Rocco Forte House Milan

Mrs Smith and I had been to Milan quite a few times for work (it was actually where we first met), but this was our first visit as simple pleasure-seekers. This, and the fact that we were staying in the navy-blue portion of the Monopoly board, right next to the ancient arches of Porta Nuova, is probably why we arrived so early. But we were nonetheless welcomed heartily, with beaming smiles, and invited to sit by the roaring fire in reception while they made the ‘final preparations’ to our suite. The fire of merry logs was sadly not a knee-warmer, it was 2-D and on a large TV screen. However, as the palazzo was ancient and a tapestry hung behind the sofa, a genuine 3-D cosy feeling was conjured inside us. Coffees strong enough to dance a Tarantella on were brought and we couldn’t have been more than halfway through episode one of Fire before we were whisked upstairs to our extraordinary apartment.  

The Rocco Forte House is no conventional hotel. It comprises a series of exceptionally appointed apartment suites that come with all the convenience of an hotel but none of the hustle or bustle. It feels like you’re actually living there, bang in the middle of one of the world’s most desirable cities.  

We were told, as we swept up the wide shallow stone stairs (a lift was available, but I love a stair) that our appartamento was particularly special as it boasted remarkable ceiling frescoes. I asked hopefully if it had a bath tub too and was met with a look of some surprise, then conversation was steered firmly back to the glorious frescoes. The Milanese are a romantic lot who would happily forego the prosaic pleasure of a soak in a tub of hot water for a painted vista of a celestial paradise above their heads (they also far prefer showers). From then on, every time I fancied a bath (quite often), I would look up at our frescoes and remind myself of life’s priorities. 

In case we wanted to throw a massive dinner party, our apartment conveniently featured a deluxe kitchen. With a beautiful parquet floor, Carrara marble splashbacks, Murano glass wall lights and of course the frescoed ceiling depicting lakeside palazzi and seasonal flowers of the highest Romantic order. The living room was vast, double aspect and fully balconied. An octagonal glass coffee table bore the weight of a library of fine and heavy books, which I would happily have spent a prolonged period of quarantine flicking through. The sofas were of the soft and creamy variety, the armchairs cushioned and wickered. It was a most impressive room and one in which you would have no shame entertaining dignitaries or minor royalty.

Moving on, we encountered a bathroom so marbled it was like walking into the carved-out centre of a giant Stilton cheese. The shower was so big that I couldn’t help making calculations in my head to enable a bath to be plumbed in in its place. I frowned at myself and thought of the frescoes. The bedroom was (as you may have anticipated) enormous, in its centre a four-poster bed of a suitable proportion (massive) — the only drawback being that its cheerful striped canopy obscured some of the fresco work overhead. The bookshelves in the bedroom contained a library of my favourite editions of PG Wodehouse, it was as if Rocco knew… 

Having seen two suitcases of clothes completely swallowed up by the cupboards, which still had space for the contents of a Prada outlet, we headed into the city. As Milan is the world’s fashion capital, I wore my corduroy trousers that excitingly have the cord running horizontally instead of vertically; Mrs Smith wore her vintage Gucci shoulder bag. What a dash we cut as we sashayed around Villa Necchi Campiglio, made famous by the Tilda Swinton flick, I Am love.  

One of the great advantages of being slap-bang in the heart of town was that we never felt like tourists and could endlessly pop back to our apartment on the flimsiest of excuses. Mrs Smith insisted we return so she could steam her scarf, which she believed still had a ‘whiff of airplane’ about it. On another occasion, I thought I should just drop in for a mo to trim my moustache as a stray hair was tickling my nose. Our endless popping home never failed to provoke an enchanting smile from reception. 

One of our favourite haunts in Milan is the Marchesi bakery, which is a 200-year-old establishment of extreme charm and Italy’s best cake. Imagine our double surprise, then, the following morning when a knock on our door revealed our beaming receptionist holding a glistening fruit-laden tart with a candle on it and an enormous bag full of breakfast from the Marchesi bakery! Technically it had been my birthday the day before, a fact they must’ve gleaned from my passport. After they’d left us with the goodies, we did a lot of pacing about in our towelling robes, carelessly stuffing cake and telling each other how kind and thoughtful the staff were. I then spent an hour in front of the mirror removing custard and redcurrants from my beard.  

The rest of the day was devoted to dear friends who had recently moved to Milan with their daughters, most of it in a very shambolic/authentic pyjama shop. You simply don’t get pyjama shops in England, so even after three hours of Mrs Smith weighing up various pyjama options, the novelty had hardly worn off at all.  

We had one last test to put the Rocco Forte House through; we decided to throw a party the following morning to show off our new apartment (as I liked to think of it) to our Milanese friends. Reception couldn’t have been more obliging. We quickly overcame the setback during the night when all the towels fell in the loo (my fault for not putting my towel back on the rack with any proper precision), but even so, I couldn’t help but think that if a bath tub was where I would’ve put one, the loo wouldn’t have been directly under the towel rail. I looked up and found solace in the frescoes.  

Reception indulged our party with a double-sized breakfast bag from Marchesi and endless rounds of coffee and tea. Italian breakfast fare is really very similar to British children’s-party food; sweet cake, sugary biscuits, even the croissants are piped full of custard. Our friends who are distinctly chic and at times a bit sniffy, fell in love with our apartment and didn’t want to leave. Neither did we, but sadly the final grain of marble had fallen through the Murano hourglass and our time was up. With one last glance up at the heavenly daubs on the ceiling for inspiration, we came back to Earth with a bump.