L’Ôtel Chiquitos

Mr Smith and I were in San Miguel de Allende for a wedding. Not ours (not just yet) but a good friend’s who claimed the UNESCO World Heritage Site was the most photogenic place he’d ever been to. And he should know – he’s a globe-trotting photographer.

The local government shared our friend’s enthusiasm, judging by the huge sign at the city’s entrance: ‘San Miguel de Allende – Mexico’s present to the world.’ As it happened, Mexico’s gift was a very hilly one, and our driver took the wrong route, so we were left, laden with suitcases, to huff and puff our way up a cobblestoned street  to L’Ôtel Chiquitos, our centrally located boutique bolthole.

A carved wooden door opened to reveal a sanctuary of cool in soothing tones of creams, greens and pinks. This 16th-century building was once the home of a wealthy candlestick maker and is now owned by interior designers Roy and Sally Azar, who clearly have a passion for flora. Lilies burst out of vases at reception (and everywhere, really), matching Leigh Hyams’ big botanical canvases.

As Martin the manager handed us an ice-cold melon juice, a curtain billowed in the breeze. Behind it was a pretty courtyard with dusty pink walls covered in bougainvillea and in the corner we spied a cosy alcove lined with cushions. Heady scents of orange blossom and jasmine wafted on the breeze. Soon enough, the Mexican midday heat outside seemed like a figment of our travel-fatigued imaginations.

There are only four rooms, making this feel more like a super stylish friend’s house than a hotel. Ours was the Junior Suite on the ground floor, a room with a regal air and French-chic style. By the fireplace, a patch of exposed brick wall revealed itself, and above us, the afternoon sun poured in from a horizontal skylight. A crown-shaped lamp sat regally on an antique desk.

However, commanding all of the attention from the centre of the suite was a high four-poster bed fit for a king and queen – or rather, a Mr and Mrs Smith. Unable to resist, we stepped on the foot stools (for the vertically challenged) placed on either side of the bed, sunk into a mountain of marshmallow pillows and practically purred.

Light-headed from all this loveliness, we then followed a wrought-iron spiral staircase up to the terracotta rooftop, complete with a tiled Jacuzzi pool, potted palm trees and sun loungers. We sipped a velvety cabernet sauvignon and watched as the setting sun cast its tangerine light onto the city’s pastel spires and domes. Church bells tolled and the faint sound of a Mariachi band played in the distance. Sound cloyingly perfect? It was.

That’s the thing about San Miguel de Allende. It’s stupidly romantic. It’s the Mexico I dreamt of before I’d ever been – a city with a revolutionary past and an artistic present, where white-shirted men in sombreros lean against cayenne-coloured walls. Yes, stereotypes are alive and kicking in this city so picturesque that it’s hard to believe it’s not a film set.

The next day, the breakfast huevos divorciados (‘divorced eggs’) covered in green and red salsa, seemed like the perfect antidote to all this romance. Melt-in-the-mouth French pastries, organic coffee, creamy homemade yoghurt and granola preceded the eggs, as did an education on Mexican fruit and flower juices I’d never heard of (flor de Jamaica, anyone?)

Refreshed and revived, we headed into town, passing perfectly preserved colonial houses in bright yellows, reds and blues. The main square – just two blocks from L’Ôtel Chiquitos – was a hub of activity: lovers canoodled on benches, women sold knick-knacks and moustached men gossiped on street corners. Nearby, an artisan market had the world’s best selection of Day of the Dead earrings and more Frida Kahlo handbags you could shake a chili at. At the other end of the price spectrum was La Aurora, an art design centre housed in a former textile factory that Martin had recommended. I tried on vintage sunglasses and peered at quirky paintings before rumbling stomachs dictated it was time for our daily dose of guacamole.

For dinner that evening, we ignored the tourist office’s recommendation (an Irish pub) and went for ever-reliable Martin’s suggestion instead (a trendy bar-restaurant). Around the corner from the hotel, slick La Mezcaleria served up tapas-style dishes, such as spicy grilled octopus with mint pesto and mango, and a lemony tuna tartar with olives and habanero chili. Bless you Martin, bless you.

Another night at L’Ôtel Chiquitos meant another sleep in that four-poster. I don’t know whether it was the crisp Italian bedlinens, the goose-down duvet or simply last night’s (moderate) abstinence from margaritas, but this was one of the best nights of sleep I’ve ever had. Mr Smith woke up feeling jovial too; although his good mood had as much to do with the Six Nations match on that morning as it did the perfect night’s sleep he’d had. At Martin’s insistence (‘están en su casa’), Mr Smith made himself at home in the pink living room – surrounded by more fresh lilies, floral cushions and feminine motifs – to watch the rugby.

But for me, the rooftop called. ‘Would you like the plunge pool heated?’ Why yes, Martin, I would. As I soaked up the Mexican sun in preparation for the wedding that afternoon, I thanked the Mayan gods for Mexico’s gift to the world, for that four-poster bed and for marvellous Martin.