Luxury Hotels

SYBARITIC SINGLE SUSSES OUT MUSTIQUE

As the tiny twin-engine De Havilland makes a crossing from Barbados to Mustique with only three passengers onboard, the Sybaritic Single sighs with relief that he has made the shortest airport connection possible. The slightest delay would have caused a day-long inconvenience: the island’s dinky airport runway closes at sunset because there are no lights.
Arriving in Mustique is a majestic sight: rolling emerald hills, powdery white beaches and sapphire waters of the ocean.
Since the 1960s, this tiny island (roughly the size of Hyde Park) has been somewhere that the English aristocracy, the rich and the famous, withdrew to. Bryan Adams, Mick Jagger and David Bowie all have houses here. Although it may have the reputation for being a celebrity magnet, its visitors are drawn by the privacy it affords, rather than the glitz – precisely what the Sybaritic Single seeks on holidays. There is only so many inflated bodies, Dior tote bags, Hermès sandals and Cartier bracelets one can tolerate on other M-letter islands.
He takes residence at The Cotton House, the only hotel on the island with just 17 bedrooms. The spacious cottage, designed by Grace-Leo Andrieu, feels incredibly authentic and is complete with a latticework verandah and abundant use of Mustique green.
Champagnes are so reasonably priced ($450 for a bottle of Cristal 2008) that the Sybaritic Single goes on a week-long diet of grilled lobsters and bubbles. Each morning, he burns just enough calories walking from the hotel to Le Jolies Eaux, where Princess Margaret used to stay, to ensure he luxuriates without guilt.
A new acquaintance shares a fascinating story of dancing with Tom Ford, Ralph Lauren and Giorgio Armani – all three on one night – though complains that the free-flowing Moët & Chandon is a thing of the past now.
The Sybaritic Single’s own comments are related to lack of any AC except for the bedrooms (Caribbean nights are bad for the hair – God knows how the princess managed hers), clumsy champagne flûtes (thankfully, he always carries his own red Baccarat) and the atrocious green iguana living next to the lobby: the size of a decent handbag, it ambushed the Sybaritic Single a few times.