In marked contrast, the food at the hotel is some of the best I have had in Vietnam, a country with culinary standards that are high even at the worst of times. “We think it will take us a couple more years to finesse.”

“Except, so far, the locals say our rice is only fit for feeding their pigs,” says Michael Wirz, the resort manager, laughing. Rice-paddy farming itself - ever since it was trialled at Phum Baitang, outside Siem Reap - has become something of a sideline for the hotel group, which offers its crop to the local community.

The different suites - some by the beach, some in the rice paddies, some in the surrounding hills with stunning views over the coast - are inspired by diverse forms of indigenous architecture. The stunning antiques in the public areas are especially noteworthy in a country where luxuriousness all too often equates to newness, be it the 1930s teak coffee-house furniture in the central courtyard or the peculiar barrel-like chairs with leather seats in the beach bar, which - I am initially alarmed to learn - started life as loos for the Vietnamese elite. True to form, Bai San Ho delivers the highest standards of international luxury via an aesthetic that has a specific sense of place. The Zannier brand - which has a property in Cambodia, a brace of establishments in Namibia, and a chalet hotel in Megève in the French Alps - has become deservedly celebrated for its attention to detail of the local, rather than generic, variety. It opened, with less than ideal timing, in December 2020. Which is lucky, because nor have I ever been in the vicinity of so many means for getting wet: one pool, two showers (one indoor, one out), one bath, two basins, and - oh yes - the crystal clear South China Sea glistening a few metres away across the sand.īai San Ho - the first Vietnamese venture for the French-owned Zannier Hotels group - is the sole five-star resort in this area so far, though there are rumours of other international operations following suit. Never have I been in the vicinity of so many means to dry myself. And then there is the towel corridor en route to the bathroom. I am particularly taken by the enormous covered terrace, invaluable for enabling lily-skinned souls like me to spend the whole day outside without ending up flayed by the ferocious sun. (Nothing like the blingy, ersatz Versailles-style palaces that are being built by the newly wealthy in the cities.) Though it has traditional wood floors and a bamboo ceiling, it is air-conned up to its eyeballs and has, among other things, an infinity pool large enough to accommodate a chamber orchestra - Handel’s Water Music, perhaps - and a bed so vast the players could all lie down in it after their performance. My beach hut - one of 73 scattered across 240 acres - is more of a beach palace, and styled perfectly at the sweet spot between rustic and state of the art. I just hoped my beach hut wouldn’t come with intermittent electricity and a hole-in-the-floor loo this time. Indeed, the region was pretty much only for backpackers until recently. It was clear Phu Yen was the kind of unspoilt area I remember from when I first backpacked in Asia three decades ago. Call me perverse, but what I want from a luxury beach hotel is not just - to state the obvious - luxury, but the kind of environment that is utterly untouched.

It absolutely did not look as if it could lead to five-star anything, but that’s what is so special. It became more modest still when we turned off the main drag on to a narrow, winding road that took us through a fishing community. Setting off from the local Phu Cat airport after a two-hour internal flight from Hanoi, the drive was simple and serene: just a string of golden bays with the occasional fishing village. Considering the sky-high luxury levels of the hotel, our arrival was relatively low-key.

Wet n wild coffee buzz dupe