Miramalfi

Amalfi in August was not our original plan. We were meant to be roughly 4,000 miles away, visiting friends in Quebec, before Air Canada’s strike left us stranded at Heathrow on a grey Monday morning, all packed and raring to go. It would have been too sad just to go home again, tails between our legs, wouldn’t it? So, sitting on our suitcases outside the Terminal 2 Caffè Nero, Dr Smith began trawling the British Airways website for reward flights leaving later that day to, well, anywhere. Time to put those Avios to good use. 

'Italy…?' he ventured.

'…is always a good idea,' I nodded enthusiastically, already picturing myself sipping wine on some impossibly picturesque harbourside. Sun-warmed limbs and briny breezes. 'Even if we can’t find a nice hotel, the coffee’s going to be better than this.'

As it turned out, the hotel we wound up in was more than ‘nice’. The first indication of Miramalfi’s exceptional aesthetics came in the private transfer car from Naples; instead of run-of-the-mill plastic bottles, we were handed hotel-branded cartons of water, prettily patterned in turquoise. I tried not to spill mine over the leather seats as the road through the Lattari Mountains spiralled like a strand of cooked spaghetti. Then we were dropping down into The Talented Mr Ripley territory, gawping at a series of precipitous, pastel villages — Ravello, Atrani, Amalfi — with the same wide-eyed, first-timer wonder as Tom.

Up close, admittedly, their streets were congested with a not-so-cinematic horde of tourists, Vespas and hire cars (it was, after all, peak summertime). Thankfully, Miramalfi was set apart from the mêlée in the next cove along. A cascade of ivy-clad, cliffside terraces, the place seemed to hover gravity-defyingly above the waves, like a modernist Mount Olympus.

The goddesses, in this case, were receptionists drifting about in silk magenta pussy-bow blouses (perfectly co-ordinated with the cover of Assouline’s Amalfi Coast displayed behind the front desk), beaming 'Benvenuta!' and handing across glasses of homemade lemonade.

If the trip were a La Dolce Vita-era movie, this is the bit where everything bursts into Technicolor, splashes of aquamarine, fuchsia and sherbet filling the cool, checkerboard-tiled lobby, tropical plants jostling beside coral sculptures. I wasn’t surprised to learn there’d been a recent refurb — the interiors were as fresh as the lemonade, nodding to Miramalfi’s mid-century heritage and maritime setting without falling into set-piece clichés.

The hotel’s name means ‘look at Amalfi’ in Spanish (its founder lived in Mexico before turning hotelier) and we certainly did a lot of that. Even our deep clamshell of a bath tub was perfectly positioned for sea-gazing, as was the fitness centre. Normally, I give workouts a wide berth when on holiday, but Dr Smith had a marathon looming a few weeks away, and the brand-new Technogym kit looked so snazzy, I was enticed to keep him company. Probably a wise choice, considering my go-to breakfast from Miramalfi’s divine buffet included several globes of mozzarella and a slab of cherry and ricotta tart. 

We made some well-intentioned enquiries with the concierge about local hiking routes. Boat trips to Capri or Ischia were mooted, too. But in the end, we couldn’t quite tear ourselves away from our hotel haven and instead dedicated ourselves to dolce far niente — idly sipping prosecco on our balcony (I do so love it when an unsolicited bottle shows up in your room), bobbing across the saltwater pool on lilac-striped rubber rings and — possibly the most coveted of modern luxuries — having the chance to devour an entire novel.

Most of the above centred around Miramalfi’s private beach club. At first, Dr Smith looked askance at the lack of sand, but I reminded him rocky shores are the Amalfi Coast norm — and far chicer (no grains getting lodged in awkward places). These dramatically cantilevered terraces, with their zigzagging turquoise tiling and ladders leading straight into the sea, were soon splashed across my Instagram page, no doubt enraging anyone spending August in the office. Every so often, citrussy treats would show up at our sunbeds: scented chilled flannels, miniature bowls of granita.

Back in the suite, I was trying to tame my holiday-frizz hair into starlet waves, and Dr Smith was slathering himself with fig-scented Ortigia products in the shower when there was a knock at the door — the housekeeping team. They had a knack for showing up for the turndown service at what feels like peak getting-ready time. Cuing their visits during guests’ dinner reservations would be an extra-slick touch, I mused as we head to the restaurant. 'But that’s being pedantic,' I acknowledged. Dr Smith pointed to the black-and-white portraits of Anita Ekberg and Sophia Loren lining the walls. 'Maybe this lot are rubbing off you.'

Even the most demanding Golden Age star surely couldn’t fault the tasting menu at Donna Emma, though — a six-course feast on a moonlit terrace that took us from red-shrimp risotto to a raspberry-bejewelled buffalo yoghurt, plus Italian wine pairings so divine we were already placing an online order for the very same fiano and Franciacorta as the petit fours were served. I leant across the linen tablecloth and whispered a confession to Dr Smith: 'I’m actually glad our original trip got cancelled. This is perfection.'

When the moment came to return to the mortal realm, it happened with a bit of a bump. A missed ferry, to be precise. The notorious Amalfi Coast traffic was the main culprit, trapping the hotel shuttle bus in town. Yet given Miramalfi’s generally flawless service, including calling us to arrange the transfer the previous evening, it was odd not to get a heads up about the gridlock issue as it unfolded that morning, or upon checking out, rather than us wasting time kicking around in reception obliviously. That slight miscommunication left the only sour note in what was otherwise the sweetest of stays. Perhaps it was just the universe’s way of saying we should stay longer. 

Anyway, an important lesson has been learned this summer: when life gives you lemons, go to the Amalfi Coast. Specifically – if possible – to Miramalfi.