Sala Phuket Mai Khao Beach Resort

It’s hard to scream when your face is smushed into a massage table. The Thai masseur elf who had greeted me and given me a pair of disposable pants (a serving suggestion if you happen to be swanning around Phuket commando) ‘Hulks-out’ after I’m face-down, and semi-naked and steamrolls her forearms over my knots with the singular drive of a mediaeval inquisitor. ‘Is the pressure ok?’ she asks in a whisper as gentle as a gust through a monastery before battering my gluteals for whichever state secrets they concealed. And, maybe it was fear, or Stockholm syndrome, but I merely let out a muffled ‘yes’ – well, a thorough pounding can be quite cathartic after all…

I’m not in one of those Patong parlours – the ones spoken with air quotes – but rather the magical spa at the boutique Sala Phuket Mai Khao Beach Resort for two days. Their lemongrass-scented sanctum is reached via a labyrinth of misty walkways over shallow waters, leading to waiting mugs of herbal tea in the relaxation courtyard. If a droplet of rain sullies a guest’s head, an attendant dashes over with a brolly – it’s all so cosseting, that if my ‘medium-pressure (!), elbow-and-finger massage’ (ahem…) hadn’t been confirmed the night before, I’d have expected a playful caressing with mittens.

Like an out-of-body massage, Thailand is thrilling and transformative; we arrive as blue skies begin to darken. It’s October and rainy season in Phuket, but this dampens only our flip-flops rather than our spirits. We watch the cinematic deluge from a sofa in the covered reception pavilion (complete with a little library) as we’re checked in and handed chilled towels and fragrant cups of tea. Our Pool Villa (oh yes) isn’t ready yet, and may well be underwater at this point, so we kill time with a Singha beer (Mr Smith’s) and an elaborate, rum-drenched banana daiquiri (mine). Rain falls with the gusto of friendly fire over the decorative-pebble-lined moat you enter by; its static is deafening and humidity hits you like a sauna door opening: Thailand’s storms make London’s drizzle look like a leaky tap. 

Sala has a time-skipping feel – I half expect a feral Full Moon-party survivor from the Nineties to emerge from the bushes, hair curtains dishevelled, waving a copy of The Beach, yelling ‘what year is it!?’ Formidable, white breeze-block walls are prettified by lush foliage, waterlily ponds and fig trees with plaited trunks and swing chairs hung from their branches. Gardeners in wicker hats bow and ‘sawasdee’ as you pass, but in the belly of the retreat, you could well be in Mexico or even Marbs – a little local flavour wouldn’t go amiss. Things improve at the restaurant, bar and main infinity pool; their prime coastal perch overlooks the sea-lapped sandiness Phuket’s famed for.

Still, our villa is breezy and light; decorated in the creamy white of sticky rice, it has romantically curtain-swathed walls of windows. Really, the focus is outdoors, where our generously sized private pool rests in a garden. Now, Thailand, a word about your bathrooms: we didn’t have one with four functioning walls throughout our stay. Here, they skip the pretence altogether; yes, the alfresco, stone, egg-shaped bath tub and shower are titillating if soapy posteriors rev your motor, but does the toilet really need to be as outdoorsy? A single stud wall hides your shame, and poor Mr Smith had to hide in a wardrobe every time nature called. Yet, after dark, when the rain patters on the pool and we’re in the kind of soft, crisply laundered bed only hotels can achieve, our room feels as amorously tempestuous as a tropical Wuthering Heights. I poke Heathcliff Smith. He ignores me. 

So which uncommon Thai delicacies did we explore in Sala’s dove-grey seaside restaurant? Um, quesadillas, pizza… The lunch menu has noodles and curries galore, but the gooey lure of melted cheddar proved irresistible. Guilty, I opt for a location-appropriate dinner: pla tord kratiem prik – a peppery, garlicky red snapper as fresh as Neptune himself, doused in Chinese whisky. I particularly enjoy the needless decadence at breakfast: eggs Benedict Sala-style involves barbecue- and Hollandaise-sauce-drenched pulled pork with eggs atop a croissant; bread pudding is croissant chunks in custard, cream and chocolate. I wonder if kitchen staff are being held hostage by a mad pâtissier. 

Mai Khao beach, the resort’s glorious golden stretch of sand, frilled with shaggy palms, is rained out. Instead we meander past the painted shutters and eye-catching street art (Rukkit’s geometric birds, Ludmila Letnikova’s cute critters) in colonial Phuket Town. We stop to play with Churchill-faced, luxury moggies at B Cat Café, but Mr Smith – reclaiming his testosterone after our trip to Bangkok’s Unicorn Café – leaves me to it. Then we sidestep Patong’s Hooters and ‘go-go bars’ to dodge incoming paragliders and henna tattooists on its beach, just as the sky shakes up a purply-pink ombré cocktail of a sunset. After fist-sized prawns by Karon Beach and a few more Changs and Singhas, we end the night by dipping our toes in our sub-lit pool, daring each other to jump in au naturel. So, did we? Dot. dot. dot.

The last morning, we sip the pandanus iced tea left at turn-down, I eat each manifestation of croissant at breakfast and we book a last-minute massage at a beach hut just beyond the resort – I wonder if I should warn Mr Smith, a Thai-massage virgin, but I decide it’s more fun to watch him get pummelled unawares. He loves it. So, to Thailand’s coconut-infused sauces, lingering jasmine scent, watercolour skies and surreally blue waters, and ambient soundtrack of torrential rain, we add being crushed by forearms like a caffeinated lumberjack: a full sensory deck. Not bad indeed.