Muse St Tropez

Through a maze of teeny tiny gravel paths, a circular retro-futuristic (futro?) construction in raw brick rears out of fields of whimsical dainty flowers and wild Provençal grasses – it’s seemingly straight from the drawing board of a James Bond set designer.  No doors or windows to ruin the effect, just an opening in the wall (and St Tropez apparently has no bad weather to shut out anyway) – from here Muse’s reception beckons. An efficient and discreet iPad exchange later and we are crunching our way across more gravel to our suite.

Muse does a rare thing in successfully marrying Malaysian and Tropezian style; mostly through a kaleidoscope of beige and concealed lighting, which managed to convert me. This red-velvet, chandelier-and-dripping-gold kind of gal is now a born-again beige fan. Every corner and corridor is worthy of a glossy interior-design tome, and at least a month’s worth of material for Instagrammers. I was delighted to find we’d been upgraded to the vast Ava suite; that’s Muse’s policy if the next category up is not booked. Plates of petit fours and fresh exotic fruits were sitting pretty on the coffee table upon our arrival, which Mr Smith hoovered up, sprawled in the sun streaming through into the lounge. I headed straight outside to our private plunge pool; why waste valuable bikini minutes on cake?  The garden was well manicured and tranquil enough to hear a champagne cork sigh from the in-room bar. Blissful privacy!

Aperitif is one of my favourite times of the day, so we popped by Muse’s poolside bar before heading into St Trop for dinner. The main ‘water salon’ continues the Malaysian aesthetic, with luxurious cabanas in turquoise water, and yet more sleek and chic design. I found a spot at the bar to enjoy the bewitching magical dusk sun that South of France does so well. Mr Smith and I were a little befuddled when the waiter approached and asked if I’d like a crap. There ensued a sketch reminscent of vintage Brit TV show The Two Ronnies, until we established that the hotel offers complimentary teatime crêpes. And they’re excellent. A dry martini, a perfect Manhattan and a couple of perfect French pancakes later, Mr Smith and I took the hotel shuttle to the port. 

St Tropez is a little village with a big name, conjuring up images of Brigitte Bardot and superyachts. In reality it’s a petite little spot, perfect for swooping in for two nights, partying like it’s 1959, and swooping off again. By day, the private beaches are popular day clubs, and the winding little streets in the village are indeed as picture-book worthy as you can hope for. The shopping is great if you want to spank your credit card, I even found an entire store dedicated to vintage Chanel costume jewellery, which didn’t excite Mr Smith as much as it did me. If you love a good dose of French-ness you could do worse than taking a moment, as we did, to watch the old boys playing pétanque in the square, obligatory pastis in hand, while tanned women stroll through the dusk with their petits chiens beetling along at their ankles.

For a dinner of bouillabaisse, Mr Smith and I found a relaxed little spot set back from the port – the great fish dishes are to be taken advantage of while you’re in St Tropez, and there are loads of cute restaurants in the cobbled backstreets. However the clubs at night are far removed from any kind of Golden Age glamour, you’d be best enjoying those after copious amounts of alcohol… delivered with fireworks, natch.  Maybe bring earplugs if David Guetta’s not your thing. We wandered into Opera bar just in time for a group of dancers to file in line onto my table and execute a precarious routine in shorts and bras so skimpy I wanted to fling a towel round them and offer them a cup of tea. It’s definitely worth venturing a little outside of St Tropez itself for a less Euro-touristy affair, and friendlier staff. Though Les Caves du Roy is the venue of choice for the jetset and should be experienced.

The following morning, we took a late and lazy breakfast on our upstairs terrace and soaked in the Provençal view. Mr Smith doesn’t miss a trick, and already had his sights set on the massage table in our enormous stone bathroom.  The Muse concierge rustled up a masseuse at short notice for him. We chose to clock in our suntan duty at the hotel pool for the day, rather than going to a beach club. If you have paradise on your doorstep already, why go elsewhere? Naturally, the service at Muse being flawless, we were waited on hand and foot so the only effort required from me was the lifting of piña colada from table to mouth.

That night we ate at Muse’s restaurant, titled simply ‘M’. See? I knew there was more than a little James Bond about this place; sadly no Nick Nack to serve me though.  The menu was an unusual Malaysian-Provençal fusion, pulled off with aplomb; lots of couldn’t-be-fresher fish, and flowers and herbs punctuating the flavours. Mr Smith’s silky steamed ox-cheek dumplings (not a euphemism) were beyond delicious as a starter. The view over the pool by candlelight and fresh orchids topped up the romance quota. We had our nightcap back in our suite, seeing as we had an extensive wine and champagne cave in the room begging to be sampled.

If you’re a traveller with high standards, Muse will tick all your boxes. The best part for me was that with the Asian influence, it felt more like an exclusive boutique retreat than a hotel. I barely noticed any other rooms as they were housed in separate little buildings, dotted discreetly about. The shuttle meant that once we arrived, we could park the car, and park the stress of finding our way around the area, or even having to lift a finger at all. Staff are discreet, friendly and delightful. You have the best of all worlds, the South of France sun, the floral waft on the breeze, a hotel that feels like an exotic paradise, and only five minutes from the ‘Ooh-la-la’ of the centre if you crave a little ‘Du Trop’. Just one last tip: don’t forget your biggest sunglasses; and don’t act starstruck if Pharrell’s on the next sunlounger…