Sol y Luna

I have barely unpacked in my casita at Sol y Luna and I’m already tearing up my fantasy dinner-party guest list and starting over. Dessert is now sorted — the alfajores (those buttery South American biscuits with a heart of silky dulce de leche) that were waiting for me on the dining table have claimed that honour. I won’t name who’s been bumped from the list — that would be rude — but nestled between the Peruvian opera diva Yma Sumac (my travel soundtrack) and the father of magical realism, Gabriel García Márquez (my go-to author on this Andean odyssey), sit the hotel’s owners: the indomitable Petit and her late husband, Franz.

This couple boasts one of the most exhilarating meet-cutes in history. Picture it: the 1990s. A dashing young Franz, not long off the boat from Switzerland, arrives in Peru and signs up for paragliding lessons. His instructor? None other than the ever-chic 'Petit'. After soaring to great heights together (first literally, then metaphorically), a marriage, two kids, a family foundation and a business followed. The four came to call paradise home: the Sacred Valley of the Incas, which runs from the town of Pisac to Machu Picchu, living on what is now the Sol y Luna property.

Now, those inverted commas around 'Petit' are doing a little dance for a reason. Petit (real name: Marie Hélene Miribel) hails from France, and was once famous in her paragliding days for wearing a petit-pois-green jumpsuit — and the name stuck. Could this story get any more wholesome, you ask? Oh yes — but I’ll get to that soon enough.

For now, to give you the full Architectural Digest Open Door treatment: I’m in my casita — which, as you may have worked out (no shade if you didn’t), means 'little house' in Spanish. But little it is not. In fact, my deluxe, not-so-humble abode is embarrassingly huge, clocking in at 109 square metres. I’ve quickly become accustomed to my new way of life — for the next two nights, at least. My couture (read: clothes coated in dust from this morning’s attempt to hitch a colectivo along the valley to the hotel) now hangs neatly in the wall of capacious wardrobes. The murals? Unique artworks by the enigmatic Peruvian artist Federico Bauer — each casita has its own. The hand-painted wood carvings? They’re by Jaime Liébana. And the religious tableaux and floral vases in ceramic? Oh, they were individually sourced — many from the Ayacucho region.

Situated on the outskirts of the town of Urubamba, Sol y Luna is reached via an unassuming track. Like Hansel — who am I kidding, Gretel — I followed not a trail of measly breadcrumbs, but a dazzling pink hedgerow of bougainvillaea: a teaser of the garden of earthly delights that awaited me at the hotel’s entrance. Petit, it turns out, adores flowers, and the grounds are overflowing with hibiscus and flame-tipped kniphofias — bursts of pink, yellow and red scattered among the casitas, which are laid out like a private village of their own. The sound of brass bands from neighbouring communities drifts through the air, accompanied by the gentle rush of water cascading down the side of the Pumahuanca mountain and through stone channels beneath my feet.

I lounge by the pool, which is mirroring the orange sunset sky. Eared doves are sipping from the water’s edge, and in my hand is the sumptuously illustrated bird checklist from my casita. I tick off my sightings: scarlet-fronted parakeets, Andean swallows, and giant hummingbirds (Sol y Luna is apparently home to more than 30 species of bird).

Next, I head to the spa, with its rainbow-stained-glass windows, and lie face down on one of the treatment room’s massage tables, staring into a bowl of water sprinkled with fresh flowers plucked from the gardens. My therapist, Marisol — once the children’s nanny, before retraining to become the spa manager — proves that Sol y Luna really is a family affair. She intuitively finds every weak spot — who knew I held so much tension in the backs of my knees?

I make my way to the hotel’s Wayra restaurant. Housed within its own ranch, it invites a visit to the resident horses before sitting down to eat. Though I feel I should try the cuy al horno (roasted guinea pig), I haven’t quite come around to the idea of eating my childhood rodent companions, so I opt instead for the native potato gnocchi, dressed in cream cheese, hazelnuts, dried apricots and arugula. As tempting as the Viñas del Marqués Peruvian pinot noir is, in a virtuous move, I go for chicha morada — a sweet nectar made from purple corn.

It must have been the nature of Sol y Luna rubbing off on me, which brings us nicely full circle to its wholesome origins. You see, before the hotel opened — it turns 25 in 2025 — the Sol y Luna Foundation was born. Established by Petit in 1998, the foundation runs a school attended by over 160 children, most of them from extreme poverty. Their arts and crafts are available for sale in the hotel’s reception.

Though my time at Sol y Luna is short, I fall into a gentle rhythm. I watch the Milky Way emerge between the shadows of the Andes from the open-air hot tub. I unwind with a book (not that the days are exactly taxing) in front of a roaring fire, which is somehow always lit on my return — as magically as the two hot-water bottles that appear in my bed. Each morning, in the meditation room, I blast through a few sun salutations on a mat so luxurious it feels like it was crafted by Hermès — with the promise of daily-rotating pastries to follow at breakfast.

Alas, I can’t squeeze in any of the intrepid extra-curricular experiences curated by Petit’s son, Thomas. There are no soporific bus tours here — it’s all horseback rides to the Maras salt pans, e-bike trips to the Maras Plateau, and, of course, paragliding. I do, however, manage an evening stroll to the Inca ruins above the hotel, a cappuccino in the courtyard of the nearby Organika restaurant, and some ceramic shopping at Pablo Seminario’s Urubamba workshop.

I have a valid excuse for my sedateness, I hope you’ll agree: after my stay at Sol y Luna, I’ll be prised from my pearly shell to set off on a four-day hike to Machu Picchu with Quechua-owned operator Action Peru Treks. It’s 50 kilometres long and climbs to altitudes of 4,650 metres. At check-out, I realise my rookie error: I didn’t book a post-trek return stay. My legs, soon to be wobbling like molluscs, may never forgive me.