Once home to Franco Zeffirelli and his iconic artistic entourage
(after whom the villas and suites are named, from Callas to
Bernstein) this sprawling Amalfi Coast estate spills out over the
cliffs and juts out into the sea. Prosecco nights and dawn hikes;
the Walk of the Gods spirals towards the Amalfi angels and lures
you in before breakfast. Rent a Vespa to ride to Ravello, or a Riva
to Capri, or a paddleboard to get to lunch in the next-door bay.
Modern but nostalgic dolce vita journeys. Sweet dreams are made of
this.

The Shelter Island little sister of Andre Balazs’ hotel empire
is only open during the summer months. Happily marooned on Crescent
Beach, it exudes more Caribbean cool than Hamptons chic, and though
it may no longer be the secret getaway of the NYC fashion set, it
is still the most stylish East Coast escape. Only a bus and a
seven-minute boat ride out from Manhattan, but truly a million
miles away. Sunset Beach, as promised.

The ripples of a student obsession with Thomas Hardy have fired
a romantic desire to return to the Dorset beaches, which I fuzzily
remember from childhood. But sadly it seems this will have to
remain a fantasy for now. Rave reviews from trusted friends have
meant The Pig on the Beach (the latest addition to the
award-winning Pig group) was right at the top of my fantasy travel
schedule. But twice I tried; twice they were fully booked.
Patience. Harry’s Hut – one of the Pig’s two shepherd’s huts with
views onto the serene Studland Bay – will surely be worth the
wait.

If I had to pick one beach, one trip, it would be to the pink
sands of Harbour Island, somewhere I’ve returned to over the years
since my early twenties. For shoots, for romance and now with my
kids in tow. My idea of paradise. I’ve stayed with friends, rented
cottages and stayed at Ocean View – or Pip’s, as it was more
commonly known, in honour of its local Irish heroine and creator.
Now run by her son Ben and his wife Charlie, the hotel remains true
to its roots, though the erstwhile shabby-chic air has benefited
from a sensitive and stylish modern makeover. It’s a photographer’s
dream and a fashion hideaway, but most come here simply to shoot
the breeze.

A charming family house to rent and share with friends, just a
hop, skip and a jump away from Rock. With a little insider
knowledge you get the best of both worlds; the privacy of a home
plus a network of local experts, including the brilliant George
Stoy of George’s Surf School. I remember starlit suppers on the
terrace and sprinting over stiles through the fields at dawn
chasing seaside solitude. But it’s the clifftop walks – sometimes
with a map, sometimes simply relishing getting happily lost – that
I remember the most.

I can’t remember how I first ended up at Jake’s with my New York
girlfriends, who I’d probably only known for a month or two.
Chinese whispers, probably, and a love of reggae. For a while it
was our annual place of pilgrimage, sacred amongst complicated and
unpredictable work and romantic schedules. Mostly we ate mangoes
and drank sweet, fruity cocktails in boob-tube bikinis and
second-hand slips scavenged in side-street shacks. But we also swam
through waterfalls, kayaked downstream and read big fat novels, all
while ignoring the faxes (it was that long ago) from jealous
boyfriends or persuasive agents. This was the beach of my twenties,
of music and dancing, and of friendship. I pray it’s still the
same.

The Rose (on Rose Avenue) has a rich if chequered history, but
the times they are a-changin’. Venice Beach, while still a surfer’s
paradise, is also now a magnet for Hollywood runaways, art and
fashion. When photographers Glen Luchford and Doug Bruce took over
The Rose last year they ripped up the hotel rulebook. I stayed in
the Pacific Penthouse, which left me fantasising about a double
life as a script-writing, surf-riding, roller-skating California
girl living in a room with a view. Minimalism in a magic light. No
room service, no frills. Communal coffee and borrowed bicycles.
Pretty perfect.