Clocking up the decades
Nicholas Coleridge renews his vow to celebrate anniversaries abroad Where would you recommend going for a 10th, 20th, 30th and 40th wedding anniversary holiday? That was the testing prep set for me by The Spectator’s style and travel editor. She had in mind, I think, that my new novel, A Much Married Man, about a serialhusband and his several wives, was bound to include definitive information on wedding anniversaries, when in fact my protagonist never stays hitched for long enough to qualify. Nevertheless, I’ve been puzzling over what works best for a landmark anniversary which is, after all, a honeymoon reprise for jaded marital veterans. I am assuming this is a holiday à deux, not a villa party of all your old ushers and their wives, and it is a holiday without children too. The ideal destination should be somewhere that unites romance and adventure to rekindle the old flame, with good food becoming increasingly important as the anniversaries stack up.
For a 10th, I recommend the Udai Bilas Palace in Dungarpur, Rajasthan (Tel: 0091 2964 230 808; www.udaibilaspalace.com), to my mind one of the most charming small Rajput hotels in India. Set on the banks of Lake Gaibsagar, in a small town four hours south of Udaipur, it is slightly too inconvenient for tour parties, and feels authentic and still a bargain. The 80 or so glass-eyed tiger and cheetah trophies mounted on the dining-room wall may not epitomise romance for every anniversary celebrant, but the rooms are comfortable in their rickety Mughal way, the town is endlessly diverting, there are good walks and birdwatching, and the looming Maharajah of Dungarpur himself is totting up the bills. The food is mediocre, so you might want to spend a final few days at the uber-Armani-style Devi Garh at Delwara, with its minimalist chic and designer sandwiches.
For the 20th anniversary, I take it for granted you are crying out for rest and sunshine. And — congratulations — you have reached the litmus anniversary; having made it to 20 years, statistically you are liable to go the distance. The Maldives are hot and suitably uneventful, with the warmest turquoise water. Flatter than Norfolk, and with an even bigger sky, the clever money is on the Soneva Gili resort on Lankanfushi atoll, especially if you book one of the seven private villas built on stilts in the middle of the lagoon. There is something genuinely thrilling about being dropped off at one of these luxurious beach huts, which have additional daybeds on the roof where you can sleep under the stars. It is the kind of dangerously seductive hotel where you might do something impulsive like conceive an afterthought child. Failing that, there is excellent sushi and, of all things, lemongrass towels.
For the 30th, I am recommending somewhere more traditionally civilised and sedate, and which doesn’t involve a long-haul flight. Il Pellicano, 15 minutes by twisty road from Porto Ercole, is a haven of elegant Italian glamour, less cool than my previous nominations but hugely comfortable and with spectacular views across the bay; the kind of place where beige-jacketed waiters deliver bellinis and crostini at sunset, and you sink into linen-sheeted fourposters. There is a lift carved into the rock to take you down to the narrow beach and swimming pontoon. Personally, I prefer the sunny informality of lunch near the pool to the white-gloved pomp of dinner, but then I haven’t been married 30 years yet.
For the 40th, my suggestion is New York, partly because it is a city uncommonly respectful of old people, having so many, with good restaurants, plenty of cabs, unbroken sidewalks and lots to do. Instead of the Carlyle, which could be the default choice, I would go for the still-new Mandarin Oriental on Columbus Circle. It would be energising to step out at the hotel lobby on the 34th floor, and gaze out across Central Park from one of the sleek bedrooms. Unusually, for a state-of-chic hotel, the lighting system is both logical and comprehensible, and the Olympic-sized swimming-pool in the sky will keep your joints moving between meals (at which you can congratulate yourselves on having clocked up the mileage on your marital wedometer).
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