Faro Punta Imperatore

The Neapolitans have a saying: vedi Napoli e poi muori. See Naples and then die. Which might make the island just across the water actual paradise. 

On our way to Faro Punta Imperatore, Mr Smith and I arrive in Ischia by one of the many hydrofoils that leave the port regularly, buying our tickets hassle-free on the day, at the desk. Fifty minutes later, the city has dissolved into the distance, and we swap urban clamour for volcanic cliffs and impossible shades of blue. It's similar to Capri, but with the volume turned down and the authenticity turned up. 

The wonderful Luigi had sent many welcome emails before our arrival. Most concerned the same two subjects: the roads are extremely narrow, and heels are a bad idea. Cars, he warned, are best left to the locals. Mr Smith needs no further encouragement and rents us a scooter; within minutes we're weaving through streets scarcely wider than our handlebars.  

The final approach to the hotel is on foot. We park, shoulder our bags, and descend a series of charming stone steps. En route, we pass a zip-line trolley designed to ferry luggage down to the property. I'm almost sad we've arrived with little more than swimwear thrown into a roll-top bag, missing the novelty of needing to use it.  

The walk itself is part of the arrival. The sea dominates every turn until, unexpectedly, the lighthouse appears — a brilliant white against the endless sky and sea. It feels less like a hotel than a castle discovered at the edge of the world. Luigi appears, mildly horrified that we hadn't phoned ahead. 'I would have met you,' he protests. But I can't imagine a better arrival than wandering down in the quiet, and having this secret reveal itself.  

We're welcomed not with paperwork but an aperitivo, served on loungers overlooking the sea. Spotting another couple across the lawn, I ask Luigi whether the hotel is busy. He smiles. 'Full.' With only four rooms occupying the upper floors of the restored lighthouse, it dawns on me that this is what ‘full’ looks like. 

The ground floor is home to the restaurant Luci, where chef Antonio Monti creates elegant dishes from produce grown across the island. A spiral staircase leads upstairs to generous bedrooms furnished with vintage-inspired Francisco Segarra chairs and crisp island-made linen. It's no surprise this place has become something of a wedding destination — the whole thing feels like someone's impossibly stylish private home that you've somehow been invited into. 

Our first night is spent in Grecale, a room flooded with light from enormous windows framing the sea. Even the bathroom looks out onto the water, something I discover while taking an entirely unnecessary mirror selfie, having never before brushed my teeth while staring across the Tyrrhenian Sea. Sea-view bathrooms, it turns out, are one of life's greatest overlooked indulgences. 

For our second night we move into Maestrale, described as the property's most impressive room. Logically, it probably is. Emotionally, I find myself mourning the loss of that bathroom window. The rooms wrap around one another inside the lighthouse, meaning not every space can command a panoramic outlook. It feels ridiculous to experience disappointment somewhere so beautiful, but that's the strange thing about paradise — gripes have to be invented. 

At one point, Mr Smith disappears to take an unavoidable phone call. I stay behind, simply sat, facing the windows. The breeze drifts through the room. Everywhere I look seems worthy of a painting. I briefly consider writing my memoirs. Then, I research precisely what psychological effect this particular shade of blue is having on me. When Mr Smith returns, we joke about taking the whole place over for the summer. The joke becomes less funny the longer we look out to sea. 

We spend our days exploring the island by scooter, whizzing from thermal spa to port towns before following Luigi's recommendation of climbing into Ischia's green interior to Il Focolare for the island's signature slow-cooked rabbit. It is worth every hairpin bend. Afterwards we return for a dip in the pool, followed by an aperitivo on the rooftop terrace, where the hotel's position on the island's western edge makes it the perfect place to watch the sun disappear into the sea.  

If you return late, there's a key in a locked box, although we come back very late twice and both times someone is there. The hospitality is attentive but wonderfully unobtrusive, which is harder to pull off than it sounds.  

One thing worth knowing: the walk out is considerably more arduous than the walk down. Whether this is an oversight or a deliberate discouragement to leave, we couldn't say. It's so easy to spend your days hopping between beaches, thermal springs and mountain villages before returning, each evening, to the reassuring sight of the lighthouse standing watch. 

Too often, boutique hotels promise tranquillity when what you actually get is your normal life, reupholstered. This place does something rarer. Faro Punta Imperatore possesses that rare quality every luxury hotel claims but few deliver: it genuinely changes the pace of your thoughts. By the end of our stay, I feel rested in a way that surprises me — not sleepy, but recalibrated, and ready to throw myself back into normal life, albeit reluctantly.  

The Neapolitans may be right about their city. But after a few days at the lighthouse, the island paradise just across the water makes a pretty compelling case of its own.