It’s only when you go somewhere like Amanyara where I have just come back from that you realise how ghastly most of the world is. I am sitting at Charles de Gaulle airport where my flight to Montpellier is delayed, my head full of the colours of the Caribbean and the peace of the resort. We have had four days there of total heaven.
The architecture is Asian, as is most of the staff. Everything is made from wood, most of it imported from Indonesia, and someone has really thought about how to blend the resort in with the countryside and coastline around. It’s the first time I have ever thought that nature could actually benefit from a development. Everywhere you go at Amanyara a smiling member of staff brings you a bottle of water.
There are more places to lie down than to sit, all with magnificent view over the blue ocean or the many man-made ponds that give it such a zen-like feel. We went to look at some of the 33 houses they are building. My husband is writing a piece for the Times about them. Priced from $8 million to $15 million, with annual fees of $120,000, these are not the cheapest houses in the Caribbean. But they are certainly the most stylish. Why can’t the whole world look like an Aman resort? And where is that charming little man with a bottle of water as I sit here at the airport thirsty and miserable after a ten-hour flight?
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