A 40-minute drive from Málaga on Spain’s southern coast, the Marbella Club has been a byword in glamour for the past 70 years. It’s still steeped in an evocative Slim Aarons vibe, recalling his photographs of men with teak George Hamilton tans and women in Pucci silks and Verdura chain necklaces.
I first stayed there 30 years ago, in a villa. It was set in lush gardens of oleander and bougainvillea, which climbed into the towering vegetation planted by founder Prince Alfonso de Hohenloe-Langenburg, a German-Spanish aristocrat who made Marbella a resort town.
Eight weeks before that first visit, my son, Sam, had been born. Some bright spark at British Vogue, where I was editor, said that I must—I absolutely must—book a short vacation at the eight-week mark. So Sam; his father, Paul; and I set off to Marbella and set up camp.
What I was not advised about was that, ideally, you would either take a nanny or leave your child behind, neither of which had occurred to me. The excursion was marked by Sam’s constant howling for food. Despite the exhaustion, I fell in love with the hotel and its sense of elegance, calm, and fun.
This summer, just after Sam’s 30th birthday, he and I returned to find the place refreshingly familiar but sumptuously modernized under the aegis of British-Iranian siblings and owners Daniel Shamoon and Jennica Arazi. The Marbella Club now caters to the more environment-, wellness-, and ecology-minded tastes of today.
The Finca Ana María is a sprawling new addition to the original site. We wandered through its gardens, which have 100 varieties of tomatoes, on our way to the beautiful spa. While such places are frequently dark caverns, here the whitewashed treatment rooms were filled with the sound of birdsong, with sunlight dappling through the rush roofs. What better place to detox with potions of thyme, honey, olive oil, and super-foods?
Soon there will be a glamping area overlooking the sea, along with ice baths and saunas. For now, there is a wellness center, where the jets of an enormous hydrotherapy pool pummel away any lingering muscle ache.
The property is situated under the magnificent La Concha mountain, whose shell-shaped curves shelter the site from both summer’s heat and winter’s chill. Sam sprawled happily in the shade by one of the three pools, reading a blue-covered, Fitzcarraldo-published novel he had brought with him.
Meanwhile, I explored the hotel, which is decorated in contemporary Andalusian style. Ikat-patterned cushions piled on deep sofas, majolica-esque ceramics, and barstools trimmed in horse tassels from Jerez are all warmly inviting for the cooler months, but still appealing in the heat.
Despite the emphasis on healthy living and activities such as padel, hiking, Pilates, yoga, and cycling, I was delighted that the more traditional pillars of the good life are still in fine form.
Thirty years ago, Sam’s routine condemned us to evenings of room service, occasionally braving a foray to the nearby hot spot of Puerto Banús. This time around, my son and I indulged in the club’s many bars and restaurants.
Breakfast at the Grill was a tempting display of anything you might wish for under cloudless, cerulean skies. My favorite lunch spot was the MC Beach chiringuito, on the coastal path, where wicker pendant lights dangled above the sparkling-blue glasses as we feasted on paella and gazpacho. Sunday’s lunch buffet at the high-end Beach Club came a close second, with a display that would defeat even the appetites of Gérard Depardieu.
When dressing for dinner, glamour is the way to go. The clientele clearly takes advantage of the hotel’s retail opportunities. The Spanish house Loewe runs a glorious pop-up shop, and Chanel and Bottega Veneta have also opened small boutiques. Young women wrapped in micro-skirted dresses filled the tables of El Patio, yet another restaurant, accompanied by soigné bucks in Hermès sandals. The palm-decorated china had me aching to bring home a whole set. Fortunately for my wallet, they were not for sale.
No visit to the Marbella Club is complete without a trip to the cocktail bar, and we rounded off each evening on a banquette below the stars, where enthusiastic guests sang and danced to a medley of piano-bar favorites, from Abba to Billy Joel. A corner table of old-timers gossiped as they smoked cigars and dipped into their vintage wines, which the club stores for them.
The Marbella Club is true to its original, hedonistic roots, but thoroughly contemporary in its attitudes—and thoroughly spoiling. It was the perfect place to spend precious days with a son who now has his own life. I only hope we return before another 30 years pass.
The writer was a guest of the Marbella Club, where room rates begin at $1,200 per night
Alexandra Shulman, the longest-serving editor of British Vogue, is a columnist at The Mail on Sunday and the author of the memoir Clothes … and Other Things That Matter
