Quinta do Paral

In the nicest possible way, allow me to begin by telling you all the things that Quinta do Paral has ruined for me. For starters, red wine. Like any good Brit, I used to be perfectly satisfied glugging a tepid glass of the second-cheapest pub red. Then I moved to Barcelona and, surrounded by wine denominations that produce big, arm-wrestler reds, my taste got fussier. But when Quinta do Paral hired esteemed Portuguese wine wizard Luís Morgado Leão to revive its old vines, they meant business. The moreish nature of its namesake red, Vinhas Velhas (literally, 'old vines'), is evident in my browser history. A month after returning, I’ve been online shopping.

Wines aren’t the only aspect of Quinta do Paral made with exceptional taste in mind. The entirety of Quinta do Paral has been made with exceptional taste in mind. Which means that at some point you have to go home to a dwelling that doesn’t look like Quinta do Paral. That I arrived back to find a water leak from upstairs had turned my kitchen ceiling and lounge floorboards into a living petri dish did not make the adjustment easier.

So, how to pinpoint the magic here? In part, it’s in the bones. Located in the Alentejo, a vast chunk of Portugal that isn’t Lisbon or the Algarve, the region has slipped under tourism’s radar like a painting next to a masterpiece. Imagine Tuscany pre-package tours, perhaps Puglia today. Much of the terrain is wide open and agricultural: cork-oak forests and goats watched over by birds of prey from an Attenborough documentary.

Within the spaciousness — and occasional nothingness — of the landscape, Quinta do Paral is an oasis. Its low-slung, white-walled buildings cluster together like a beautiful family having their portrait taken. Ancient, gnarly olive trees stake their rightful place on the manicured lawns, while rows of grape vines hover quietly at the back like wise forefathers. Then there’s the new guard: a box-fresh swimming pool with ivory-white day-beds.

To call it a resort feels crude — though it has all the trappings. A fleet of golf buggies mobilise luggage, there’s a Technogym fitness centre, a lounge artfully decorated in mid-century furniture and a rooftop terrace where the sommelier pours sunset toasts. Rumour has it, a private plane flies in VIPs via a small airport nearby. I get why. This is elite-level loveliness.

We began in a Privilege Junior Suite, where I’d take the word 'junior' as seriously as trying to limit your pastel de nata intake. There was nothing kid-like about dimensions large enough to accommodate an entire dining table and chairs, a chaise-longue sofa, a modular bathroom positioned in the centre of the room (one wall of which doubled as a gigantic TV screen) and a separate bedroom zone at the rear. Giant brick archways gave way to contemporary limewashed walls; there was a wine fridge and a complimentary bottle awaiting us; the coffee isn’t some old Nespresso pod, but beans roasted on-site.

Then a surprise happened. As it was mid-week, deep in low season and we were staying for five nights, when we returned from a day at the coast, we were invited to spend our last two nights upgraded to a Signature Terrace Suite.

Ordinarily, the faff of packing up our stuff, sprawled over 80 square metres like the aftermath of Christmas morning, would have made me very politely decline. Who needs more packing!

Then I saw the proposed new room, which was the size of my Barcelona apartment, and fell in love. I scooped all of our belongings into a golf buggy, grabbed the dog, stopped off for a glass of sparkling wine on the rooftop and knew we were about to enter Peak Hotel Room.

Where to start with its unique beauty? Internal walls made from latticed clay bricks, so sunlight flooded in from one side to another. An open fire in the living room. A sculptural bath tub carved from a single slab of marble. Two outdoor showers, original artworks and a private garden that we didn’t leave for the entirety of the next day. It was the hotel-room equivalent of a freshly made pizza so perfectly soft and doughy that you savour every moment while already knowing the next one will disappoint.

Today, when Mr Smith and I reminisce about Quinta do Paral, it's earned folkloric status. If a hotel’s ultimate aim is to be memorable, what a way to smash the brief. As it is henceforth known: The Room, The Wine and The Holiday That Ruined Us.