Perched precariously between sea and sky—like a Bond villain’s lair but with fluffier towels—The Maybourne Riviera knows how to charm. Salvatore, ever the gentleman, guided us through our stay with the precision of a maître d' at a royal banquet; bravo, sir. The view? Positively operatic. I half-expected Pavarotti to burst from the clouds mid-croissant. The pool glistens like a sapphire caught in a daydream, while the beach club is less “optional amenity” and more “religious experience”—sun, salt, and possibly enlightenment. Breakfast meanders at a pace best described as “continental drift”—a tad slow, a smidge chaotic—but it runs until 11 a.m., giving late risers and professional loungers alike a fair shot at buttery redemption. In sum: come for the view, stay for the vibe, forgive the breakfast shuffle—it’s Riviera life, after all.
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