Principe di Salina

It takes us a three-hour flight, a two-hour car ride and 90 minutes on a hydrofoil to reach Salina. But an island this good looking can afford to play hard-to-get. Imagine a picture-perfect mix of verdant hills dotted with sleepy cottages and volcanic cliffs plunging into calm azure waters: that’s Salina. It’s so darn pretty in fact that I’m too slack-jawed to respond when a kind-faced man welcomes us ashore and loads our cases into his minibus. 

From our seats in the back I begin to apologise but he’s clearly seen this reaction many times before: 'Relax,' he says, 'you’re on Salina time now.' At ease, Mr Smith and I recline that bit more in our seats. It turns out the driver’s name is Francesco and he isn’t a driver at all but the owner of our luxury lodgings for the next two nights. He and his wife Silvana first fell in love with Salina decades ago while holidaying here with their children, he tells us. And after globetrotting careers they finally returned to their first love, bought a place and started a new adventure. That adventure was supposed to be a retirement project, he quips, but they are busier than ever due to the growing reputation of the hotel.

Fortunately they’re not going it alone – their daughter Anita is very much the heartbeat of Principe di Salina and delivers such a masterclass in hosting that we’re welcomed like long lost cousins as we slurp welcome drinks laced with home-grown lemons and mint. Check-in takes place on a whitewashed balcony seat, framed by linen drapes which seem to billow right on cue. And while there are forms to be signed neither Mr Smith nor I can take our eyes from the ocean view. Or the three further tiers of the hotel below, which artfully tumble away towards the sea. 

We wander through lounges, decked out with hammocks (which Mr Smith insists on immediately testing one out), wicker sofas and scatter cushions, plus a treasure trove of artefacts from the family’s travels. There are books to read, music to play, fireplaces to hunker down beside, all making good on Anita’s promise that the hotel should feel like a home away from home.

I retrieve Mr Smith from said hammock, keen to see if the homely feeling translates to the 12
bedrooms – which of course it does. Locally made fixtures and furnishings add understated Sicilian charm to our white, cobalt and wicker room, while a shady patio with sea views creates the illusion of our own private beach-house. There’s also plenty of nods to the hotel’s focus on sustainability: a notable lack of plastic and local suppliers are used for everything from the organic shampoo to the tasselled beach towels.

We quickly learn Salina’s natural gifts are never more evident than when eating. The island’s clean seas and fertile soils have nurtured a gourmet larder: hills covered in wild capers, vines heavy with grapes for sweet Malvasia wine, trees overflowing with figs and citrus fruits. And, of course, catch of the day. We’ve pre-booked the communal dinner on Anita’s advice but are relieved it isn’t the awkward elbow-jostling affair we’d feared but rather an informal supper with guests spread out along a banquet length table. The family wander between us, cheers-ing and chatting. And there’s that view again, only this time an inky darkness and a smattering of stars constitute our backdrop.

The real sight for sore eyes is on our plates, though. The kitchen is Silvana’s domain, where the former doctor-turned-chef cooks up a daily changing menu of inspired Mediterranean fare. None more so than her lighter-than-air orange cheesecake and the homemade limoncello she insists we ease it down with. Safe to say, we barely remember our heads hitting the pillow that night. 

The next morning over a breakfast of fruit, cheeses and preserves – and bacon and eggs for full-English fan Mr Smith – we debate the finer points of exploring the island or lolling by the dreamy infinity pool. We opt for the latter and happily decamp to a cloudlike day-bed with 360-views. We also make a good fist of grazing through the vibrant, health-but-tasty lunch offerings, blissfully delivered on bed trays so we don’t even need to sit up. We even give the ominous-looking hot-spring Jacuzzi a try, although the feel-good factor that sweeps over us we attribute to the lunchtime cocktails rather than the healing sulphuric waters.

The afternoon is spent a little more vertically, exploring the nearby village of Malfa, a five-minute amble away down cobbled arteries flushed with fuchsia-coloured bougainvillea vines. At the bottom is a market square with a handful of tavernas swarming with locals seeking coffee, granita and conversation. After half an hour of people watching (and gelato eating) we continue the road downwards and reach quiet cove with waters begging to be paddled in. We oblige, and then rent an inflatable mattress to flop onto rather than the pebbly beach.

To break up the trek back up the hill we choose the busiest-looking local restaurant to eat at. The food is good but we miss the side dish of hospitality which is served with everything at Principe di Salina. We even decline an aperitif, instead finding ourselves drawn ‘home’ to the familiarity of our hotel on the hill and its family. On our return, guests are peeling off after dinner, some calling it a night, others for a nightcap. We join the latter group decamped at the natty pool bar where Anita is holding court, reminiscing with a couple who married here and have now returned for their honeymoon. Others share tales of how the hotel team planned their trip from door-to-door, or secured a luxury yacht for their fishing trip or plotted a hiking trip via the local wineries.

Mr Smith and I admit we haven’t achieved anything quite so adventurous during our stay. Rather, this special hotel has lulled us into a gloriously languid pace. Perhaps this is what Francesco meant by 'Salina time', we wonder, on departure the next day. If only we could have stopped the clock for a little longer.