If you’re traveling to the Maldives from most corners of the world, you’ll have a serious journey ahead. Yet there’s a reason why every year, over a million tourists embark on a pilgrimage through clinical airport waiting rooms and endless flight connections to reach this narrow line of ring-shaped coral reefs and islands, stretching down from the south of India like a string of pearls. Step out of the Malé airport terminal and feel the first blast of brackish, tropical air—and witness the throngs of tourists cramming into shuttle buses—and the region’s charm becomes immediately apparent.
On a recent visit, however, my final destination was somewhere a little more intimate than your usual sprawling Maldives getaway: the Cheval Blanc Randheli. First launched in 2013 as the second property wholly owned by LVMH—the luxury behemoth whose portfolio spans everything from Christian Dior and Cartier to Dom Pérignon Champagne and Belvedere vodka—its radically new (for the Maldives, anyway) vision of architect-designed, minimalist villas in lieu of traditional, thatch-roofed overwater huts quickly became a formula that is now much imitated. (But as I learned, never quite replicated.)
After a quick ride over to the seaplane terminal, while other travelers headed to bustling lobbies to catch their scheduled flights to one of the hundreds of resorts that cover the nearby islands, an elevator spirited me away to a private lounge. Its doors swung open to reveal a panoramic, glass-walled view of seaplanes landing, and an iced tea found itself in my hand as I sat for the short wait for my flight, the plush, subdued surroundings decked out in a recurring ombré pattern of deep oyster gray to acid yellow.
Next, it was downstairs to catch a private seaplane in the same hues of gray and yellow, before spending half an hour in the air whizzing over the smudges of optic white sand and the glittering, mottled greens and blues of coral reefs below. Then, eventually, the resort itself came into view. Spread across a scattering of islands following the curved shape of the tropical atoll it sits on, its 45 modernist villas jut out over the water yet somehow blend seamlessly with the tangles of palm trees that surround them; as we began our descent, the staff glided towards the dock and began waving to greet us. With a sight like this to greet you after 16 hours on planes, it doesn’t take long to realize why all those travelers make the journey: It’s the full White Lotus fantasy. (Just without the murders, one hopes.)
The first thing you’ll notice—or indeed, won’t notice—is the service. It’s so breezy and seamless it just sort of happens around you, and before I knew it, I was being zoomed over to my villa in a golf buggy by a majordome—your own personal fixer, butler, and general helping hand, essentially—for a speedy, iPad-conducted check-in process. (No fiddly forms or faffing around with passports and credit cards here; all of that’s been taken care of before you arrive.) A lavish spread of macarons, homemade chocolates, and fresh fruit awaited, but that’s where the more traditional French-isms ended: the resort has plenty of Gallic flair, sure, but just of a more avant-garde variety.
The mark of a truly stylish hotel, after all, is when it prompts surprise at how long ago it was designed—and the villas, all individually conceived a decade ago by the virtuosic Belgian hotel architect Jean-Michel Gathy, could have been dreamed up yesterday. While the kind of materials you might associate with this corner of the world—rattan, bamboo, mother of pearl—are all present, here, they’ve been alchemically transformed into sleek, open-plan temples of high design, with a palette of breezy whites and taupes, as well as a more muted shade of that signature blazing yellow, here resembling the morning glow of a Maldivian sun.
Above the enormous, oval-shaped tub dominates the bathroom—complete with rainfall and outdoor showers, a vast dressing room, and a lavish spread of candles and products perfumed with the hotel’s signature scent, a breezy blend of cardamom, rose, and driftwood created by the head nose of Dior—hung a circular sculpture by artist Vincent Beaurin, one of 46 specifically commissioned for the resort crafted from speckled layers of sand fading through a spectrum of pastels. A quick wander across the decking and a splash in my private 40-foot infinity pool later, and it was time to eat.
Unsurprisingly, given the fact that its owners have one foot firmly planted in the world of food and wine, guests are not left wanting for options on the gastronomic front. With five restaurants and three bars—including the haute cuisine of Le 1947, overseen by culinary director Eric Vidal, and the mouth-wateringly fresh sushi and teppanyaki on offer at the moodily-lit Japanese restaurant Diptyque—spoiled for choice doesn’t even begin to cover it. My first pit stop was the all-day White Bar for a lunch of freshly-made dim sum and salad, and following an afternoon nap, it was time to eat again: this time at the Mediterranean restaurant Deelani, which overlooks the seaplane jetty, lit up at night with flickering candles against the deep blues of the sea beyond. (I veered towards the Italian selection on the menu, with a locally sourced tuna carpaccio and a perfectly crisp veal Milanese.)
The next day, it was time to head to the spa island. Yes, island: the hotel’s Guerlain spa is its own domain, with six treatment villas offering rituals specifically tailored for post-dive strain and post-sunbathing skincare, a café serving light, health-conscious lunches and juices, a small beach for snorkeling between treatments, and a yoga pavilion with views out to the great beyond—all reached by a customized dhoni boat shuttle. One 90-minute massage and facial later—they describe it as a “sensory journey,” and they’re not kidding—my post-flight stiff neck and eye bags had been firmly banished.
In general, the breadth of activities on offer is head-spinning, and the resort wins bonus points for its robust children’s offering that somehow achieves the impossible. First: the kid’s club is genuinely stylish while still holding plenty of colorful, tactile appeal for youngsters. And second: it manages to retain its family-friendly spirit while still feeling like a honeymooners’ paradise. I spotted a pizza-making class taking place one day, and a group of kids on pedalo boats another, but apart from that, my time felt blissfully my own; even the outdoor cinema, which can be booked for private screenings and is housed in a grove of palm trees, seems just as perfect a spot for a family hunkering down under blankets to catch the latest Pixar flick as it would for a couple sipping cocktails and watching a rom-com under the stars. (I was here for the grown-up stuff, though—or at least, as grown-up as you can get while riding a surf simulator, or taking a jet ski out for a bumpy ride through the wild waters that sit just beyond the tranquility of the atoll.)
In the spirit of being left to my own devices, on my final evening, I decided to wander in my Birkenstocks around the resort and see which restaurant I landed on; no matter where you go here, there’s always a table waiting. I found myself drifting towards the White Bar once again, and as I just so happened to be there on China s National Day, a seafood banquet awaited: scallops in a rich umami sauce; langoustines grilled to charcoal-laced perfection; a fragrant spicy lobster bisque; stir-fried squid tossed in a glossy soy marinade. I was surprised, sated, and after all that food, very, very sleepy.
Thankfully, when I got back to my villa (via golf buggy, post-feast) it turned out my majordome had somehow—through a kind of whisper network with housekeeping, I figured—deduced that I had been making full use of the bathtub every evening. Waiting for me when I returned to my villa was a hot tub of water, perfumed with the resort’s signature scent in the form of bath salts, and ready for me to dive into—before diving into my crisp white linen sheets for what could very possibly have been the best night’s sleep of my life. That’s the kind of attention to detail even money can’t buy.
After a few days in paradise, I realized it wasn’t exactly difficult to grasp the reasons why travelers return to the Maldives time and time again. The real riddle, at least before I arrived, was why even the most seasoned travelers are willing to return to Cheval Blanc Randheli year in, year out, despite the endless and ever-growing list of top-tier luxury resorts that continue to spring up across the globe with similar offerings on paper. (Roger Federer is rumored to spend most Christmases here—no doubt making the most of the top-class tennis facilities—while Prince William and Kate Middleton reportedly rented out the private island for a romantic getaway.)
After just three nights at Cheval Blanc Randheli, though, I had my answer. It has that rare thing only the best hotels have, and yet so few are able to get exactly right—even at the eye-watering price tags that inevitably accompany this kind of stay. You never feel fussy, or indeed fussed over. Want to change your booking time via WhatsApp? Not a problem. Walk barefoot to the jetty? No one will bat an eyelid. Arrange a pre-breakfast padel game with an in-house pro the night before? Consider it booked. The endlessly obliging staff seem just as delighted to be there as you are, and the attention to detail on the design front makes it all feel entirely timeless.
It is so idyllic, in fact, that upon leaving, I wasn’t sure it was all entirely real: as I boarded my seaplane back to Malé, and glanced over my shoulder, the resort disappeared behind clouds like a mirage, like some magical island from a Greek myth. I would be embarking on my own kind of odyssey to make my way back home, but suddenly it didn’t feel like a chore; for my return journey, I was walking on air. Until I got home, that is, and I realized I was back to running my own baths.
