One&Only Aesthesis

'Will we play tennis in the morning before or after breakfast?' I ask Mr Smith in a model display of diplomacy befitting of our location. We’ve just arrived at One&Only Aesthesis in Athens, the birthplace of democracy, and despite my passion for doing absolutely nothing, I am in too good a mood to deny my golden-retriever husband his walkies. 

The thing is, I’ve found exercise is so much more palatable when the sun is shining and your route there is via a golf buggy, swishing its way through paths carved into long, swaying grass. And so begins a holiday of two halves: one where we cram in swims and ball games, running targets and leisurely cycles alongside bubble baths, naps and lounging by our private pool as the sun paints the mountains opposite in gold. 

By some grace of the gods, we’ve found ourselves at the Athenian Riviera's One&Only outpost, a place that rumour has it counts Kylie Minogue and Novak Djokovic among its fans. In this case, the source of the rumour is tennis-club-attendant-shaped. He's enthusiastically handing out racquets, balls and ice-cold cartons of water, alongside the news that the coming of sporting royalty is nigh. I’m too focused on the task in hand to care much: it must be the air, but something has come over me and I’ve succumbed to being fully delusional, betting that my husband and I can beat him at tennis. 'Stick around for an hour and you’ll see him playing padel beside you,' the attendant says. Not wanting to intimidate Djokovic with our sporting prowess — I didn’t win nor did I pay the forfeit, in case you’re wondering — we slink off before his big arrival to take full advantage of the empty pool next door. 

It might be worth noting we’re here in November, when the summer crowds have slowed to a steady pulse and the sun has lost its bite. This comes with the distinct advantage of said empty pool. There are a few pools at the resort, but our preferred one is at the wellness space, surrounded by perfumed roses bobbing in the breeze, twisted ancient olive trees, and the undulating hills beyond. A few lacklustre lengths give me the green light to then lie on a squashy lounger for the rest of the afternoon, doing my favourite pastime: pondering supper.

Our most memorable meals during the trip were in the city itself, which is one of the most incredible juxtapositions of ancient culture and contemporary flair. Here you’ll find spellbinding spots to rival any global metropolis, which are as good for alfresco lunches post visits to monuments as they are for long evenings illuminated by candlelight. Some days though, you’ll want to just stay put. If you do, Manko at the resort majors in trendy Nikkei cuisine and pulls in punters looking for a lively evening of sushi platters washed down with champagne after long afternoons spent bronzing on the beach club’s beds. 

The culinary offering at the hotel really comes into its own is at breakfast, where we spend hours getting acquainted with the spread. We’ve finally found it, the land of milk and honey. The latter comes in multiple forms that range from hunks of chewy comb to a runny local wildflower honey to be spread thickly on toast or drizzled in a puddle of amber on creamy Greek yoghurt. There are also multiple oils, cheeses, cold meats, cakes, pastries, pickles, salads and cereals, as well as a juice bar and smoothie station, a hot offering and a fully comprehensive à la carte menu. In short, anything your heart desires. Mine, in this instance, desires koulouria every day. These sesame-studded dough rings have been sold on the streets for thousands of years, and in my opinion are best swiped through jam. 

It’s here, at breakfast, where the people-watching takes hold. With one eye on the beach and one eye on our neighbours, we watch families, couples and businessmen come and go, each with their own little lives playing out across hot coffee and cold-pressed juices. On our second day, a family beside us asks the chipper local waiter whether he thinks it’ll rain. He says he suspects so, and as he walks away the heavens open. 'You should have asked me if you were going to win a million dollars instead,' he quips. Coincidentally, that’s how I feel about the weather: those fat drops unusually indicating a golden ticket. 

You see, it’s very rare that I can persuade Mr Smith to join me in really putting a hotel bed through its paces. And by paces I mean a three-hour sleep in daylight hours. No notes, reads my review of that particular aspect of our trip stored in my phone. The bed is big, and has crisp white sheets with huge, fluffed feather pillows and just the right amount of resistance in the mattress. That’ll do nicely.

The rest of that uncharacteristically drizzly day passes by with a cold bottle of bubbles in a hot bath for me and some kind of endurance test in the outdoor pool for Mr Smith, which I happily play spectator to through the vast bathroom window of our secluded bungalow. After such a strenuous few hours, there’s a honey-soaked orange and almond cake to see to and a sunset to watch. 

As we follow the colours of the horizon being smudged from blue to gold to pink to blue, we reflect on the Athenian Riviera’s glittering past as a playground for the rich and famous of the Fifties and Sixties. The OO, as its friends call it, feels like a marker in the sand and a return to a bygone era of good old-fashioned glamour. A place where any item on your ridiculous rider might be possible. I think mine would be short and sweet: to be allowed to stay for the foreseeable.