La Roqqa

It is a wonder we arrived at La Roqqa at all. 

The Fiat Mrs Smith had rented was smaller than a suitcase — molto Italian, and honestly pretty cute — but it had so little horsepower that if a road had even a single degree of incline, it all but started going backwards. And the beautiful thing about Tuscany? Hills. 

Luckily, there’s another side to Tuscany too. Islands. Or almost-islands. Our tin-can Fiat finally picks up speed as we take one of the three slender causeways that loosely anchor Monte Argentario to the mainland, and as it does, everything slots into place. Poppies and pini marittimi line the road; swallows seem to escort the car as if it were Snow White; Fleetwood Mac plays on the stereo. And as we pull into Porto Ercole — terracotta-toned, catwalks of sailboats crossing the bay— we’re awash with a sense of holiday. 

Thus far, speeding hasn’t been a problem, but parking might be. As we pull up the hill to La Roqqa — rust-red on a steep, jasmine-lined street, its balconies overflowing with banana palms — there appears to be just one space. But within seconds, a trio of handsome men in linen appear. One takes our keys, one takes our bags, and a third whisks us to a terrace for a welcome cocktail that arrives just as the sun crests over the roof to drape itself over our arms.

The welcome continues from every angle. Our room is a layer cake of private terraces right at the parapet of the hotel. It’s a love letter to bathing — both sun and water — with a huge stone outdoor bath tub, round as a pound and deep enough to disappear in. Outside, the terrace’s tones match the Tuscan sun, inside is nearly all soft white; the beautiful chromatic equivalent of taking a Xanax. A tray awaits us with chilled prosecco and a rose-shaped dessert shielded by a glass bell jar. And as we open our closets like stockings at Christmas — a well-stocked minibar; a smorgasbord of La Roqqa-embroidered necessities — we do our now traditional prayer: Blessed be Lord and Lady Smith.

A blazing sun means only one thing in most romantic languages though, and that thing is ‘beach club’. La Roqqa’s, Isolotta, is tucked, handsome and hidden, into the neighbouring cove, so a shuttle will whisk you up the steep hill and down the other side: a feat of technical driving that would make even Bond consider early retirement.

In a flip reversal of religious stories, a paradise awaits after the descent. Yet more jasmine, this time in archways, and beyond it a tiered grass amphitheatre that curves around the beach, making every seat — and by seat I mean teak double day-bed — the best in the house. 

We pick ours, under a decadent pagoda parasol, and I realise, as our shoes slip off, I’ve never been in a seafront garden before, with grass rather than sand underfoot. It’s a glorious sensation my body almost doesn’t understand. I’m still marvelling at this when Mrs Smith tells me that Porto Ercole, with its patchwork of olive fields and stegosaurus spines of hills studded with forts, was where Caravaggio lived out his last days. 'And if anyone knew beauty, it was him,' she says. 

Butterflies catch currents of breeze between us. Prehistoric-looking boulders bowl into the ocean, framing the path into the water. For Mrs Smith, that’s an invitation, and before I know it, snorkel in situ, she’s disappeared. 

She has bolder marine plans for day two. Over breakfast at La Roqqa’s rooftop restaurant Scirocco — an à la carte spread so gargantuan I have to use my camera at 0.5x to capture the full canvas — she announces that she would like to take out a speedboat for the day. 

'With a captain?' I ask. I look at her. It’s like that Natalie Portman meme, Natalie’s face crystallising into a grimace. 'With a captain, right?'

'No,' she says, putting a final bite of a homemade gianduja pastry in her mouth, 'in Italy you don’t even need a driving license.'

Which is good because I only got mine six months ago and haven’t sat behind the wheel of a car since. And, if I haven’t mentioned it, this is a boat. A very sweet boat — a RIB with baby-blue flanks and a cream metal steering wheel — but a boat nonetheless. The lesson we are given is less than two minutes long and doesn’t include vital information like 'how to broach a large wave'. Fortunately Mrs Smith is there to feed me AI-generated information we later discover is absolutely, life-threateningly incorrect. 

But we survive. Not just survive, find our stride. Mine, gentle, delicate, studded with sudden jerks that threaten to throw Mrs Smith overboard. Mrs Smith’s, when she takes the throttle, full speed, her hair exploding like an exhaust behind her. 

We whip round the coast, tipping our hat at Isolotto, gorgeous from this angle too, past windows in rocks, and coves and beaches and grottos, and expensive yachts whose steeples tilt in the breeze.

Egrets and cormorants — elegant and lithe — fly over head, and I do my own type of bird-watching too: Mrs Smith, her hair a little calmer now, in a tiny red swimsuit lying across the deck with her feet in the water, Mrs Smith diving into the impossible blue, Mrs Smith climbing back on board into the plush La Roqqa towel I wrap around her like a flag. 

After a hard day on the sea, the sailors come aboard the port and seek their rest at Scirocco. From a lavish Caravaggio-inspired cocktail list, we go for Isaacos, an Italian master twist on a Negroni with salvia, brine and a final touch of samphire, which settles our sea legs into something close to euphoria. A moment too, please, for possibly the world’s best bar snack. At first I think they’re olives — just four of them in a little china cup. 'Just try,' the barmen tells us. Crunchy as radishes, yet so full of acid and life we’re rendered a little speechless: it turns out they’re dwarf peaches, marinated in a summer-truffle infusion for six months.

Dinner is headlined by a choice of four tasting menus: I choose di mare, Mrs Smith goes for the grand classics. There are no mistakes. Even from the first bites — focaccia with butter-soft potatoes lurking just under the crust, served with solid whipped olive oil you can spread like butter, peppery and bright — we know we are in safe hands, and it continues to unfold: delicate dishes in walled plates, deconstructed and rebuilt into little edible sculptures. Among the highlights: a silky, umami explosion of spaghettone with truffle and marinated egg; and grilled monkfish served with wild fennel sauce and Swiss chard from the garden.

Scirocco, with its navy and burgundy chequerboard charm, sprawls over a roaming roof terrace, but on a blustery night, its interior is intimate, low-lit, effortlessly romantic too. Striking small-scale paintings hang on the walls, which makes sense with Siena, the birthplace of miniatures, not far away. Throughout the hotel, lovers of Italian design will be in their elemento, with touches that span the centuries: Venetian plaster with its subtle shifting shine, mid-century perforated metal, low-slung Cassina and B&B Italia seating, terrazzo of course, and Romanesque curves. 

After more courses that we can count, we return to our private fortress of a room and survey our temporary kingdom from our terraces. It’s hard when looking out is so beautiful, but look up when you’re in Porto Ercole too. At least when we were there, the stars were impossibly clear, that old friend, the Big Dipper, winking hello from right above us. 

I dispel thoughts of the Fiat tomorrow. But this much I know: after two days at La Roqqa, we will be leaving with enough gas in our tanks to make it up the sheerest of Tuscan inclines.