La Bionda Hotel Begur

'Bye, boys, be good…' The hurried reminders. The final wave. The door clunking shut behind us. Our steps slowly quickening as though the imminent freedom might be snatched away if we don't move fast enough…

We’d just left the Little Smiths in the hands of Granny Smith to set off on our Great Escape. Our destination lay barely a five-minute drive away.

After closing a decade-long chapter in Mallorca, a little over a year ago we upped sticks to the Costa Brava town of Begur. But between the upheaval of relocation, settling into a new routine and — because apparently moving isn’t stressful enough — taking on a hefty house renovation, we’d barely had the chance to appreciate our adopted hometown. 

On top of this, the inconvenient truth about being a travel-writer-with-youngsters is that hotel stays are usually either work trips or family trips; rarely are they holidays. So the prospect of spending a couple of nights at what I’d heard was among Begur’s most extraordinary hotels felt improbably exciting.

'What are you waiting for?' asks Mrs Smith, as I linger for a second longer than necessary before starting the car. I’m guessing she needs this break even more than I do. 

I must have passed the entrance to La Bionda a dozen times, never realising what lay behind — only a small bronze plaque discreetly announces its presence. Inside, however, was quite a different story.  

The first clue to La Bionda's playful persona raises smiles on arrival: a prominently displayed purple velvet bellhop's hat, positioned as though its wearer had just stepped away between takes. The hotel has a flair for the theatrical that invites cinematic comparisons. Colourful artworks compete for attention with brocante-scavaged curios, Technicolor accents punctuate historic interiors, and every room seems arranged for a scene that has yet to be filmed. Wes Anderson references are impossible to resist, though the hotel never tips into parody. It’s far too cool for that.

The first formalities of our stay were handled by a member of staff called Lola, who seemed to glide around during our stay, quietly and efficiently running the show. Rather than standing at the pillarbox-red reception desk, we sank into a sumptuous purple sofa in one of the adjoining salons while she completed check-in. It all felt less like arriving at a hotel, more like being welcomed into the home of an eccentric but elusive host.

A drab rectangle of plastic to open your door? Golly, no. Only a proper key attached to an extravagantly tasselled brass fob will do. A regular chrome-and-mirror lift to your floor? Certainly not. Line it with panels from an antique dresser and paint it scarlet, of course.  

Each of the seven rooms pays homage to a remarkable woman from the early 20th century — ours was pioneering German-Argentine photographer, Grete Stern. Aptly, after flopping onto the supremely comfy bed, I noticed the window perfectly framed Begur's mediaeval lanes and clocktower like a carefully composed photo. Thankfully, we later discovered the bells observe civilised hours, falling silent between reasonable hours of slumber.

Even the bathroom had other-era drama: a shower large enough to echo, a gushing vintage faucet, a toilet with a yankable chain. Ceramic light switches, tassel-trimmed art deco lamps and a plump, claret-coloured headboard add further to the heady air of Thirties-boudoir luxe.

Luxury of a different kind, however, lay beyond the room. Stepping out into Begur, not only sans sprogs, but as tourists, offered an exquisite change of perspective. We wandered streets we thought we knew, suddenly noticing details we'd previously hurried past while probably discussing the likes of paint samples or builder schedules. We weren't locals ticking things off an interminable list; we were visitors again, with all the freedom and fun of experiencing the town for the first time.

The joy of La Bionda is that it encourages precisely this sort of aimless meandering. Return from a stroll, and there's always an inviting corner waiting for you: a shade-dappled courtyard, or an aperitif-ready terrace with views over the rooftops of Begur. The hotel has mastered the art of making idleness feel purposeful.

The following morning brought breakfast in the sun-flooded conservatory. While morning meat isn’t usually my thing, it seemed rude not to sample the cured selection from the owner's family butcher. My involuntary 'nmmms' at the smoked turkey made Mrs Smith lean over and snaffle a shaving; she concurred with similar noises. In fact, the whole breakfast experience was sublime, down to the fabulous crockery (handmade by the owner's uncle), freshly squeezed juice (made with oranges sourced from the neighbourhood) and conserves (from a nearby farmhouse).

We may have travelled barely a mile, yet it had been so much more than just a staycation. Back home, the Little Smiths had survived. Granny Smith was still in one piece. And together with a wonderful stay, La Bionda had done what a year of living in Begur hadn't: given us the chance to finally fall for the place.