Parocks Luxury Hotel & Spa

There is such a thing in this world as a sgroppino. Life, for me at least, is now divided into two, a line etched between the before days, when I was still ignorant of this cocktail of prosecco, vodka, lemon sorbet and, crucially, in the case of the one made by the skilled bartenders at Parocks, a paradisiacal hotel on the Cycladic island of Paros, olive. 

We arrive at Parocks following a few blissful days on Mykonos, followed by a few more blissful days on neighbouring Antiparos, the island where the Hanks family, you know the one, choose to reside for at least part of the year, visiting the souvlaki joint in the harbour, apparently. 

The hotel has mastered indoor-outdoor living and the colours are soothing in a, dare I say it, quiet-luxury way. But the tasteful beiges and taupes are softened by warm clays and terracottas, as well as the shock of green fronds, purple flowers and silvery olive leaves that punctuate almost everywhere you look, inside and out.
 
Our room is within earshot of the main pool — although never does it feel too much in the throng of things — but in case that wasn’t close enough, we have our own little private pool, which is big enough to feel very much a useful treat, worth lying next to and reading, or getting in for a bit of a splash, and not just a cosmetic footnote to the bigger one mere metres away.

Inside, the room itself envelops us with its air-conditioning and spa-like serenity. The bed is big and inviting, and there’s a plate of cheese and grapes the size of gobstoppers next to the seating area. In the bathroom area — I say area because the room feels cleverly zoned — a shower cubicle bigger than a box junction adds to the spa feel, as do the moss-soft dressing gowns. A fluffy sponge and baby shampoo have thoughtfully been left out for our daughter. 

We head out to explore. The pool, massive and the shape of a wonky peacock feather, stretches almost from our door out to a vista uninterrupted until it reaches the Aegean, clichéd in its hyperbolic blueness. Bamboo rises from one side but the botanic boss of the poolside is hemp; the gentle smell hazes the air making it feel not a jot like a university dorm but, again, every bit like a spa, where organic relaxation is the name of the game.

The actual spa lies underneath the hotel like a Bond villain’s lair. There’s an L-shaped indoor pool lined with thick beds, a steam room, a sauna, treatment rooms and a totally functional gym, if you can drag yourself away from the salty sea air upstairs long enough. (I could not.)

During our stay, which was in early June, the little stretch of hotel beach, just over a quiet dusty road and down a rickety wooden staircase, is unmanned — an empty bar the only sign of the cocktails that will be served there in the peak summer months to come. But the quiet is not unwelcome. The sea is clear and absurdly blue and the sand is soft and clean; there is fun here enough for us in the small waves.

Later, we scrub up for a few drinks at the bar. It’s early evening and, despite there being a more adult vibe later (and, to be honest, at times during the day), not once do we feel unwelcome with our daughter, who happily glugs the freshest apple juice of her life as we sit and watch the sun go down. Mr Smith’s Negroni — served with an ice cube the size of a Rubik’s Cube, its heft smartly making it slow to melt in the warm evening — is also happily glugged. I’m already feeling like we’ve hit the jackpot — and then my sgroppino arrives.

The only downside is that it leaves dinner with an almost impossible task: to try to top it. It tries hard. A starter of Greek salad is nothing like any of the many I have met before — pickled pink onions, fresh oregano, big blocks of salty feta and sweet tomatoes jostle for attention. There’s a cheese tart, salty and sweet with forest-fruit jam; along with chicken ballotine and beef cheeks. But the real showstopper is my daughter’s tomato pasta. The spaghetti had been cut with a young child still mastering cutlery (and food) in mind. It’s such a thoughtful touch, and one we didn't expect in this sleek setting.

Breakfasts are served in the restaurant, which is effectively open-air given how many moveable glass doors there are. It’s a feast of ripe apricots, flaky pain au chocolates, salty cheese and cornichons, cherries and, of course, Greek yoghurt. That’s just the buffet. Off the menu, there’s porridge sweetened with Greek blossom honey and tahini, smoked salmon bagels, all the usual eggs, and then one local kind, strapatsada, with fresh tomato sauce and feta.

We did blissfully little during our stay at Parocks. We’d had a fairly action-packed time on Antiparos, and explored quite a bit of Mykonos. So the pool, to the bigger pool, to the sea one-two-three kept us happily pinballing for hours. An easy stroll along the dusty road into the local village for lunch found us, with remarkably little effort, sitting at Blue Oyster restaurant, one of a handful along the beach, eating ocean-fresh tuna with yet another take on Greek salad.

Further afield, the narrow streets of Parikia turned up more than a few nooks to explore: blue-domed churches and friendly cats looking for friends, a castle with intriguing architecture and boutiques worth stopping in for ceramics. Closer to the hotel, Naoussa had charm in spades in its winding alleys, and a clutch of restaurants lining a small sandy beach perfect for watching the sun set.

We settled on Taverna Glafkos and did not look back, but I suspect you would leave similarly replete and blissed out from any of the spots on this patch. To be honest, I could have eaten beans on toast and thought it was the best dinner of my life, backdropped as it was against this dusky Greek sky, ascending from scorched orange to celestial blues, the lights of neighbouring Naxos twinkling into focus as it faded to black. 

The next morning — our final one — we rise to coffee, the smell of hemp, more salt, more sun and more than a little sadness at having to leave. Saying our final farewells, I catch sight of a Homer quote in a coffee-table book in reception: 'Nevertheless I long — I pine, all my days — to travel home and see the dawn of my return.' As I stare down the barrel of heading home, via Easyjet and the Stansted Express, I can't relate. Odysseus definitely never made it to Parocks.