Violino d'Oro

Let’s be real. Drizzle is no one's idea of a dream start to a minibreak. But if any city can pull off glamour in the rain, it is Venice. Water is what La Serenissima is all about; plus boats being the only traffic means no passing cars to drench us as we wheel our cases from the San Marco vaparetto stop, past Harry’s Bar, skirting the edge of St Mark’s Square, arriving five minutes later with a hop over a cute arched bridge. We are in a piazza of super-prime real estate — Valentino boutique on one side, gondoliers in striped livery hawking for business on the other — and between is a handsome rose-pink palazzo which has the vibe of a distinguished private home, rather than a fancy-pants bling hotel. But, look — that’s a golden violin in the window. Violino d’Oro, geddit?

The doorman spots us peering through the drizzle, opens the doors and ushers us into a jewel box of a lobby, where Murano glass lamps flank plush velvet sofas and sumptuous Chinese vases. We are brought water (still and sparkling, on a silver tray) and settled on comfortable chairs and generally made a fuss of in a very pleasing way. There are no forms to fill out, no digital room cards, just smiles and an old-fashioned key on a tasselled fob. It feels less like soulless check-in and more like arriving to stay with a very rich, very chic pal who happens to have a canalside palazzo in Venice. As I write this, I’m trying to remember — was it still raining outside at this point? No idea. We didn’t care. 

Our room, on the first floor, had a cosy sitting area with a sofa long enough for both of us to stretch out while sampling the snacks (kumquats, berries, macaroons, berries) laid out on the coffee table. The aesthetic is genteel and timeless, with crisp white bedlinen, polished terrazzo floors, an exquisite antique writing desk, but also thoughtful modern touches like a top-notch Nespresso machine and full-size fridge. Also — and so many hotels slip up on this — a single switch to turn off all the lights when you want to sleep, clearly flagged to us on arrival. An enormous walk-in wardrobe, so that the suitcase you never quite unpack doesn’t clutter up the room, was a nice touch. 

Best of all, though, were the two tall windows with Juliet balconies, leaning directly over the straw hats of the gondoliers on the San Moise canal below. Sitting by these windows, listening to the shouts of the boatmen and the clunk and swoosh of the oars, felt like full immersion in Venetian life. Annabella, the charming and chic hotel manager on whom I developed quite the girl-crush, laughingly apologised later for the colourful language of said boatmen, who apparently were grumpy about the rain (bad for business) and indulging in some football-terrace-worthy banter. I had no idea, the upside of not speaking Italian being that all Italian sounds charming, even if it is actually quite sweary. If you do speak Italian, and are easily offended — or just prefer a quieter space — ask for a room overlooking the central courtyard, rather than the canal. I am quite sure they will oblige, because that is how the hotel is. At Violino d’Oro you get that lovely looked-after feeling that is, I think, a huge part of what should make a hotel stay a treat. Nothing was too much trouble, they were always offering umbrellas and recommendations as we left, and delighted to see us when we returned. Most of us spend the majority of our real lives focusing our duties to others — our bosses, our families — and getting spoiled is, frankly, the whole point of a weekend like this. 

The restaurant, Il Piccolo, is tiny (nine tables!) and there is no spa: this is not a place to check-in and stay in — it is a base for a city weekend. Scented by the Ortigia products in the bathroom (which are joined by waffle robes, glass sinks and trinket trays), we headed out in search of cicchetti, the Venetian take on tapas. A 10-minute walk across the Accademia bridge took us to Dorsoduro (similar to Shoreditch in London, or the West Village in NYC), where we ate tiny open sandwiches — delicious! Two euros each! — at Cantine del Vino già Schiavi. As we wandered back into the lobby later that night, a few Campari Spritz to the wind, another pair of guests were returning in their opera-house finery from a Bach recital at La Fenice, which is a few steps from the lobby.

City weekends are exhausting. My step count rivalled the last time I went to Glastonbury. Venice is made up of 118 islands linked by 435 bridges and I felt like we crossed most of them. But the central location meant our day could be broken into easy chunks, with regular breaks to loll about in the comfort and style of our room. We walked everywhere, but Violino d’Oro has its own water entrance, so you can arrive and leave by water taxi, stepping directly from boat to lounge, should you wish.

I’m an early riser, so I slipped out for a solo walk at 7am, to wander the silent canals for a couple of hours and drink a cappuccino standing up amid locals walking dogs and heading to work, and work up an appetite for breakfast. I believe you can judge the true mettle of a hotel by its breakfast. Installed on pistachio-green banquettes at a corner table, we were directed to begin at the ‘welcome corner’, where bite-sized homemade muffins oozed apricot jam, and tiny croissants were stuffed with soft cheese and a frill of bresaola. After that, it was our duty to you, dear readers, to test both the pancakes with syrup and the poached eggs, which I can confirm were excellent.

Jacked up on deliciously strong coffee, we headed back out. Both the Peggy Guggenheim Collection and the Fortuny Museum are a few minutes' stroll away; while a few more steps — with the help of Google Maps, invaluable in Venice — took us to churches packed with art by Titian and Bellini. The Catholic church was the one-per-cent of 16th-century Europe, and the churches of Italy’s cities have the swag to prove it, so I’m a big fan of swerving the big galleries and hunting down painted ceilings and sumptuous altarpieces instead. A weekend in Venice wouldn’t be complete with drinking a Bellini as well as admiring one of his paintings, so we toasted the day in Harry’s Bar, where the famous drink was invented. And then it was time for our final challenge to the hotel: can a chef in this seafood-coded city pull off dinner for a vegetarian? Il Piccolo had it covered, with a starter of new-season asparagus with vegan feta, followed by beetroot spaghettini. 

The next morning, we left on my absolute favourite form of transport: surrounded by the polished walnut interior of a water taxi. The doorman handed our cases aboard, and waved us off. It was still raining. But it was a dream weekend nonetheless.