Martinhal Sagres

Way, way down in its southwest corner, Portugal tapers to a tempestuous point, Cape St Vincent. Here, cliffs rise more than 200 feet straight up from the ocean churn, raptors coast rapturously on the penny-whistling wind, and ancient myths abound: the Greeks called this spot Ophiussa (Land of Serpents), and the Romans Promontorium Sacrum (or Holy Promontory), the place from which you could see the world’s edge – out there, where the sun sets. The Cape is the perfect place to run away to when you’re swept up in the riptide of a new passion – an abandoned place for a weekend of abandonment. Or – in our case – when you’re exhausted new parents. ‘Did you book the babysitter?’ asks Mr Smith, breaking the silence instilled by the landscape…

Yes, we have come to this remorseless but beautiful spot for a ménage-à-trois. Mr Smith and I are seeking a few hours to ourselves by candlelight, hoping for a good sound sleep by nightlight, and looking forward to playing with Baby Smith by daylight. We can do this here because the wild Cape is home to a very serene hotel, the Martinhal, pronounced Martinyal as we learn upon arriving. (Pronounce it in too English a way and it’s more evocative of a frumpy suburb of Birmingham.)

The premise behind the resort, a combination of self-catering houses and standard hotel rooms, is that being family-friendly doesn’t mean dowdy decor and a lack of luxe. Having requested the most baby-friendly accommodation, we’ve been booked into a self-catering Ocean house and soon find ourselves whirring down winding paths in a golf buggy to our room. It takes only a glance to see that Martinhal lives up to its intentions. It’s clear where interior designer Michael Sodeau drew his inspiration from when he fashioned the glass-enhanced interiors. It’s a canny move, given the Algarve wilderness that beckons from Martinhal Sagres’ terraces and floor-to-ceiling windows – a national park on one side, and a sandy beach on the other.

The hotel’s architecture is also in accord with the surroundings: low-rise timber-clad buildings covered in pebbles, with stone-paved paths leading to the various rooms. Don’t let the raw and rugged coastal setting mislead you – this is a thoroughly civilised affair, with an indulgent spa, a clutch of dining options, beachside bar and a watersports club. Guests get the best of both worlds: all the facilities of the Martinhal Sagres, with the privacy of the hotel’s sea-surveying boutique boudoirs.

A glance at our digs reveals two bedrooms and bathrooms on the ground floor that are smart, stylish, and practical: wicker light fittings, cork-based coffee tables, tub chairs and timber headboards, and an oceanic palette of sea greens and grey blues. The look is clean and contemporary, without being hard-edged. On the contrary, the organic shapes and well-placed shots of vibrant colour and pattern – oversized Designer’s Guild cushions on the sofa, a bright orange statement lamp over the dining table – emanate warmth.

But the top floor, an open-plan living space, is where the wow factor lies. Wall-to-wall sliding glass doors give onto a balcony from which we can see square miles of ocean. Wide, wild and windswept, the vista is hypnotic in the way that end-of-the-earth places often are.

We quickly unpack and set out to reconnoiter. The resort has four swimming pools, sports facilities aplenty, a village square (OK, a bit twee), and a tempting spa. It doesn’t take long to decide that the hotel pool is where we will spend the rest of the afternoon, happily semi-drowning in the Fatboy giant beanbag chairs that are a Martinhal trademark. The ever-present stiff breeze keeps us cool in the 28-degree heat, and we’re pleased to discover that the vast infinity edge pool is heated, which keeps Little Smith bobbing about happily for hours in his inflatable ring. That's the clever thing about Martinhal is that it is all things to everyone: families get the freedom and boring essentials (microwave, washing machine), and couples get a greater variety of facilities than a 38-room hotel could usually offer.

So, the babysitter turns up on the dot of 8.30pm, and we set off for the fine dining restaurant, O Terraço. Here we enjoy traditional Portuguese flavours given a thoroughly modern spin. Mr Smith has the vegetarian tasting menu which features as diverse ingredients as turnip tops and cheese with honey, punctuated with a refreshing lemon sorbet palate cleanser. I choose a tastebud-tingling codfish carpaccio followed by slow-cooked beef shank flavoured with orange and lemon. Guided by the sommelier, we romp through the Portuguese-only wine list, and revel (even Mr Smith!) in being transported back to the world we took for granted pre-baby.

I carry on the next day by heading for the Finisterra Spa, where I have a 90-minute facial that uses Voya Irish hand-harvested seaweed. Slimy green texture notwithstanding, the experience is extremely pleasant and relaxing. ‘You look so… so… so… well,’ says Mr Smith in a uncharacteristic bout of rhapsody. All that fresh sea air has clearly gone to his head.