Tarabel Lisbon

The number of destinations on my travel wish list is exceedingly long, but I confess that Lisbon was not really one of them. I visited once in my early twenties and absolutely loved it, but for some reason had seen no reason to return. How wrong I was. Offered the opportunity of 48 hours anywhere that promised the possibility of Mediterranean sunshine in September, and a moment of recovery after the school 'holidays', I leapt at the chance to enjoy two nights at the city’s buzziest new hotel, Tarabel.

My plane arrived several frustrating hours later than planned, so it was past 10 at night when I found myself being ushered through the doors of what felt more like an elegant private house than a hotel. Laurent, the manager, is charm personified and offered me a chilled glass of wine while introducing me to everything I could look forward to at the hotel. He has spent much of his time in recent years managing a sister property in Marrakech, and bears quite a resemblance to his namesake, and previous stylish resident of that city, Yves Saint Laurent. He could not have been more hospitable, later driving my suitcase across town on his Vespa on my last day so that I could make the most of my limited time unencumbered.

Padding up the deeply carpeted staircase to my room, Laurent tells me that my residence for the next two days has been upgraded to a junior suite, and I wait until I’m safely out of earshot before skittering about the vast, gorgeous expanse of it squeaking with joy. Sunbeams wake me the following morning after a deliciously deep sleep, and I walk out onto the balcony to survey my kingdom. In the distance, the glittering River Tagus ushers sailing boats up and down, and an emerald-green swimming pool winks at me from the hotel's terraced gardens below. In the garden next door, a group of distinguished-looking guests gather to enjoy a breakfast meeting — this area of the city is home to many embassies, making it blissfully quiet — and I look down on them smugly from my ivory tower.

Breakfast only compounds my princess delusions, with a succession of treats served on vintage porcelain in pastel shades, and sprinkled with flower petals. The dining room also looks out over the gardens to the river, and though time is short and the city calls, I linger over my coffee, savouring every magical moment and quite unable to tear myself away.

You couldn’t possibly hope to see all Lisbon has to offer in such a short amount of time, so I decide bookshops will be the hook around which to weave my itinerary, starting with one of the city’s coolest, Salted Books, just a short walk from the hotel. Two minutes after stepping out the door, I’m surrounded by old buildings clad in the traditional tiles for which Portugal is famous. A rickety wooden tram sounds a bell behind me as it descends the steeply sloping street I’m walking down — so far, so wonderfully typical Lisbon.

My route leads me to the seafront, where I find Time Out Market Lisboa, home to 26 restaurants, eight bars and dozens of shops — including a small concession of A Vida Portuguesa, which has several exquisite locations around the city, any and all of which are worth a visit for their beautifully packaged, traditional Portuguese goods, from Claus Porto soap to Bordallo Pinheiro pottery.

From here, it's a half-hour walk through grand squares and meandering back streets to the Feira da Ladra, Lisbon’s famous flea market. A market in some form has been here in the shadow of the São Vicente de Fora monastery since 1272. I can’t resist a set of four hand-painted blue and white tiles, instantly sending myself over the EasyJet carry-on allowance; and spend a happy hour rifling through the many treasures there.

When it’s time to get back on my bookshop tour, I jump in an Uber — astonishingly affordable for anyone used to London rates — and seek out my next literary haunt, taking in Cerâmicas na Linha and the wonderful flagship A Vida Portuguesa shop while I’m at it. The next pause on my wanders is Brotéria, an exquisite old building which is now a not-for-profit cultural space, housing an art gallery, reading rooms, a beautiful garden café and a bookshop.

No trip to Lisbon would be complete without at least one (and with hindsight, ideally more than just one) pastel de nata, and fortunately for me, purveyors of the finest examples of tart art, Manteigaria, have a tiny shop stationed opposite Livraria de Travessa and the Botanical Garden, both next on my list. Sadly by this point, even the most ambrosial delicacy cannot revive my flagging energies. After admiring some very statuesque palm trees, I shamefacedly — but secretly delightedly — shelve plans to visit the Gulbenkian Museum, and give in to the siren call of the jade-green pool and its attendant yellow-striped sunloungers, high-tailing it back to Tarabel to catch the last of the rays.

Lying by the pool, eating a fruit platter served on perfect porcelain, also does nothing to diminish my princess pretensions, and I embrace the Pretty Woman experience with a long, hot bath in the excessively deep (I’m not complaining) tub in my room, before descending for dinner. I was entirely unprepared for the extraordinary food that followed, a succession of incredible dishes you’d more likely expect in a Michelin-starred restaurant than a small — albeit extremely spoiling and refined — hotel. Laurent told me all about how he secured the services of young chef Afonso Blazquez Raposo for Tarabel, and he is justifiably proud to have done so. If food is your thing, you can add that to your list of incentives to stay here, on top of the elegantly relaxed and wonderfully comfortable home-from-home charms of the hotel itself.

After dinner, I whisked over to Rocco for a cocktail with an old friend who, like many, has adopted the city as her home, appreciating its diverse and cosmopolitan crowd, characterful individuality and surprising affordability compared to other European cities. Tucked up by midnight in crisp Portuguese linen sheets, I looked forward to breakfast and a trip to the unmissable Museu Nacional do Azulejo (National Tile Museum) the next morning, before very reluctantly making my way home, vowing to come back soon.