Serras Barcelona

When Mr Smith and I rock up at boutique hotels, we usually look a bit like Roald Dahl’s the Twits. Travel-worn, rumpled, food-stained clothes are the norm after long, sleepless journeys to far-flung destinations. But this time, thankfully, it’s different… I strut into our beautiful Barcelona bolthole with blow-dried hair, wearing a freshly-ironed dress and smelling rather lovely. This is because it took us precisely 10 minutes to get to boutique hotel Serras Barcelona from home – by foot. 

Smiley staff rush to hold open the double-height door that leads to a light-filled entrance lobby with wooden floors, mirrored walls and bright pops of colour. As we sit down to check in, Mr Smith is handed a glass of cava, me a freshly-squeezed orange juice (I’m four months pregnant). Oh, it’s all going so well, I think to myself smugly.

‘I’m sorry ma’am but your credit card has been declined.’ Oh, I say. 
‘Sir, yours has been declined also.’
’Oh’, says Mr Smith. 
Illusions of sophisticated adulthood now shattered, we scramble through bags for proof we’re not fraudsters. Thankfully, the Serras Barcelona’s staff are forgiving, and if they think we’re a pair of idiots, they certainly don’t show it. 

Diego, the friendly reception manager, gives us the grand tour. The Serras was designed by Francesco Daniel Molina, the famous Catalan architect behind Plaça Reial. We also learn it was the site of a teenage Picasso’s studio, and where he painted Science and Charity. I ask about the studio now; ‘It’s a storeroom’, I’m told. Seems a waste, but apparently there are plans to turn it into a grand suite soon. 

We’ve booked the Junior Suite that looks out towards the palm tree-lined Passeig de Colom and renovated marina. Years ago, this was a disreputable part of town, now it’s one of the most exclusive, with the Serras Barcelona one of a handful of new boutique hotels popping up here. 

I’m busy nosing around the sleek, monochrome interior of our room: I love the loft-like bathroom with Malin + Goetz toiletries, the minimalist, black-and-white photographs and the oversized headboard with Modernist-style tiling. It takes me a while to work out the enormous TV – at the click of a button, it appears from a cabinet; another click and it rotates 90 degrees (it’s no surprise to learn the hotel owner formerly worked in tech). Mr Smith, on the other hand, only has eyes for the complimentary Cava. Three-quarters of the bottle later, he’s prancing about the room semi-naked. I tell him to go away; I’ve curled up on our insanely comfortable king-size bed with a copy of the latest Vogue. ‘The mattress is the same make as those in Buckingham Palace,’ Diego had been keen to tell us, and I don’t doubt it. I sleep like an English queen that night. 

After a fancy breakfast of poached eggs with potato-and-bacon foam, we spend the next day wandering the labyrinthine streets of the medieval Gothic quarter (just behind the Serras Barcelona) and browsing the funky boutiques of the Born neighbourhood. We’re tourists in our own city again, pointing out things we’ve never noticed before. We hold hands and stop for coffees in sun-drenched plazas; we discuss the merits of staycations and giggle at tourists wobbling about on Segways. 

By the time we’re back at the hotel, we’re whacked. Luckily, the Serras Barcelona caters very well for exhausted (read: lazy) couples. In the mezzanine lounge area, press a button and a bartender appears to take drink orders. For panoramic views of the yacht-filled marina, there’s no need to go further than the glorious rooftop terrace, complete with cocktail bar and infinity pool, all lit up at night. And when hunger strikes, there’s the fabulous tapas restaurant on the ground floor. At Informal, Michelin-starred chef Marc Gascons and his talented team fire out Catalan classics with a twist from an open kitchen.

That night, delicious cod fritters come wrapped in faux newspaper. Our garlicky, roasted monkfish casserole with tomatoes, bacon and black olives was to-die-for. I’m about to tuck into a yuzu flan with mint and caramel ice-cream when I notice an overweight man in a tutu walk past Mr Smith’s head. And… is that Beetlejuice?! In our giddy holiday-at-home mode, we’d completely forgotten it was Halloween. With huge glass windows that look out onto the street, Informal makes for a perfect people-watching spot, and on 31 October, our view proves to be free entertainment. 

Belly full of baby and tapas, I suggest a post-dinner walk along the marina. The water glistens under a full moon. Buskers, canoodling couples and ghoulish creatures are out in full force, but Mr Smith and I hardly notice. Damn it, I’d forgotten how romantic Barcelona can be.  

We spend our final hours at the Serras Barcelona soaking up sunrays on the rooftop terrace, jazzy tunes playing in the background. (I love Barcelona – you can still sunbathe in November here). At check-out, we thank the staff for a wonderful weekend and make to leave. ‘Sir, you forgot these,’ says a blushing bellboy holding out a plastic bag of dirty boxers and socks to an even more embarrassed Mr Smith. Fine, so we need to work on our entrances and exits. But the good news? We arrive home well-rested, as fresh and fabulous as we arrived.