Most of the world’s great hotels have a certain uniting vibe. They’re slick, sometimes almost oppressively so. Everything gleams with modernity, from the teeth of the reception staff to the door handles in each of the rooms. Luxury, with all its never-ending mod cons comes as standard, so much so that one can get rather bored of all the Egyptian cotton divans, bath-mounted flat screen TVs and endlessly sycophantic service that are de rigueur in these five or six star establishments. What’s entirely lacking is a sense of individual character that enables one to remember what stood out about, say, the Plaza in New York compared to Le Meurice in Paris.
Thankfully, the Cipriani – probably the most famous hotel in Venice, if not Italy – is in a class of its own. From the moment that you escape the endless tourists milling around St Mark’s square into the comfort of the private motorboat that whisks you the five minute journey over to Giudecca Island where the Cipriani sits, aloof and knowing, you’re aware that you’re staying somewhere aimed at adults, rather than the infantilised. The greeting that you get when you arrive reflects this. The staff are proper old-school Italian hoteliers, friendly, welcoming and straightforward. They are also about as far away from the fawning Versace-clad could-be models you find swarming round the desks of design hotels like skinny bees drawn to calorie-free honey as you can imagine. I’d been to the Cipriani once before a few years back, and I was greeted not with the ‘oh, Signor Larman, SO good to have you back with us!’ response that I’ve occasionally had when I’ve revisited former haunts, but a brusque yet friendly nod. One imagines that repeat business forms a large part of the appeal here; after all, once is never quite enough.
The Cipriani, then, is an icon beyond compare. First opened in 1958 by Giuseppe Cipriani, founder of Harry’s Bar, it has gradually expanded over the years to take its place as a luxury hotel of style and taste. All the trappings are here, from a sizeable outdoor swimming pool that is one of the largest and most beloved anywhere around Venice to the beautifully appointed rooms. The suite that the Newly Affianced and I were shown into outstripped all expectations; the views over the lagoon from the twin balconies were beautiful, the bathroom was the size of the average one-bedroom London flat and the bedroom itself had a bed so large that it was perfectly feasible to imagine getting lost in it. The sole nod to gimmickry was an Orient-Express standby, the television that appears from somewhere unexpected; here, it emerges, like something out of a Bond film, from a tasteful cabinet at the bottom of the bed. The NA looked at it for a moment, and sniffed. ‘Perfectly nice cabinet, don’t see why it had to be spoilt.’
The Cipriani is, of course, a base to venture out into one of the world’s greatest cities, and after checking in we spent a more than enjoyable day sauntering round the canals and squares of the Queen of the Adriatic. I recalled the scene in Brideshead Revisited when Charles and Sebastian ‘drown in honey’ while visiting Lord Marchmain, and referred this to the NA, accompanying it with a tuneful rendition of the theme tune. For my pains, I got a sharp look, and a pointed reminder that I oughtn’t to be talking about drowning so provocatively, what with so many convenient dark corners and lagoons roundabout. Reader, she amuses. Although she also terrifies.
After our wandering had tired us out, we returned once more on the motor launch, which proved an exhilarating experience; the traffic having died down somewhat, our driver took the opportunity to go at a rate of knots, and the feeling of the wind coursing through one’s hair as one cascades giddily over one of the most beautiful parts of Europe is an unbeatable one. Similar exhilaration awaited back at the hotel where a bottle of prosecco had appeared in our room, as if by magic, and we toasted one another and Venice as the sun set and we gazed out over the dying light of the glorious Italian evening on the lagoon. Some people, we reminded ourselves with a certain wry envy, get to do this every day.
Thankfully, the fun was not yet over, as we headed to the Fortuny restaurant for dinner. The sumptuous formality is a world away from the more rough ‘n’ ready bacari that are to be found throughout the city (and which famously led to Russell Norman opening London’s Polpo and its siblings). The beautiful views over the now darkened lagoon are complimented by excellent cuisine, which, as you might expect, leans heavily on seafood. An excellent dish of black spaghetti with scallops (the black coming, of course, from squid ink) was swiftly followed by a delectable, though small, tasting of finely cooked suckling pig, and the NA pronounced herself ecstatic with her starter of perfectly al dente ravioli with capriono cheese, trumped by an exceptionally lovely cod fillet, so fresh that one could practically taste the sea. Washed down with a well chosen bottle of Montepulciano, the whole evening was a pleasure from beginning to end.
Alas, we had to leave early the next day; time, tide and Monarch Air wait for no man. But at least our departure, after a splendid room service breakfast, was done in style, as we splashed out on a water taxi to the airport from the Cipriani. As we soared through the canals and lagoons, the NA, for once, didn’t have a witty retort or devastating put down for me.
‘This is how it should be, and how it should be, forever.’
Which is much the same as I’d say for the Cipriani.
Prices at Hotel Cipriani start from £1,093 per night, including taxes, based on two people sharing a Double Lagoon View Room with balcony. Price includes breakfast. For further information or to book please visit the website or call the Orient-Express Hotels reservations department on 0845 077 2222.
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