Sublime Comporta

While it’s hard to regret the invention of air conditioning in Portugal, even in late September, the pine-drenched warmth that greets me as I hoist myself out of the car window to reach Sublime’s (perfectly positioned) entry phone proves so thrilling I immediately stop complaining about Someone’s bad driving and start loudly regretting the wasted hour we’ve just spent inhaling Eau de Fiat Panda instead.

In fact, the Panda – a serviceable yet notably ugly vehicle we quickly christen the Popemobile in honour of His Holiness’ recent visit to Portugal (or more truthfully, because of its ungainly proportions) – is to prove a millstone round our necks for the entirety of our stay. Within those artfully rustic gates lies a world of understated elegance and quiet luxury – and, for this weekend only, our pea green entry-level hire car.

That said, Sublime’s lovely young staff don’t raise so much as a well-groomed eyebrow at our aesthetically challenged transport choice – they’re so friendly that I’m tempted to hop on the golf buggy with the receptionist and leave Mr Smith to do the drive of shame to our suite solo. Instead, I spend the entire three minute journey crouched over, pretending to try and find the coin that slipped under the seat in the inevitable frenzy of the motorway tollbooth. (You never know when you might need 20 cents in a luxury hotel.)

All this embarrassment is no doubt all in my head; Sublime is the kind of place where fellow guests politely ask whether you’d mind if they put on some ‘Balearic beats’ round the pool – ‘it’ll be super chill, I promise’ – or if you could do with a spritz of organic insect repellent. (The beasts in need of repelling are tiny flies, not mosquitoes, which is an important distinction as far as I’m concerned; flies only take a single punchy margarita to stop being annoying, mosquitos require a bottle of tequila to be even tolerable.)

The whole vibe here is so super chill, in fact, that it’s almost otherworldly – a feeling reinforced by the fact that, although our room is but a couple of minutes walk along clearly marked forest paths from the main reception area, I manage to get lost on several occasions, too busy wandering around with my mouth open wittering on about the beauty of the parasol pines (‘absolutely my second favourite tree’) to pay attention to directions. This is nothing, however, to the panicky half hour I spend flailing around thorn bushes with a family of wild boar after embarking on an overambitious run one morning – the surrounding countryside is glorious, but I’d recommend asking staff about routes rather than striking out in the dubious company of Google maps.

During my epic struggle to find my way back to Sublime civilisation, I’m struck by the worrying, but increasingly credible possibility that the estate actually exists in an alternative, and rather more desirable reality. Though, once safely installed in front of a strong coffee, I recognise this as the rambling of a woman desperately afraid of missing out on homemade granola. Nevertheless the feeling persists, and indeed it’s a reality I’d be more than happy to defect to full time, if only I were a different person. The clean white decor of the room, for example, all sheer white curtains billowing in the breeze and soaring ceilings, has a profoundly calming effect on us both – until I open my suitcase and all is chaos again.

Sadly said suitcase is too tightly packed (I laugh in the face of baggage charges) to accommodate one of the lovely embroidered cushions that provide the only splash of colour in an ocean of tasteful neutrals, though I strongly consider making an offer for the wall-hanging fashioned from local cork. A sculptural pinboard would be so useful for the detritus that tends to follow me round in real life.

To my considerable relief, there’s very little need for the Panda on our three-day stay, though we do razz it down to the hip village of Comporta one afternoon on the pretence of exploring the local area. The beach – wide, sandy, almost empty, save for a couple of laid-back bars serving icy rosé and tapas – is perfect, but I fall harder for the Gomes Supermercados, a dimly-lit warren of culinary joy with an extensive range of tinned sardines in beautiful packaging, and a fabulous pair of goat-shaped salt and pepper shakers that nearly spark divorce proceedings.

Otherwise we loll about on dove-grey sun loungers next to the bracing infinity pool, sip margaritas by the sunken fire pit and eat. Mostly we eat. So generous are the breakfasts (pasteis de nata on tap!) that, with the help of the odd olive or 70 we just about manage to hold out until dinner, where we ravage the eclectic, rather sprawling menu like ill-bred locusts, boldly chasing up xara, an Alentejo speciality which I surmise to be brawn, and homemade pickles with rice pudding and avocado ice cream.

If the kitchen sometimes seems to be trying a bit too hard, the food is certainly never boring, which is refreshing in a place where there are no alternatives within walking distance. The two local wines recommended to us are so exceptional I order a case of the white on my phone as the Panda rattles us back to reality. After all, that hard-won 20 cents won’t spend itself.