Villa Mahal

Surely only certifiable fruit-loops would make a 20-hour round trip to spend just 48 hours in Turkey. But, well, call us fruit-loops, because that’s precisely why Mr Smith and I are Kalkan-bound for Mr Smith’s thirtieth. When I turned 30, I got a regrettable blow-dry, donned a fuchsia minidress and lured a motley crew to a Shoreditch dive bar with questionable cocktails and vintage video games; but that was four years ago, and I want to do things differently for my beloved. In order to distract Mr Smith during the three-hour drive from Antalya to the hotel – a slog which can in no way be considered a birthday present, however optimistic one’s nature – I try to seduce him via the rugged scenery. ‘Look at those mountains’, I murmur persuasively, waggling my fingers at the jagged Toblerone peaks glowering back at us through the car windows. Mr Smith, who hails from the majestic moors of Lancashire, sleepily makes impressed noises; I consider his inner Wordsworth/Heathcliff sufficiently roused.

However, there’s no need for the hard sell when we arrive at Villa Mahal, perched precariously on a cliffside by the glittering waters of the Med. It’s the kind of hotel that graciously unravels itself with more of a whisper than a bellowed ‘Hai, guys!’. Its lo-fi-luxe rooms and sea-view restaurants sprawl across untamed green grounds, abundantly planted with vivid orange and scarlet blooms. Slices of dazzling aqua surprise you at every turn – along with the occasional skinny kitten, and steps cantilever down to a beach club with sunloungers set on rocky sea platforms – but, we don’t know this yet.

Our room has eye-bogglingly beautiful liquid panoramas revealed through floor-to-ceiling windows, so you can do interesting things to each other while boats bob past, giving a whole new meaning to the phase: ‘his ship has come in’. Hunks of smoky grey-and-peach quartz sparkle by our bed, which is huge and comfy, and dramatic mint-green curtains match the ever-shifting jade-blue hues of the sea. The bathroom is a sleek, shiny, nougat-coloured stone expanse with a rain-head shower and a flotilla of Ren products. Whenever circumstances permit, Mr Smith and I prefer ocean ablutions, so we grab our beach towels and head outside. We canter down the steps – 181 in total, according to the bartenders’ T-shirts – that lead to the sparkling water, parking up on our rocky platform of choice. While Mr Smith swims with vigour, I stake out the barnacled sea steps, lurking in the waves like some kind of subterranean toll-collector. A giant plastic float bobs by – should you strive for feelings of achievement, which is a rarity for me on holiday, I recommend that every now and then you swim out to it, clamber on, lie down, and then get off. 

Villa Mahal is dazzling by day; irresponsibly romantic by night. Actually, re-e-wind: the seduction begins a little earlier, at approximately seven o’clock, when the lemon-yellow sun sinks below the elbow-crook of the mountains, and clouds like torn tissue trail across the sky. This is a scene best accessorised with drinks: I recommend two citrus-sherbet Villa Mahal specials, in which gin is jazzed up with lemon. An ‘on the rocks’ approach applies to dinner, which is served as close to the waves as gravity permits. Spotlights cast a soft glow on the stones and water, where fish flit darkly below. A moon like a gilded nectarine hangs ripe above us as we scoff herby grilled fish and sip pear-sweet white wine, while the hotel cats companionably crunch prawn heads like popcorn (and get into the occasional hysterical scrap or two).

Over dinner, we spy the lights of Kalkan, the closest town, twinkling gold, azure, violet and emerald on the ink-dark hillside, like gems on black velvet. We have no problem with utterly ignoring Kalkan beyond this sighting. Our intentions are to move no further than the spa, which is sublime, by the way, starring an impressive, lipsticked lady who athletically kneads my laptop-induced hunchback in a bohemian, thatched-roof massage shack by the sea. We discuss Kalkan: I say something about not going and she emphatically cries ‘Chocolate!’ in an excited manner, while jiggling and hopping around. Though I briefly question her sanity – but never her massage skills – a little bit of post-spa detective work reveals that Chocolate is in fact a Kalkan nightclub. Do go if you feel lively.

Throughout our stay, Mr Smith and I do not feel lively. We feel the very opposite, i.e. flagrantly immobile. We are much like two fat sea lions who have managed to flop their way into a very good bedroom; enjoy view-toting, open-air breakfasts of cheese, cured meat, fresh fruit, pancakes and jam, coffee and juice; and then slide back happily into the sea, where we truly belong. The most activity Mr Smith achieves is going Rambo on the local mozzie population one night; the most I achieve is disattaching my eyelids from some dubious fake lashes (the legacy of Mr Smith’s UK birthday bash), which attempt to go blindingly AWOL during breakfast. Sadly, all good things must come to an end, even inactivity. Duty/Gatwick Airport calls, and Mr Smith and I must hark it. But, there’s a spark of optimism left in us yet – ‘You’ll be 31 soon’, I tell him, as we leave.