Kind of Blue: a Stay at the Heure Bleue Palais by Ben Cooper
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Riad L’Ayel d’Essaouira
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"A blue taxi to take you to the blue city" the driver said as we clambered into the cab. And to the Heure Bleue Palais he might have added. For that’s where we were headed: away from the heat, dust and noise of Marrakech to the twilight cool of Essaouira...
A couple of hours of bouncing along through olive and argon groves later, we were ushered over the threshold by a huge, smiling doorman in a fez. We sat, sipped our almond milk, nibbled at the selection of Moroccan sweets that had been magicked up, and gazed around at our new surroundings.
From the outside, huge and squat on the southern edge of the medina, despite its obvious historical credentials, it was not a thing of great architectural beauty. Imposing, certainly; beautiful, not so much. Inside, though, was a different matter altogether. The hotel’s central patio extended around us, plant-filled and lined with elaborate blue tiles and ornate motifs woven into the soft sandstone pillars. This intricacy is used sparingly, however, and the overall feel is simple rather than overwrought: blue on white; white on dun; splashes of green from the huge palms and yuccas.
Wonderful Rooms
We were shown to our room; a senior suite, it was rangy and elegantly attired in dark wood. The bathroom was similarly extensive: a grand mix of black, fossil-flecked marble, convincingly antique-looking fixtures and fittings and some of what turned out to be the finest smelling products I’ve ever come across. But a stay at a hotel as beautiful as Heure Bleue isn’t meant to be spent loitering in the bedroom. There are far too many other pleasures to indulge in...
Like the bar and restaurant, for instance. That night, ‘cocktail hour’ was announced by the tinkling of a piano, accompanied by a dove cooing from his perch high up in a palm tree. And if prices in the bar might make even a thirsty Rothschild splutter, that’s hardly the point. Sitting back and supping on a knockout mandarin concoction in the rarefied hush of the patio feels like the very last word in old-fashioned grandeur. (Plus, the mixing’s absolutely sensational...)
Dinner was a no-less impressive affair. A starter of crumbling seafood parcels came hot on the heels of a delicious amuse-bouche of delicate vegetable pastilles. The main course, though, was a thing of real wonder. Shoulder of lamb with apricots and cous cous, it fell from the bone at the merest prompting of a fork, and went down splendidly with a toothsome tipple from Meknes. Not for nothing has Berber chef Ahmed Hanadour (one of a vanguard of young Moroccan male chefs), managed to gain the hotel’s restaurant a reputation as one of the finest in the country.
Heavenly Hammam
The next morning a hammam session was speedily arranged. We went for the traditional black soap scrub. And were not disappointed. Shown into a gloomy cocoon of black marble and tadelakt alcoves underneath a glittering constellation of tiny stars, we were rubbed, scrubbed and rinsed to within an inch of our lives before being released again an hour later, blinking into the daylight in a state of near-comatose relaxation.
Much of the rest of our stay, however, was spent up on the roof terrace. It’s practically compulsory. Guests recline on stylish loungers surrounded by an expansive space of white and blue dotted with cacti, aloes and other spikily exotic succulents; time is divided between taking dips in the gorgeous pool, reading and, cooled by the alizee breeze, snoozing in a state of languor and utter contentment. When we were there the crowd was a mix of well-to-do older couples and handsome European socialites; on our first afternoon, a French couple cocked a disdainful Gallic glance from under their huge designer shades at our sun-starved London bodies as we passed.
The terrace manages somehow to make you feel both separated from the city, and at the same time, very much a part of it. The views, which range from the crumbling neighbouring riads to the broad sweep of the bay in the distance, are astonishing. Every once in a while a seagull would perch itself on the blue railings and gaze out to sea. Then, having surveyed the scene to its apparent satisfaction, it would rise into the air, hover for a moment – bright white against the unblinking, azure blue of the sky – and wheel away again across the town.
Colonial Vibe
Despite only having a shade over 30 rooms, Heure Bleue feels vast and gloriously palatial. It’s all rather un-Moroccan, though. And very un-Essaouira, too (the slightly strung-out hippy vibe that pervades the rest of the city doesn’t even make it past the front door).
Instead, a sort of resolutely old-fashioned, British colonial vibe is rather more the order of the day: there are rattan chairs and heavy, scented mahogany ceilings and panelling; you can shoot a frame or two of billiards, enjoy a boozy game of backgammon or have a stiff G&T under the baleful eye of a buffalo’s head. (Just to reiterate the point: you’re also shepherded onto the premises by a doorman in a fez, for goodness sake!)
It’s an audacious conceit. And it’s a testament to the utter conviction that’s been brought to bear on the design that it manages to pull it off. I spent most of my stay half-expecting to bump into a bluff old colonel type spluttering into a cigar from beneath his sun-bleached solar topee!
Pursuit of Perfection
Being rather out of kilter with the rest of the city doesn’t stop Heure Bleue from being one very good hotel. In fact, few – if any – luxury hotels in Morocco are as impeccably run. Over coffee one morning, General Manager Francois Laustriat told me, rather revealingly: "It’s important to live like a guest – to see what they see." To which end, he always keeps a room free for himself to run the rule over the place.
Day and night his 73 staff members quietly, even a little obsessively, go about their business cleaning windows, polishing surfaces, watering the plants and, of course, seeing to the guests. The concierge, for instance, pads tirelessly around the corridors and communal areas, looking for someone to whisk off to the highly regarded local vineyard or the nearby Gary Player-designed course.
It’s not absolutely perfect. (The pool table had a slant that quite put me off my game...) But, under Francois’ beady eye, you get the impression that it truly aspires to be. And that’s what makes it so special. If ultimately it’s a little hard to fall in love with Heure Bleue, it’s absolutely impossible not to admire. And enjoy. It’s rather like an ageing Victorian society figure: glamorous, ever so slightly aloof and utterly, utterly magnificent.
Planning a trip to Morocco's Atlantic coast? Book a stay at the stunning Heure Bleue Palais; alternatively, see all our luxury hotels in Essaouira.
(This piece first appeared on Wandermelon.com)