Santavenere

Writer’s block is generally deemed to be a bad thing when you’re a writer. Yet when it comes to a hotel review, I tend to find it’s the most special of places that leave me not knowing where to start.
 
As I sit at my desk reminiscing about Santavenere, perhaps my T-shirt is a good place to kick things off.
 
For context, I adore a functional holiday souvenir more than your average tourist, as when I have had a special time somewhere, I want to be reminded of it on a daily basis. When I like somewhere, it’s a type of liquor or cheese (this rarely travels well, but hey). When I really like somewhere, it’s usually a mug, a fridge magnet or a wine-stopper (something I can enjoy looking at every day). And when I love somewhere, only destination-themed apparel and linens will do it.
 
So, as I sit here writing this review of Santavenere in Maratea, Basilicata, I am wearing a washed-cotton T-shirt (think love-worn Fruit of the Loom) that has Maratea printed in capitals above a big ship’s wheel. It is arguably my most worn item of the year. Which kind of tells you everything you need to know; I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this entrancing east-coast secret since I left — so now to do it justice.
 
Reminiscing now actually feels like the best souvenir of all, because passing through the gates of Santavenere this spring felt quite simply like passing into another realm, one where surprises awaited around every corner and time stood still.
 
It started on a mild evening with the most Italian of welcomes. First, the warm ‘buonasera’ over the intercom at the gates, telling Mr Smith and I that someone was on their way to collect us. Then, a symphony from the cicadas in the arboretum of trees that surround the hotel, as we were driven by golf buggy to the reception. Then, the never-ending view of the diamond-dappled Tyrrhenian Sea that creeped into view as if from nowhere. And finally, a glass of something cold and fizzy as we settled into sumptuous white sofas for a one-to-one check-in.
 
When it comes to interiors, I am obsessed with the sprawling villas and palazzos that dot the Italian coastline (if walls could speak, etc) and sitting there, Santavenere had all the feels of the chicest of private residences. Whitewashed walls lined with antique maritime art, original terracotta floors with love-worn polish, ceramic lamps giving off a soft glow in every corner, endless books, a wooden games box, and a grand piano. Think Luca Guadagnino meets Paolo Abate and you get the picture.
 
'Can you believe it?' I mused to Mr Smith, struggling to balance my new-found sense of serenity with the over-stimulation of my senses — and that was before we were made aware of the pièce de résistance.
 
Arriving in our room, we both made a beeline for the terrace to lap up the sea view at sunset (incidentally one of the most spectacular panoramic sea views I have ever seen). As I took a moment to breathe it all in, Mr Smith nudged me. 'Turn around and look up,' he smiled. And there it was. The 21-metre-high statue of Christ the Reedemer, smiling down on us from the summit of Monte San Biagio, high above the hotel.
 
'What in the…?!' I gasped, perplexed by both this stunning feat of engineering and the fact that I had never heard of its existence before. Standing majestically backlit, its arm span (all 19 metres of it, a quick Google told me) seemed to wrap the hotel in a warm embrace, making it feel enveloped, protected and oh-so calm.
 
We lost time out there staring up at him, sipping on the prosecco and primitivo that Mr Smith had ordered up to the room, and working our way through the generous snacks accompanying them, as we marvelled at this exquisite spot. As temperatures dropped, we snuggled under the cashmere blankets before agreeing to get an early night to make the most of the following day.
 
I’m not a natural early riser, but I was up at 6am to breathe in that fresh sea air and see what our guardian angel looked like in daylight. It was only then that we got a proper look at the hotel in all its morning glory, too. Jutting out into the sea, it seemed to be almost cantilevered across the water on one side, and built into the rock on the other (neither is true, but goes to show the sense of otherworldliness this place imbues).
 
Breakfast — Mr Smith’s favourite meal of the day — followed to much excitement. Old wooden tables filled with local meats, cheeses and bread on one side; fresh fruit, crudités, honey and yoghurt on the other; and a bureau completely devoted to cakes, chocolates and tarts. It was the kind of spread that leaves me wanting a taste of everything and usually results in a peculiar medley on my plate.
 
Seeing that I had returned with a collection of sliced cucumber, a boiled egg, a triangle of Pecorino cheese and some carrot cake ('I got overwhelmed!' I laughed), Mr Smith took control of the situation and ordered us both something from the à la carte menu. Eggs Benedict for him, an omelette for me; both receiving the five-star seal of approval. Multiple cups of coffee and several variations of vegetable juice knocked back, we took the hotel's bikes back to our car and headed off to explore Maratea.
 
After a few hours driving around the meandering coastline, stopping to take in the breathtaking views of Christ the Reedemer from different angles, we parked up and wandered around the cobbled streets of the centro storico. Poking our heads into local shops that had been there for decades, it felt like we had entered into another era. While a lot of Italy’s little villages — especially on this side of the country — have inevitably been infiltrated by well-known shop fronts or gaudy signage, Maratea has resisted, resulting in it oozing authenticity (and, as I noted to Mr Smith, being a location scout’s dream).
 
As it was Sunday, we were treated to the sight of locals milling around the church and joined them for a couple of Crodinos and a spot of people-watching in the main square. Having settled the bill, Mr Smith returned with a flier he had picked up, announcing a retrospective of local Maratean artist Angelo Brando at the Palazzo de Lieto, a couple of minutes’ walk away, and suggested we check it out.
 
Reader, another revelation. Brando — again, I’d never heard of him until this point — might be famous for his colours, but he’s also one of the most exquisite female portrait artists of the early 20th century. As we wandered around the gallery, which we had all to ourselves, I was completely entranced by the portraits of women gossiping, reading, playing the violin and breastfeeding their children, painted in the 1920s and 1930s, falling in love with Brando and his beautiful depiction of women of the era.
 
As the bells alerted us that lunchtime was upon us, we headed back to the hotel. Still full from breakfast, we decided to take a golf buggy down to the hotel’s private beach, equipped with our sunhats, towels and the beach bags that had been thoughtfully left for us in our room. The region of Basilicata isn’t known for its coastline as there is only 30 kilometres of it, but from where we were bathing, it felt like Santavenere resides along most of it.
 
That evening, we decided to take the advice of the hotel and walked for 15 minutes through the grounds to Maratea's port for a pizza. Here, we found yet another delightful corner where it seemed as through time might have stood still. As the sun set, the scene was one straight out of a movie — kids playing football on one side, groups of teens sipping on their Cokes and puffing on cigarettes on the other, adults putting the world to rights over spritzes, tables of older men playing Scopa, as boats bobbed around in the background — and then there was us, drinking it all in.
 
As we wandered back to the hotel, it occurred to us that we had not even been in Maratea for 24 hours, and yet it felt as though we could have been there for a week.
 
As we were leaving the following day, we decided to toast the trip with a nightcap, and resident bar manager Giuseppe was waiting to make us his special Santavenere Bellini, with his own concoction of peaches cooked with bergamot liquor and then added to the very best Valdobiaddene Prosecco possible. It was the sweetest ending to our trip and one that completely summed up our stay. Original, enlightening, and completely unforgettable.
 
There was, of course, just one thing left to do. After waving goodbye and promising to return, we found our way back to a little clothes shop that I had spotted the day before but was closed. Because reader, when you’ve been somewhere like Santavenere and loved it as much as I did — you really do need the T-shirt.