The resort MD declares his resort is about 3 things: Privacy, Privacy, Privacy. Of course, they sometimes take privacy to extremes and mightn’t obtrude upon your privacy should you err on nature trails as I am to discover.
But first I am to lose myself in an encirclement of cooing Fairy Tern lovebirds (and they are romantically monogamous, mind you) whilst you have high tea in the lofty tree-house. After this elevating experience, I aim for something higher and trek to Mont Signal foraging through a fascinating plethora of fauna and flora and navigating vast, barren rock surfaces. From its pristine pinnacles the waves first seem in slow-motion, taking their time to unfold onto the shore. Then the sea seems to gush up to hold the shore in passionate embrace. But the sea-&-shore love affair doesn’t last long as the wave, rebuffed, recedes, leaving a weeping trail like a bridal veil. Time seems to have stopped, a fruit bat certainly has, over my head, observing me intently as immaculate white fairy terns circle round my head like a halo. Enchanted, one wishes to linger. But I notice the sun has simmered into the seas that have quenched the heavens of their hues and a dusky blanket is palling all. I was advised to follow the Banyan Trail back, but it isn’t apparent. I embark on what seems the route and wind my way into an entanglement of swooning branches, stumble over humped earth, slash my legs against whipping weeds. After what seems aeons, I emerge into a clearing- only to find 3 arrows pointing in conflicting directions, with no certain indication towards civilisation. I slip on one and see a curtain of branches closed before me, so I set off on the second path, which continues never-endingly. I try the third- as unobliging. Then I scream and scream and scream for what must have been an hour. By now it’s so dark that all I see is nothing. It suddenly strikes me that 2/3s of the island is uninhabited. Futile screaming. I retrace my steps past the brooding Banyans back to Mont Signal. If the previous evening I desperately wanted to see a snake, I perhaps felt one as something slithered away under my step.
Climbing again to the top of Mont Signal, now enveloped in gloom, I fumble on the route I came up. It has rained, and I’m sliding down bald rocks into water-filled crevices. I find my footing on a rock, only to find it gets up and hisses at me. It’s a turtle/tortoise- I can’t say in the dark. If before I was scared to only put my foot in my mouth, now I am scared to put my foot anywhere. Finally, when all hope seems lost, my private butler, who has taken his time, finds me. He is more frantic than I.
I’m in no mood for new French Chef Arnaud’s supper. But his delicate preparations appease. Besides his epicurean expertise, there’s the teasing innovation of his salads -think vinaigrettes of hibiscus, ylang-ylang, fig & cashew- all tossed with produce from his gardens. He can also take you on tours of his vegetable patch ending in designer lunches in the garden with produce you have picked. This could be the Garden of Eden, but for constant battles with impudent little birds that craftily whisk away your victuals.
This resort is ever sold-out so expect to be combating honeymooning hordes, Arab royals and Russian oligarchs for those much-sought long, sultry dark wood villas staggered on the brooding granite hillside. Bay views from your immense bathrooms and aquamarine infinity pool are famously bewitching; wooden decks with outdoors showers embowered in luxurious foliage splash wild excitement upon strict and stylish granite lines.
Wake up to breakfast high on terraces which offer those same enrapturing views- if you can access them past the breakfasting hoards or indeed access the excellent breakfasts. Otherwise, there’s always the poolside restaurant, especially gorgeous over supper, to entangle you in Chef Dave’s silken homemade pastas. Then gorge on Executive Pastry Chef Stephenson’s gateaux. He’s a Chennaikar. Perhaps Indian pastry chefs take the cake!
The stunner spa is placidly poised on an incline. Sofas studded in white Italian pebbles lounge by an all-glass facade that frames astonishing sea views. During the Hilltop Fusion Massage, Elirose of the satin-tipped fingers and soft soothing voice eases the most entangled muscles with her tender persuasion and subtle craft. Ladies beware though, the pretty young thing is 19 and captivating. Best send your husbands off on a mountain yoga session with the eminently enlightening but rather less alluring Indian yoga instructor Vishal…
