Depasquale + Maffini
The plane has just landed at Nice airport in mid-May, and it’s all happening here on the Côte d’Azur. There’s a frisson in the air; a higher frequency of designer luggage on the baggage carousel. Alongside the Cannes Film Festival, a cult television series based on a certain fictional high-end resort has decamped to Saint-Tropez for its hotly anticipated fourth season. Happily, I’m headed south-west to calmer climes, and the newly opened Zannier Île de Bendor, a seven-hectare island a whisper off the coastline of the 16th-century fishing town of Bandol. Not merely a hotel, this Provencal-style “village” is an ambitious reimagining of the diminutive, rocky outcrop (population: one sheep) purchased in 1950 by pastis titan Paul Ricard and lovingly transformed into a “monde miniature” with conviviality at its heart.
Île de Bendor “was never conceived as an exclusive enclave,” says Marc de Jouffroy, Ricard’s great-grandson. Instead, it was “a joyful, living island with pétanque, artists’ studios, concerts, family lunches, fishermen, employees, celebrities and locals all coexisting naturally”. The nostalgic utopia seems the antithesis to the atomised, aesthetically obsessed, performative nature of so many luxury travel experiences these days.
“He was really a man who loved people,” Zannier’s Marie Bouthier imparts, as I peer at framed black-and-white photos of Ricard – devilishly joyful grin, jaunty stance, twinkling eyes – and his fellow island revellers. They adorn the walls in the eponymous café overlooking the island’s port, where glacés (lavande de Provence, chocolat noir; Ricard) and crêpes are served, along with the drink that started it all. The bartender explains the Ricard ritual preparation: pouring cold water into the pastis, transforming the amber liquid to a milky sunshine, before adding the ice last. “Never first!” he proclaims; that would cause the aniseed-based alcohol to crystallise.
Ricard indulged his lifelong love of art and creativity on Bendor; his wine-merchant father disapproved of him pursuing his passion for painting at the École Supérieure des Beaux-Arts in Marseille, turning him instead towards the family business. He went on to concoct the unique Ricard pastis blend and a resulting business empire, channelling his creative spirit into a dizzying array of pursuits: racing circuit builder, film producer, ocean conservationist, mayor, hotelier. But how to translate the irrepressible spirit of a single man into a faithful, yet compelling proposition today?
If you are Société Paul Ricard, run by his descendants (they also keep some private homes on the island), you bring in Arnaud Zannier, whose reverently beautiful hotel properties seem to spring directly from the earth they occupy (see: Zannier Bãi San Hô, Vietnam; Sonop and Omaanda in Namibia). “There was already a soul here,” explains Zannier, who saw his role as “never to reinvent the island, but to reveal and protect what made it special”. The timing was right too, amidst what he calls “a growing desire for human luxury”.
It opened at the beginning of May after five years of renovations led by de Jouffroy and Zannier, working with Hardel le Bihan Architectes and Niez Studio Paysagistes. Zannier Île de Bendor is now home to 93 keys across Delos (Med-meets-Mod) and Soukana (soulful, earthy), both of which previously operated as hotels; and Madrague, a sun-washed row of little houses appealing to young families.
Dining and drinking options span the bougainvillea-adorned, Mediterranean simplicity of Nonna Bazaar, to Asian-inspired Soukana, the fine (and fun) dining of Le Grand Large and the charming ambience of Bar Patrick. Wellness comes with the added luxury of space to sprawl: hence, tennis and pickleball courts, beautifully conceived swimming pools at both hotels and another two at Rēsonance, a 1200-square-metre wellness centre where time lapses into slow-motion.
True to Ricard’s lifelong passion, the island is peppered with more than 300 artworks: from the dedicated space curated by French gallerists Oraé, to the rewilded, wind-sculpted gardens of cypress and pine. The Village des Artisans hosts a rotation of eclectic talent, inviting visitors in for wonderfully wandering conversations.
I meet Philippe Franc, whose lavender wands, ribboned with glorious colours, allow you to carry “the soul of Provence” home (you may also end up discussing the philosophy of scent, or how Cezanne painted a bottle of his great-grandfather’s own peppermint tipple: “People who make alcohol have plenty of friends,” he says with a wink). Croatian ceramicist Zeljana Vidovic, whose soothing clay vessels twist as though shaped by the whirling mistral whipping the waves outside, speaks eloquently of the “tactile dialogue” between artist, materials and environment.
The island’s celebrity magnetism lives on; Ricard’s visitors included Josephine Baker and Salvador Dalí, and since the reopening, George and Amal Clooney have already popped by. But keeping Bendor accessible to locals – many with generational memories tied to the island – was non-negotiable, says de Jouffroy: it could never become “a disconnected luxury bubble reserved only for a privileged few”.
The mainland mentality that loosened aboard the boat from Bandol evaporates entirely in the amiable village-square-like surrounds outside Nonna Bazaar. A glass of blushing Bandol rosé accompanies a salad of artichoke hearts and candied lemon. A father lies, face upturned to the sun, on the beach in front of me, giggling children burying his feet in the sand. A group of tanned French folk toodle from a well-lunched table to the pétanque court, ordering more pastis and wine. Bling is blessedly absent; thrillingly, I see not one influencer’s boyfriend haplessly trailing a demanding partner.
Instead of playing into what Zannier calls the “fantasy of luxury” that the South of France has long represented, Île de Bendor instead feels like a portal to a smaller, simpler world: a place to quietly rearrange oneself back into a more human shape by rediscovering the heart-sparking pleasures of nature and artistry, good food and wine, and the spontaneous alchemy created when a variety of people gather in a special place.
Delos is the buzzier hotel: its restaurant is all breezy comfort and sinuous, stripe-cushioned bamboo chairs; the bar and lounge a cocoon of 1960s-style chic. A simple lunch of oeuf mimosa is a stand-out, the half-eggs piped with tangy mayonnaise and threaded with sweet crab, a crisp Provencal white the perfect foil. My Delos Junior Suite seems suspended above the rippling ocean outside; the interior palette, the softest sky blue. There’s a sweet nostalgia to the striped bathroom tiles, glossy as passionfruit and raspberry jellies.
At the other end of the island, Soukana’s rooms are an absorbing cinnamon hue; the more calming, contemplative sibling to Delos’ social butterfly. Restaurant highlights here include a light, fragrant Kashaya cocktail featuring gin, Hakutsuru Umeshu Genshu, Sakura bitters, jasmine green tea syrup and elderflower; and the signature chicken and lemongrass gyoza.
Oceanic idyll pervades at Le Grand Large restaurant, which will introduce an emerging chef each season. Chef Lucas Antoniotti’s assured, inspired cooking, drawn from local soils and waters, is a cracking inauguration. A fresh take on a classic pissaladière sees a plump anchovy fried to a light crunch, then slid into a creamy olive oil foam studded with candied olive. A spear of asparagus is sliced and splayed around pools of white asparagus foam and ginger-and-lemon-infused vinaigrette, topped with asparagus sorbet and dotted with buckwheat and thyme. Seared calamari is stuffed with green vegetables, ricotta, and herbs; legs fried to a chewy deliciousness, “squid ink” made of black olive sauce, all pooled in a garlic consommé.
I take a solo morning swim in the clean, sun-bright quiet before walking from Delos along the rocky, wave-lashed side of the island to discover the towering musculature of Neptune (one of Ricard’s favourites), arm thrust towards the surging sea. A meditation session in the monastic calm of the spa dispels the last of my jetlag; invigorated, I wander past dog-walking couples to Bar Patrick for a sunset pastis, where I recognise the lively group of French twentysomethings ordering rounds of Ricard and rosé, cheeks sun-kissed and hair salted. I’d seen them earlier on my amble along the coastal path: laughing and flirting, some swimming, some lying on the sun-warmed stone. After a while, they check watches; make for the ferry home.
I have a feeling Monsieur Ricard would again be wearing that life-filled grin, were he able to see his legacy still breathing, still bringing happiness, still open to all; and every one of those here still somehow feeling like the lucky few.
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