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Everyone keeps asking when my hotel will open. Until it does, allow me to walk you through it, room by room, and to introduce the makers, architects and amigos whose work I would fill it with. Choosing the right hands is a tricky number, because I love far too many of them, and my accountant loves rather fewer. If I were assembling the dream team, the whole place would carry the quiet soul of Ruth Kramer, the creator behind Brücke 49, tempered with the colour and the punch of Stephanie Thatenhorst, one of my favourites for making a room sing. Consider this the guided tour of an as yet imaginary little pad. Mind the wet paint, and do ignore the fact that none of it is here yet.
Welcome to my (as yet imaginary) little pad of consummate style, good taste, and casually comforting good service.
You enter through the library-lounge, because I despise a reception desk, curated entirely by me: juicy autobiographies of genuinely interesting people, a little artistic indulgence (never goes amiss), old books about cities and coastlines (Nairn's Paris, or This Is Salzburg by Count Ferdinand Czernin), and a smattering of architectural volumes. Not coffee-table books, mind, I cannot abide those weighty things bought by the metre and never once opened, but proper close-ups of the works themselves and the logic behind them.
For the lounge I would hand the keys to Biquadra Architects, who understand exactly how a room should hold a conversation. And for tea time (I am a Brit, after all), the excellent Anassa Organic Teas, poured properly at four, no debate, and heaven help the soul who suggests a teabag.
The Negroni bar needs little explanation, poured properly and served with excellent salted crisps, nothing spicy, because a Negroni has quite enough to say for itself already. Food is close to the heart and served family style. The menu is easy, nothing so complicated it needs a narrative, a sommelier's interpretation, or three paragraphs about the farmer's feelings. Simple like me, tasty like me, satisfying like me.
For the Negroni bar itself, none other than Vincent Van Duysen, whose restraint would make every pour look inevitable. And the gin for the perfect Negroni? Deux Frères, of course. For the restaurant and the table, I would hand it over to the colourful, punchy hands of Stephanie Thatenhorst.
Upstairs, a heritage-tiled floor in soft burnt pink-orange, paintwork in wet-putty cream and accents in vert. Textiles and texture reign, framing the biggest bed the room can take, stacked high with raw linen, un-ironed by design (a distinction I shall defend to the death), and plump cushions to sink into. One switch does all the lighting, because no one should need an engineering degree to go to bed. Colonial shutters swing open to a breeze. There is an old oil painting of long-lost relatives (none of them mine, but all beautifully stern, as though they too disapprove of the minibar I have refused to install), a little ceramic here and there, and a branch of real olive in a vase. No minibar, thank heavens, just an espresso button.
The soul of the suites belongs to Ruth Kramer, who brings in a softer Mediterranean-Nordic palette (she practically coined the Scandi-Scot look), with curated antiques and collectibles by Antonio and Filipa Fortunato. And the ceramics dotted throughout, the lovely hands of Maru Meleniou, because a room is only ever finished by the small, handmade things.
The bathroom is a walk-in all-marble affair, old marble at that, with an oversized basin scarred beautifully by years of use, bright lighting and a shower so generous it needs no glass. There is a separate private loo, naturally, for I do not care to see myself upon the throne, never mind the loved one, some mysteries being essential to a long and happy union. The amenities read more like the cabinet of a well-groomed gent (guess who) with products gathered from various amigos: Icelandic Flower shower gel from Red Flower, hand soap and body lotion by Plainly, and essential face creams by Seed to Skin of Tuscany. All natural, naturally, and not a sad little sachet in sight.
For the master bathroom, a bathtub by Agape, the sort you sink into and quietly cancel your evening plans.
A house is truly made in its statement pieces, the ones that stop you in the doorway and make you forget what you came in for. And then there is my own truckful of heirloom pieces and curiosities, gathered over the decades and no doubt insured for far less than my sentiment demands, arriving to punctuate every corner of every room. Eclectic, gloriously random, and above all comfortable.
For statement furnishings, Egetemeier Interiors, De La Espada and Wittmann Furniture. For statement artworks, Carwan Gallery in Piraeus. For the rugs, Armadillo. And for the lighting, Lee Broom and Harry Thaler, because a room lit badly is a good room in a bad mood.
For those who want the whole house to themselves, and let us be honest, we all secretly do, there is a standalone villa, a world within the world.
For the villa interiors, the effortless Nicemakers, who dress a room warmly enough that you never quite want to leave it, which does rather play havoc with the checkout schedule.
And when the shutters open and the evening settles in, the outdoor light matters as much as any wall inside.
For the outdoor lighting and shades, the beautiful work of Javier Sánchez Medina, because dusk deserves as much thought as daylight. For the outdoor grill and firepit, a Feuerring, for the fresh-caught fish of the day cooked over open flame. For the loungers by the pool,the recycled heroes at Bluecycle, proof that good taste and a good conscience can share a sunbed. For the Mediterranean gardens, the landscaping hand of Álvaro Sampedro, so the greenery looks as though it simply grew there, artlessly and on purpose. The pool staff, dressed by Plus351, because even poolside a good uniform matters. The hotel sun hats, from one of these beauties, our handcrafted hat makers, because no one of taste bakes bare-headed. And the in-house team, looking fabulous in Muchache, crafted in Mallorca, because hospitality should look as good as it feels.
A supply of good note paper awaits my scribbles and my notes to the amigos, and instructions to the front desk for reservations et al. A red card for 'Do Not Disturb' and a green one for 'Cleaning Please', because, once again, life need not be complicated, and because I have never once understood the tiny door-hanger with the microscopic print.
As for me, I shall be swanning about with great purpose and very little haste, plumping the cushions, second-guessing the chef, and running a monarch's eye over the reservations, the departures and the arrivals. Susan gets her extra-large towels (Susan always gets her way). Patrik in No.7 gets his favourite tipples on a polished silver tray with enough lemons to worry a Sicilian. Margaret will have only feather pillows and proper sheets, and should a continental duvet so much as approach her room, heads will roll. Send the car for the Royston family, and for heaven's sake, mind the chilled champagne in the ice box. Mingling, you understand, is my primary duty, a full-time vocation of chatting with the house residents (I would rather not call them guests), because that is what true bonhomie and hospitality are all about, and because someone has to.
After my swim, I shall don one of our house towelling jackets, feel every inch the Sean Connery, adjust an imaginary cufflink, and enquire, to no one in particular, where on earth my morning newspaper has got to. Perhaps I shall install a Moneypenny on the front desk to keep the whole delicious circus in order, since I shall plainly be far too busy being the star of it.
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Get the insider news and lowdown on what we've been up to, where we've been, and who we've met along the way. Be the first to discover new places and get the scoop on our favourites.