España, the city’s most breathtaking central square.) Vast jade-green doors lead into the lobby, where star-shaped lanterns hang above ikat-papered walls. We nibble on delicious almond macaroons and admire the lion-print carpet, before the charming receptionist leads us to the show-stopping internal courtyard, balconied on all sides, where the poker game is taking place. 

Our room, 102, is on the first floor, overlooking the street. The bedroom is bijou but cosy, with English country-house curtains clashing charmingly with woodwork cut in the intricate star-shaped patterns (zellij) that are a feature of Moorish design, the stars representing the infinite nature of the universe. The bathroom is generously sized, with a huge walk-in shower as well as a freestanding bath. 

Seville is the perfect city for a minibreak. Easy to get to — the airport is a 15-minute taxi from the hotel — and a breeze to explore on foot. We didn’t need another taxi until it was time to leave. A 20-minute stroll took us to the cathedral, where we climbed the belltower for spectacular, incense-soaked views over the rooftops, before wandering into the warren of back streets around Calle Álvarez Quintero, where we hopped from one pavement table to another. First stop was for a caña — a small, ice-cold beer — with a dish of hot, salty padrón peppers. The next was for mussels served on crisps — silky and crunchy, messy, delicious — with tinto de verano, which is the local version of sickly sangria, the red wine blended with lemon and soda water rather than fruit juice. 

After our tapas warm up, it was dinnertime back at Cristine’s. The restaurant tables are dotted around the theatre balcony — dinner on the dress circle, if you will — and laid with flair, all scalloped placemats, crystal glassware and mismatched plates. Fried anchovies fanned around a tiny copper pan of aioli were divine, the slow-cooked Iberian pork delicious. How we found room for the orange-and-almond cake for dessert I will never know, but I’m glad we did. 

It wouldn’t be Seville without flamenco, so please allow me to tell you exactly where you need to go. Skip the pricey, touristy theatre tickets, and head to La Carbonería, a local institution, where there is no admission ticket, a chaotic cash-only bar, and wooden benches packed around a tiny dancefloor. There are different musicians and dancers every night, with performances every hour or so. On the night we visited, the charismatic, ponytailed, foot-stamping male dancer was so hypnotic we watched one performance and then stuck around for another, with a drink in the twinkling courtyard in between. 

Breakfast at a hotel is one of life’s great pleasures, IMHO, and this was no exception. We browsed the help-yourself buffet, piling our plates with slices of fragrant melon and cookies warm from the oven, before — no judgement please — moving on to bowls of yoghurt laced with local honey, and gratifyingly wobbly poached eggs. Fortified, we made our way to the Real Alcázar, Moorish fort turned Spanish royal palace, which is the jewel in Seville’s crown and not to be missed. Wandering the maze of rose gardens to the soundtrack of gentle fountains, peacocks criss-crossing the tiled walkways, blue sky luminous above the protective shade of courtyard walls, is perfection. 

There is much more to see in Seville — a strong recommend, if you have time, is to visit the sumptuously sensuous spa and hammam at Aire Ancient Baths — but please do save some time for the hotel’s small-but-perfectly-formed rooftop. Just six sunloungers, a tiny plunge pool for cooling off, and a few parasol-covered tables perfect for an apéritif and a good book. Order a margarita — Cristine makes a very good one. Of course she does.