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Courier-Mail
9 hours ago
- Entertainment
- Courier-Mail
I'm a beach club aficionado, these are the world's best beach clubs
Don't miss out on the headlines from Lifestyle. Followed categories will be added to My News. You can't skip the beach clubs of Mykonos. Or so I told my friends a few summers ago as we marched along the sand of Psarou like a troop of pleasure-seeking boy scouts. Nammos is king of the beach clubs, the Mount Olympus of revelry, whose sunbeds are snapped up like hotcakes and whose teal-striped parasols have a mythical aura. 'Space for three?' I asked brightly, surveying the heaving scene. 'We're full,' a staffer replied with a mix of pity and disdain. Flustered, I broke out my broken Greek – miraculously the sea of bodies parted. 'Why didn't you tell me you were Greek?' said the now effusive hostess, before ejecting three unsuspecting German guests from their loungers. X SUBSCRIBER ONLY I felt a twinge of guilt, but as we sipped our Frozen Spritzes, lolled in the viridian water and swayed to electronic beats under the Aegean sun, it soon subsided. The chaises were €100 each (they go for even more these days) but our afternoon at Nammos was one for the ages – a euphoric day out, which somehow justified the Croesus-level spend. Nammos is one of Mykonos' most glamorous beach clubs. Beach clubs are my (sandy) Achilles' heel. There's something irresistible about the combination of sun, sand and Daiquiri-fuelled hedonism. It may have something to do with not really having beach clubs here in Australia. We're too egalitarian for such elitist pursuits, apparently. In comparison to the louche playgrounds of southern Europe, our coastal gatherings seem puritanical and parochial. When orderly rows of sunbeds meet disorderly carousing it's almost always a gas. Beach, blanket, bada bing! When I'm abroad, I seek them out. As its name attests, Carpe Diem on the Croatian island of Hvar is all about seizing the day. I found that it's also about nabbing the night. We arrived at the waterfront for sunset drinks bar and, galvanised by our new clique of international friends, migrated to the nearby isle of Marinkovac for a raucous after-party. A fleet of water-taxis ferried revellers back and forth. A fan of exit strategies, I asked our driver to wait – handy when everyone bolted at the same time. Carpe Diem beach club on the Croatian island of Hvar. One of the headiest beach boites is Bagni Fiore near Portofino. On the day I visited it resembled a shoot for Italian Vogue, not least because its bamboo furnishings were dressed in Dior's signature pattern. The apex of aperitivo, the menu included Caprese salad with anchovies, tuna carpaccio and vermouth cocktails. My lounger was on a deck cantilevered over the water. From this picture-perfect vantage, I watched the sun bounce off Paraggi Bay like a strobe light. Another favourite is Maçakizi on the Turkish Riviera, a beach club so buzzing it doesn't even need a beach. An extension of the hotel in Bodrum, festooned with chains of bougainvillea, its waterfront deck is protected by a retractable awning. A little wave caught the attention of staffers who used a long rod to adjust the glare. The regulars tend to dazzle, too. Maçakizi is a magnet for stylish Istanbulis, jet-setters and yachties who leap across each other's boats to reach the dock. The food is a drawcard at Mykonos' Nammos beach club. Judging by the lissome individuals who gravitate to these places, you might assume food isn't a priority. But the leading beach clubs of Europe, in an attempt to stand out from the pack, have ratcheted up their culinary offerings. Nammos has a glammed-up taverna serving hearty plates of grilled octopus, baked saganaki and mussels in white wine as good as anywhere. At Assaona in Mallorca, a chiringuito with fringed umbrellas, I was wowed by its exquisitely grilled sea bass topped with Padrón peppers. At Beachouse Ibiza, it was the spinach croquetas and pineapple cócteles that inspired me to return for another spell. You could write a hefty coffee-table book on the history of beach clubs, and their fusion of grit and glamour. The French era of the '50s was pivotal to the genre's development. That's when venues like Club 55 in Saint-Tropez emerged, and Hollywood starlets Audrey Hepburn, Sophia Loren and Brigitte Bardot flocked to the Riviera. In the 1956 film And God Created Woman, Roger Vadim captured Bardot gambolling on the sand of the Tahiti Beach club – launching both to the world. The French are also responsible for 'Hamptons water', aka Whispering Angel rosé from Provence, which seems to be the dainty drink of choice for so many beachside revellers. Personally, I can't stand it. Too insipid. Nikki Beach has expanded from Miami (pictured) to locations around the world. Nikki Beach, born in Miami in 1998, was one of the earliest clubs to champion a bacchanalian vibe with DJ sets, all-white decor and spontaneous dancing in crochet bikinis. Its approach has clearly worked: the brand has expanded to St Barts, Santorini and Dubai among other urbane stops. It's also spawned a glitzy hotel, for guests who never want the party to end. Here's where I draw a line in the sand. The Nikki version feels formulaic and flashy. It verges on Real Housewives terrain – like it was scripted for cameras. Maybe I'm a lush but I enjoy a tipple by the water and it doesn't need to come with an exorbitant entry fee. For that, nowhere can compete with Rio and the ramshackle bars on Ipanema with waiters shaking up fruit-filled cocktails – an Amazonian jungle of citrus arrayed on rickety tables. Before me were some of the most genetically gifted people in the world, preening, parading and playing soccer in the shallows. I needed a bracing drink to match this cavalcade of beauty, and the lush Passion Fruit Caipirinha was it. Not every sandy soirée puts decadence above all else. Potato Head Beach Club in Bali is devoted to 'regenerative hospitality' – accenting sustainability and hosting a raft of wellness workshops. You can enjoy an arak-fuelled sundowner while watching Seminyak's skyline, and you could also arrive earlier for a meditation, sound healing or breathwork session. It's a holistic hotspot – I'm ready for it. Originally published as I'm a beach club aficionado, these are the world's best beach clubs
Telegraph
20-02-2025
- Entertainment
- Telegraph
Two years ago I lived in Kyiv with my minister husband. Now I'm running a fashion label in London
In the winter of 2022, Svitlana Bevza left Kyiv with her two young children, schoolgirl English and one suitcase. She can still remember what she packed for herself because there was so little space – some sweaters, casual trousers, a coat and a box full of mascaras. 'I know you can get mascara in the West, but it was automatic,' she says, laughing. She can make jokes despite Ukraine's plight because that's the best way to survive. It also shows just how quickly she's grasped English and its cultural nuances. When she first fled Ukraine – leaving her husband there because Ukrainian males under 60 have generally been obliged to stay since war broke out at the start of 2022 in case they were called on to fight – she and the children headed to Portugal, a country with which she had some familiarity having manufactured her then fourteen-year-old eponymous fashion line there. But after a year, she moved to London, partly for the education system, found a flat near Victoria, got the children into good schools, set up her label here and discovered that Londoners love wearing Wellingtons and a lot of ivory-coloured coats. 'That surprised me,' she says. Her label, Bevza, like its 42-year-old founder, is all elegant, interesting simplicity. There are rectangular maxi skirts in grey wool or dark denim with a single seam and paper-bag waist; satin tunics with neckerchief collars, matt-gold sequinned pinafore dresses and felt tunics with funnel necks and gold chain fastenings. In 2014, she gained international recognition through an Italian Vogue competition – the first Ukranian designer to win it. Where most of her peers in Kyiv were big on experimental statements, like a Slavic Carolyn Bessette Kennedy, she knew that subtlety and sophistication were the way for her to go. Two weeks ago, her autumn/winter 2025 collection was on the catwalk as part of New York Fashion Week. If anything, she says, the war has made her streamline and contextualise her clothes even more. Wearing a long pale grey skirt (made from one oblong piece of felted wool) with a gold buckled belt and black pullover, she moves with the ease of someone wearing jeans, while looking so much more distinctive. Sophisticated and timeless, her clothes are arresting but easy to wear at any time of the day, and based on squares and rectangles. 'From the age of five or six I wanted to be a fashion designer,' she says. 'I always drew dresses.' A family friend introduced her to the Vogue branding that was emblazoned on a box of matches she had in her bag. 'I thought Vogue was a glamorous name for matches,' she says. 'I didn't know anything about the magazine back then.' And yet the seed was sown. She didn't train formally in fashion. Her librarian mother and physicist father were sufficiently stylish to somehow source flared jeans and velvet blazers for themselves. 'I don't know how they managed to source those clothes,' she says, 'because when Ukraine was part of the Soviet Union, just wearing foreign jeans could get you into trouble. But I think when times are tough, clothes become even more precious. People in Kyiv like to dress up even now.' Fashion lovers her parents may have been, but they had no intention of encouraging their daughter to forge a career in such a precarious field. 'They wanted me to do something sensible,' she laughs. So she read economics, which has come in handy as she navigates running a business between London and war-torn Ukraine. Fortunately, she loves problem solving. The part of her brain that enjoys economics also likes solving sartorial puzzles. Even the pouches for her necklaces are rectangular – and far more practical than any others I've seen. She also designs belts, bags and jewellery, playing on the spiky silhouette of the wheatsheaf, an emblem of Ukraine which, before the war, was the world's bread basket. 'It's a kind of subtle propaganda,' she jokes. When she launched in 2006, most Ukrainian designers were exploring experimental, expressive fashion. 'I wanted to make clothes that people would actually wear,' she says. 'Something Ukrainians would be proud to be seen in.' Bevza's appeal has spread far beyond Ukraine. Before the pandemic it was stocked in Bergdorf Goodman's in New York, Selfridges and Harvey Nichols in London. These days, along with many independent labels, she prefers to sell direct to customers via her own website, although she still sells through some smaller boutiques in the US and shows during New York Fashion Week. Life can't be easy. She left a large house and garden with a swimming pool behind. Last August, her husband, Volodymyr Omelyan, the former minister of infrastructure of Ukraine, was injured in the knee while serving in the Ukrainian army. He mainly sees his wife and children on Skype. He's currently recuperating in Kyiv, but despite being 45, expects to be redeployed on the front line once he's recovered. None of this would you glean from her outward, impeccable composure. 'That's the thing about Ukrainians,' she says. 'Like anyone, we can get complacent, but when things get really tough, we fight – and go shopping and get our nails done. You should see the spas in Kiiv. They're packed out.'
