Todd Marshard & James Waddell At Manka’s Inverness Lodge
What’s your idea of romance?A seaside drive in northern California, a rendezvous in Paris, a beach getaway in Thailand, or a sail down the Turkish coast?Here, 25 destinations around the globe that are sure to put you in the mood.
By Shane Mitchell
Any faraway land gets my blood pumping, but if I desire the pleasure of my husband’s company, the choice narrows to the bonny realm of haggis and heather. Nothing in life gives Bronson, who claims Scottish roots, a bigger thrill than checking off another castellated ruin on his annotated map of Scotland. If it sits in splendid isolation, I’ll happily tag along and pack my bodice in hopes of a little ripping. After 12 years of marriage, it smells faintly of eau de mothballs.
So, off we jaunted to the 17-room Glenapp Castle, a 1½-hour drive southwest of Glasgow. Prickly yellow gorse dotted the moorland glens, and we caught tantalizing views of tumbled, lichen-speckled citadels, like Cardoness, Dunure, and Orchardton, that haven’t been occupied since the 16th century. As we drove along narrow lanes, blustery Ayrshire County called to mind the fictional Scottish village in I Know Where I’m Going!, our favorite 1940’s romantic comedy. (Wendy Hiller plays a weather-stranded gold digger. Luckily, she falls madly for the local laird, even though he seems to lack baronial digs.)
Just outside Ballantrae, we pulled up to iron gates, then climbed a tree-lined drive to a 19th-century pink-sandstone manor. Glenapp once belonged to the Earls of Inchcape—their motto is engraved above the oak entrance hall. It’s now owned by the Cowan family, who eschew hokey trappings. No wee ghosties, no bagpipes, no false bonhomie here. From a crest above the rocky shore, the manor commands a tremendous vista of the Irish Sea, punctuated by a distant island, called Ailsa Craig.
Glenapp certainly has all the features a castle nerd like my husband craves, including a spiral staircase, built (expressly) for late-night tomcatting by an aristocratic former occupant, hidden in a corner turret. After a brisk march in mud-caked rubber Wellingtons along the paths of the estate’s walled gardens, we nestled in the tartan-swathed library for steaming cups of Earl Grey and raisin-studded scones. Bronson thumbed through back issues of Scottish Field while I gravitated to Lady Antonia Fraser’s quirky anthology of Gaelic love poems. I was amused to discover that not all of these have happy endings.
The only external distractions were squawking crows among the pines and crunching gravel when a car pulled out of the driveway. At dinner, we minded our manners over linen starched stiff as a Calvinist sermon. The attentive staff delivered a terrine of wild game, Arran langoustines, and fillets of local beef. For a nightcap, Bronson tried the delicate peatless single malt from tiny Bladnoch Distillery, just over the shire border, in Galloway. Then, in the marigold yellow Earl of Orkney bedroom, with silk curtains drawn and a fire in the filigreed grate, we collapsed on a plump damask couch. Bronson pulled out his map, and together we plotted the next day’s hunt for more ancient remnants. It seems Mary, Queen of Scots once lingered during a royal progress at shattered Glenluce Abbey, just 15 miles away. So in the morning, I knew where I was going, too.
By Sonia Faleiro
My boyfriend and I visit Thailand often from our home in India. We shop in Bangkok, snorkel in Ko Chang—but Ko Samui?Nothing kills the mood faster than ticketed Full Moon parties and a Technicolor strip with neon that assaults the eyes. Rapacious development over the years had kept this fabled island paradise off our list.
Then something surprising happened: on a recent trip to Thailand, we discovered a secret Samui.
As you move away from the east coast and its hub, flashy cosmopolitan Chaweng, the island becomes a rural idyll, moving to a slower rhythm. Cobbled roads are overrun with wildflowers; pink-cheeked houses come with slanting roofs. And in corner pubs, locals and farangs—foreigners—commune over Singha beers and pad thai. More intimate still are the north coast’s nearly deserted golden beaches. We hung out on Bo Phut, where our hotel, the Sila Evason Hideaway, was located—one of a crop of new resorts we’d heard about that were springing up in the area.
We knew from prior visits that Samui’s selling point over neighboring Thai islands is its fusion cuisine. After some exploration, we found the freshest fish at Sushi 2 and a place to sip Bellinis overlooking Chaweng Beach at the Banana Fan Sea Resort. There are also dozens of custom clothing stores that, curiously, have names like Armani and Versace. At Uomo Collections we commissioned four suits from a tailor who promised to finish them in 24 hours. The last set was delivered to us at the airport by a motorbike that overtook and sped past our taxi en route. (Unfortunately, as we discovered later, haste does make waste.)
Our favorite meal turned out to be at our resort. At Dining on the Rocks, an origami of bamboo and polished-teak screens, supports, and interconnected walkways, we indulged in coupes of champagne, plates of sashimi, sliced kingfish, and jasmine tea-flavored chocolate pots. The dinner was out of a time-worn recipe for love, complete with view (fishermen’s boats lighting up the private bay below) and candles (tall, white, scented). But we weren’t above being a little trite, and stayed until the candles burned themselves out, then watched as the staff untied their aprons and left for the night.
By Peter Jon Lindberg
The idea was undoubtedly hackneyed. It was our anniversary. It was a long autumn weekend. And it was Paris. How clichéd we were, how cloyingly obvious! Cue the accordion, dissolve to black and white—we were stepping into a Zales ad.
And yet: Was there really a problem here?It was Paris. If cheesy ads and bad Meg Ryan movies can spoil your affection for a place, maybe you should just stay home. The rest of us will always have...y’know.
We’d visited countless times before; my wife, Nilou, had even lived in the 15th Arrondissement as a child. We knew the city the way we knew each other, which is to say that although it had become intensely familiar, we’d never tired of its company. (Except four years ago, during that transit strike.)
The trick with any short trip is to promise each other you’ll be back. Riding in from de Gaulle that crisp morning, we resolved that we were not there for Paris. No: Paris was there for us. We would take of the city what we needed, but feel no obligations. We would heed our whims, instincts, and appetites. We would not be overly ambitious.
Also, a week earlier, I’d sprained my ankle.
The fact is, the Paris-ness of Paris can be distilled into a single arrondissement, even a single street. One needn’t traipse across town searching for quintessential spots in a city cluttered with them: this bakery window, these church doors, that park bench. In the end, we spent most of our visit within 10 blocks of our bedroom. It helped that our hotel, the Esprit St.-Germain, was on Rue St.-Sulpice—yards from Le Comptoir du Relais (our favorite bistro), across the street from Vanessa Bruno (one of Nilou’s favorite shops), and around the corner from Gérard Mulot (our third-favorite patisserie).
Our mornings became a comforting pattern, bookended by Mulot’s macaroons and Comptoir’s café crème. We were not alone in having a routine. Somehow we’d stroll past the cathedral just as the octogenarian priest with Depardieu’s nose emerged from the sacristy, and we’d arrive at our bench on Place St.-Sulpice just as the YSL-clad couple was leaving. Their smiles of acknowledgment made us feel at home. As did the hotel: our room had a king-size bed (so rare in Paris, even now), and there was an intimate lobby, where a dozen guests gathered each evening for free wine and cocktails. We felt we were at our own chic pied-à-terre, and treated it as such.
The night of our anniversary, instead of fighting the Saturday crowds at Gaya Rive Gauche or Mon Vieil Ami, we stopped by the street market on Rue de Buci and brought dinner back to our room: a wedge of Reblochon, a tangy sourdough baguette, and the most delicious poulet rôti either of us had ever tasted. The food was so good we had to laugh; it was almost absurd—no, patently unfair. We’ll always have Paris?Paris will always have us, in the palm of its manicured hand.
By Godfrey Deeny
Many people don’t think of sailing as romantic, at least not as it’s practiced. There’s too much heart-pumping winching, and disturbing tacks on 45-degree-angled boats. Or being yelled at by the skipper when the inevitable high seas crisis arises. But for me, a cruise on a yacht is the most quixotic way of exploring the world.
Every year or two for the past decade, I have set off with friends, girlfriends, and finally my bride on sailing trips around the ancient world. Last August, my wife and I cast off from the marina in Göcek, Turkey, planning to trace the shores of Asia Minor, which are littered with monumental Lycian sarcophagi, rock-cut Carian tombs, Roman temples, and Byzantine ruins.
Unfurling the jib of our Jeanneau 43-foot yacht, we edged out of the exclusive fishing port, passing a former Bosphorus steam ferry converted into a luxury vessel. By nightfall, we’d reached our first destination: Kapi Creek, the sweetest of small bays in the Gulf of Fethiye. The village’s sole restaurant had its own rock pool, where waiters scooped out our istakoz, or lobster. Grilled and washed down with the bottle of Puligny Montrachet that I had had shipped over from my home in Paris, it made for a fabulous repast beside a starlit sea silhouetted with towering cliffs.
Thus began our "schedule." Morning cruises to turquoise coves for swimming and snorkeling; rambles through woods of pine and olive trees, in search of tombs and temples; light lunches of salad, cacik (yogurt and cucumbers), and soft sheep’s-milk cheese. Wind permitting, afternoons were a broad reach to a sheltered port that offered a pre-dinner swim and shower, and a restaurant where dinners en plein air consisted of the day’s catch.
Most ports where we moored were not reachable by road. These included Gemiler Adasi, where a Carian fort guards a bay dotted with charming Doric tombs. After dropping anchor, we climbed through olive groves to watch a gület (wooden yacht), revamped to resemble a Spanish galleon you’d see in a Polanski pirate movie, sail into port. Everywhere we docked, we were greeted with a hearty merhaba (hello).
With every day, we felt farther away from civilization. At Cold Water Bay, a tiny cove with just a half-dozen yachts, we dined on sublimely fresh barbunya, or red mullet. Here, there was no road, only a tiny mountain path, and the owner brought in supplies on two impeccably groomed donkeys. "I walk one donkey, and my wife rides the other to the nearest town, a half-hour over the hill," he said, motioning to a vertiginous slope that seemed to drop into the bay.
On our final day, we reached an island overhung by a crumbling fortified Byzantine city. Shockingly, not one of our five guidebooks mentioned its existence. Better documented was Kaunos, an atmospheric ninth century B.C. Carian city with an amphitheater that cried out for a performance of Oedipus Rex. We climbed into the acropolis, about which Herodotus once wrote. There’s something uniquely satisfying about standing together at a 2,500-year-old hilltop temple, while your craft lies prettily below at anchor in an azure bay. Even the wily Odysseus never managed that with Penelope.
By Joel Stein
Very few romantic things have happened in cars since 1959. However, as I’ve learned from being lost, late, and mistaken about the distance to the next rest stop, many unromantic things have. So it probably wasn’t wise to take a 6½-hour drive from Los Angeles to Point Reyes—where my wife, Cassandra, and I would then spend the weekend driving around the northern California coast. Our odds of romance would have been better had we stayed at home and talked about how similar we are to our parents.
But our blast up the state was surprisingly pleasant, and when we hit Point Reyes, we immediately discovered the first key to its allure: no cell service. No BlackBerrying, no texting, no calls. There is nothing quite as sexy, I quickly discovered, as a woman with no choice but to listen to me.
Just north of San Francisco, past Muir Woods, the Marin roads wind through Ewok forest that opens into deer-, sheep-, and cow-studded farmland and then magically folds back into dense forest, until eventually you come to the Pacific spread out under the cliff—as if someone has tried to cram all of America into one place. Though the Point Reyes National Seashore is only 71,000 acres, we drove by herd after herd of tule elk, which—knowing well the fragility of a romantic weekend—I successfully pretended not to be scared of.
We checked into Manka’s Inverness Lodge, which specializes in coziness, with fireplaces, flannel curtains, shelves of old books, and an arkful of taxidermied animals. I pretended to not be afraid of them.
Though the eight-course Saturday-night dinner sounded awesome—heavy on game, with organic produce and abstruse wordplay on the menu ("the bean of coastal dairy cream over local figs on a mission")—we learned long ago that huge meals are the enemy of sex, so we went to the room before dinner. But when we returned after eating, there were two plastic sticks of local honey on the bed and a note that read "Honey: You know what to do." You cannot imagine the pressure of having a pimp for a pillow mint.
The next day, after the best breakfast I’ve ever had (an omelette with homemade wild boar ham, French toast with cream and blackberry syrup), we headed to Point Reyes Station, an Old West-meets-crunchy yuppie town lined with cutesy storefronts. Like every community in this area, it is minuscule and yet has a bakery. I don’t truly understand the area’s economy, but bakeries seem to be the slot machines of Point Reyes.
We loaded up on picnic supplies at the Cowgirl Creamery, inside Tomales Bay Foods, and took them to a picnic table at Dillon Beach, a 150-year-old summer resort and surfing cove. After lunch, we walked along the ocean, across rocks that were covered with sea anemones, mussels, and starfish. These I actually wasn’t afraid of.
On the drive from dinner at the Olema Inn & Restaurant—where we ate the famous Hog Island oysters and had a bottle of winemaker Sean Thackrey’s stunningly original Pleiades blend from nearby Bolinas—the full moon was peeking through the trees, bouncing off Tomales Bay bright as the sun. And Cassandra put her head against my shoulder and said how happy she was. And for a moment, I thought I knew what 1959 felt like.
Additional writing and reporting by
Christine Ajudua, Richard Alleman, Stirling Kelso, Shane Mitchell, Bridget Moriarity, Celeste Moure, Suzanne Mozes, Nelson Mui, Kevin Raub, Bree Sposato, Gisela Williams, Elizabeth Woodson.
It’s not a meander through vineyards, but the 310-mile drive from Rio to Santos has seductive vistas around every bend, lush rain forest, and cerulean waters. Stay overnight at a pousada in Parati’s colonial center. Then, continue on to the Água Branca waterfall to sunbathe and sip caipirinhas. Check In The 18th-century Pousada Arte Urquijo overlooks mountains. 79 Rua Dona Geralda, Parati; 55-24/3371-1362; www.urquijo.com.br; doubles from $125. Don’t Miss A French-Brazilian meal at Merlin o Mago (8 Rua do Comércio, Parati; 55-24/3371-2157).
It worked wonders for 007 and his sexy KGB double agent. Then again, why wouldn’t it?There’s the cinematic journey, passing through glittering ports of call. And the vintage carriages, whose compartments are fitted with mahogany panels inlaid in pearl and Art Deco marquetry. But it’s the black tie-only dining car, complete with four-course, 2½;-hour dinners, that truly transports passengers to a bygone era. What could be more luxurious than spending time? Check In Orient-Express www.orient-express.com; five days and four nights (Paris-Budapest-Venice) trips $2,765 per person, double. Don’t Miss A soak in Budapest’s thermal-spring Gellért Baths (4-6 Kelenhegyi út; 36-1/466-6166).
Acadian fishing villages stud the province’s French shore, and the craggy coastline roads have nonstop panoramas. Behind almost every cove are candle-lit restaurants in salt-worn wooden houses. From the art galleries in Peggy’s Cove to the tidal changes in Digby, this rugged shore offers meandering drives, inviting B&B’s, and a sound track of crashing waves. Check In The Victorian-style 100 Acres & an Ox Country Inn is set on extensive wooded grounds. 4172 Cornwall Rd., Union Square; 888/363-6694; doubles from $130. Don’t Miss A sunrise sail on Halifax Harbour.
Sail down the Nile in a two-masted wooden sailboat, or dahabiyya—once a popular trip among the colonial elite. The vessels have been rebuilt and decorated with tapestries, wood-paneled staterooms, and antiques sourced from the souks of Cairo—period refinement at its best. The boutique cruise welcomes only 12 guests on board. Check In Bales Worldwide 44-845/634-5112; www.balesworldwide.com; 12-day trips from Luxor to Aswan, $4,050 per person, double. Don’t Miss Browsing the pungent spices in the Aswan souk.
WHERE TO STAY
Manka’s Inverness Lodge Request room No. 7. 415/669-1034; www.mankas.com; doubles from $265.
WHERE TO EAT
Cowgirl Creamery 80 Fourth St., Point Reyes Station; 415/663-9335; www.cowgirlcreamery.com; lunch for two $22.
Hog Island Oyster Co. 20215 Hwy. 1, Marshall; 415/663-9218; www.hogislandoysters.com; a dozen oysters from $10.
Olema Inn & Restaurant 10000 Sir Francis Drake Blvd., Olema; 415/663-9559; www.theolemainn.com; dinner for two $100.
Tomales Bakery 27000 Hwy. 1, Tomales; 707/878-2429; pastries for two $7.
WHERE TO STAY
Glenapp Castle Ballantrae; 44-1465/831-212; www.glenappcastle.com; doubles from $740, including breakfast and dinner.
WHAT TO DO
To plan an itinerary of castle and abbey ruins in Galloway, check out www.historic-scotland.gov.uk for an extensive listing of heritage sites.
Bladnoch Distillery www.bladnoch.co.uk; open seasonally for tasting tours.
WHERE TO STAY
Sila Evason Hideaway & Spa 66-77/245-678; www.sixsenses.com; doubles from $520.
WHERE TO EAT
Banana Fan Sea Resort 201 Moo 2, Chaweng Beach Rd.; 66-77/413-483; www.bananafansea.com; dinner for two $40.
Sushi 2 Chaweng Beach Rd., Chaweng S.; 66-77/422-100; dinner for two $25.
WHERE TO SHOP
Uomo Collections 133/26 Moo 3, Had Lamai; 66-77/232-329; men’s suits from $150.
WHERE TO STAY
Esprit St.-Germain 22 Rue St.-Sulpice, Sixth Arr.; 33-1/53-10-55-55; www.espritsaintgermain.com; doubles from $406.
WHERE TO EAT
Le Comptoir du Relais Try the lamb knuckle. It will—ahem—knock you out. 7 Carrefour de l’Odéon, Sixth Arr.; 33-1/43-29-12-05; dinner for two $110.
Gérard Mulot 76 Rue de Seine, Sixth Arr.; 33-1/43-26-85-77; www.gerard-mulot.com; pastries for two $11.
WHERE TO SHOP
Vanessa Bruno 25 St.-Sulpice, Sixth Arr.; 33-1/43-54-41-04.
YACHT CHARTER
Cosmos Yachting 210/764-6125; www.cosmos-yachting.com; boats from $1,200 per week.
WHERE TO STAY
Empress Zoe This property has 22 individually designed rooms and suites with terraces and marble hammam baths. Spend a night here in Istanbul before flying directly to Fethiye. 10 Adliye Sokak, Sultanahmet; 90-212/518-2504; www.emzoe.com; doubles from $126.
WHERE TO EAT
Most towns along the coast have just one restaurant, serving seafood by the docks; prices vary depending on the catch.
