Sort of. But what it lacks in coastal views and Ferraris it makes up for with beauty, class and fine dining. And, to be fair, a fair few Aston Martins too.
Passing the manicured golf greens, lush amid the local palate of sun-washed browns and terracotta, we pulled up to the low-rise main reception building, presenting ourselves at the desk. A big one. Terre Blanche sits on a hillside and consists of suites and villas. The whole thing takes the form of an ancient village.
The bungalows, which line a zig-zag golf buggy super highway, are cleverly positioned to maximise both far-reaching views across the valley and privacy. Some of which come with their own plunge pools, though not for this hungry caterpillar. I jumped from the buggy, waving off my friendly driver as he wound his way to his next collection, and took the four steps down to my villa. A Deluxe Suite, it came with its own secluded garden, larger than my actual garden in London, and a terrace.
Heading inside there was a sitting room with a sofa and a telly, leading into a hallway. And off this were a dressing room, bedroom and a bathroom. It was spacious and tastefully rustic, though I imagine it might be up for the next wave of modernisation. None found, I realised I was late to lunch and so dashed down hill to The Clubhouse. Les Caroubiers, in The Clubhouse, is a casual restaurant, popular with golfy guests fresh off the course. With no sign of any celebs, mystery or otherwise, I settled in for lunch.
You get a view across the 18th hole of the course, which is probably off-putting for players but makes for fun diversion if you run dry on conversation. Most of which revolves around the food because it was great. And which was presently washed down with a bottle of Whispering Angel. More Whispering Angel. You know how Russians use vodka to de-ice their windscreens? Here I feel like they gargle Whispering Angel at night and use it to wash the cat.
