The great hotels of the Riviera were built for a slower century, and the best of them have never apologised for it. You arrive through an avenue of parasol pines; you are not asked for a credit card at the door. The lobby smells of beeswax and cut stems.
What you pay for here is restraint. No music by the pool. No branding on the towels. The cabanas have been assigned to the same families for three generations. It is the hospitality equivalent of the cave suites of Santorini — a room that knows exactly what to leave out.
“We do not add things for guests. We remove the things that would disturb them.”
The general manager
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