Donna Coraly Resort

Once upon a time, a Sicilian maid spied a man from her balcony and fell in love. They embarked on a passionate affair, until she discovered he was already married. This was pre-Tinder, so instead of cutting him loose, she cut off his head and upcycled it into a flowerpot. It became the interior-design trend of the 11th century, and soon the island’s balconies were gussied up like a warlord’s trophy cabinet. 

The end. 

You may ask: what does this have to do with luxury hotels? Well, these heads are still in vogue in Donna Coraly Resort (majolica versions, thankfully) and in Syracuse’s souvenir shops. One watches me as I sleep in my suite, two stare as I brush my teeth and a gang rests stoically on the resort’s tranquil terrace – it’s as if George R R Martin’s moonlighted as an Italian interior designer. They’re oddly fitting; this beautiful Sicilian stay, built around a 13th-century fort amid orange groves and artichoke fields on the San Michele estate, stands head – and shoulders – above other resorts on the south-east coast. It’s sun-bleached and attractively weathered, Neapolitan-ice-cream-hued and – aside from some warbly songbirds (AM) and amorous crickets (PM) – whisper-quiet.  

I arrive unfashionably late; on the drive from Catania airport, the sleepy moonlit streets of Syracuse diminish into bumpy, black-out-dark country lanes – the sort of rustic environs that inspire a lifelong, fantasy-prone city dweller to mentally calculate their net ransom worth (around €50?). Cheerful and immaculately coiffed Milanese owner Lucia (granddaughter of formidable aristo, socialite and women’s rights activist Donna Coraly Grande Sinatra) is waiting by the gate to greet me. Plane-weary, I look a little like a ‘down on my luck’ backpacker by comparison, but Lucia graciously ushers me into a lushly planted, perfumed courtyard bedecked with sylphlike palms and in-bloom rosebushes; I quickly and wholeheartedly embrace Stockholm Syndrome. 

Each suite (there are five in total) has a semi-private garden with a stone path leading to a softly-lit terrace. Interiors deftly showcase character and serenity, and Moorish and Med design: a peacock-blue iron bed frame and tiling in gold and lapis lazuli enlivens white walls. If your toilette’s diminished by the 100-millilitre airport-security rule, the bathroom’s a cornucopia of hotel minis: the Etnian-stone counter is lined with Marvis toothpaste, beaded pots with razors and shaving foam, make-up pads, cotton doodads and nail files. It’s so lavishly stocked that, come check-out, I’m torn between squeezing the body lotion or conditioner into my already-crammed airport baggie. Giddy, I throw open the minibar, expecting a boozy Tardis of Italian treats; to my horror, the contents amount to two bottles of mineral water. Lucia later explains that guests are offered drinks on arrival – unfortunately, my tardiness leaves me staring into a wine-free fridge, wondering why bad things happen to good people. 

By morning the outlook is sunnier, blindingly so – just right for bikini-donning and pool-dunking. While sunbathing on a beach-style bank, I’m reminded that British ‘fire up the barbecue’ weather is the Med’s polar vortex; natives wearing five layers of cashmere look on in alarm. Refreshed, I take a 20-minute taxi ride to Syracuse and Ortigia island. My poor knowledge of Sicilian history amounts to knowing that Garibaldi and the Bourbons were humans before they were biscuits, so this Unesco world-heritage site fills in some of the gaps. I amble by the Grecian Temple of Apollo, ornate cathedral and Church of Santa Lucia Alla Badia. I’m smitten with the coral- and apricot-coloured alleyways, sparkly blue Ionian and aperitivo stops in bombastic piazzas. 

If you’re fatigued, or have scurvy, Sicily is a one-stop curative: imbibing vitamin C is a national pastime. I get my fix from Donna Coraly’s house marmalade and orange cakes, candied peel and ripe fruit from the farm. Alongside freshly-squeezed OJ, this fertile region has extra-virgin olive oil and Nero d’Avola wine running through its veins; and locavores are in luck: you can trace the lineage of the restaurant’s ingredients to within a five-minute walk of your room. At the end of the resort’s cacti-and-palm-edged park, planters overflow with fat bean pods, strawberries like puckered lips, giant, frilly cabbages and more. I’ve compiled a list of things to repatriate to London: resort hound Regina (we played fetch, it was special), the wine-delivering manservant… After dinner, I add chef Giuseppe. He turns 0-kilometre produce into magical feasts: pasta with farm-fresh salted ricotta, aubergine and tomatoes; delicate swordfish rolled in pecorino and mint. I’m full, and content. Lucia asks if I’d like to see her dog’s newborn puppies; ‘Yes, yes I would,’ I reply. 

Sicily can keep its ceramic noggins; I prefer their majolica pine cones, a traditional symbol of hospitality and immortality. My suite has a family of them on display in the living room and they’ve proved prophetic: I certainly feel well looked after, if not immortal – yet.