Inside Anantara Hua Hin Resort, You Will Find K-Pop Goats, Zero-Proof Spirits, And Design That Refuses To Be Cool
Staying at Bill Bensley’s V.1 blueprint.
There is a specific kind of vertigo that comes with revisiting the past, especially in the world of Thai luxury hospitality. In a landscape that blinks faster than a Bangkok traffic light—where resorts seem to age in dog years and ‘timelessness’ is often just a euphemism for ‘needs renovation’—Anantara Hua Hin Resort stands as a curious, delightful anomaly.
To enter the property is to walk into a living portfolio, a tangible memory of a specific moment in design history. This was the first stroke on the canvas for the Anantara brand, a sprawling experiment in ‘Thai village’ vernacular as interpreted by the then-young landscape architect Bill Bensley.
Twenty years ago, Bensley was already toying with the maximalist, narrative-driven style that would become his signature. But here, before the wild eclecticism of his later works took over, there is a sweetness, perhaps even softness, to the design. It is a village in the most figurative sense—a series of low-slung, deep rust-coloured buildings with sloping roofs, huddled together as if gossiping, surrounded by a jungle that has had two decades to properly consume the architecture.
In 2025, the trend in luxury hotels leans towards the clinical or the mid-century: polished concrete, acres of negative space, and a beige palette that screams ‘money’ but lacks tangible soul. Anantara Hua Hin Resort refuses to participate in this aesthetic austerity. It is unashamedly lush. The flora is aggressive, a riot of heliconias and palms that crowd the pathways, creating pockets of shadow and mystery. The architecture, with its warm, earthen tones, feels less like it was built and more like it grew there, ripened by the tropical sun.
It is a recreation of an ancient Siam that perhaps never truly existed, but should have. And therein lies its charm. It is not a stage set; it is an enclave that has become real through its sheer persistence.
Just as you settle into this Bensley-designed reverie of old-world nobility, however, the resort throws a curveball that would make a minimalist architect weep: the Mini Farm.
Tucked away from the serious business of lounging by the pool, this patch of agricultural whimsy is the resort’s most unexpected delight. It is inhabited by a cast of characters that seem to have wandered in from a completely different story. There are silky chickens—creatures so fluffy they look less like poultry and more like expensive feather dusters that have gained cutesy sentience. There are peafowl strutting with the entitlement of minor royalty. And then, there is the headline act: a herd of goats named after Blackpink.
I find myself feeding freshly plucked leaves to Lisa, Jennie, Rosé, and Jisoo. The experience is surreal. One minute, you are admiring the intricate, Bensley-designed fretwork of a pavilion; the next, you are negotiating with a goat named after a K-pop superstar, who seems determined to eat your shirt. It is this high-low mix, this willingness to puncture its own grandeur with a bit of barnyard fun, that saves the resort from feeling like a museum piece. It is alive, chaotic, and utterly charming.
The ‘village’ concept extends to the culinary offerings, though the menu at Sea.Fire.Salt, the resort’s beachfront grill, happily ignores historical accuracy in favour of what you actually want to eat.
I sit by the water, the Gulf of Thailand shifting from grey to ink-black as the sun drops. The kitchen serves a burrata that is shockingly good—creamy, dense, fresh, and often sold out—followed by quesadillas that hit that precise note of upscale comfort food. It is the kind of meal that acknowledges a simple truth: sometimes, even in a Thai village fantasy, you just want melted cheese and a good view.
The real revelation, though, is the drink menu. In a nod to the shifting tides of wellness (and perhaps the ageing livers of its clientele), the resort has embraced the zero-proof movement with a seriousness usually reserved for vintage wines. They stock Rebels 0.0 per cent, a range of double-distilled alcohol-free spirits that manage to replicate the burn and complexity of the real thing without the subsequent punishment.
I order a ‘Campari’ soda, made with Rebels’ bitter aperitif alternative. It tastes of orange peel, herbs, and sophistication. Later, a ‘whiskey’ sour that possesses all the oaky depth of bourbon but leaves my motor skills entirely intact. It is a subtle high—the placebo effect of ritual combined with genuine flavour—minus the hangover. Sitting there, watching the moon rise over the ocean, while sipping a gin and tonic that contains neither gin nor tonic but tastes exactly like both, feels like the ultimate luxury hack. You get the highs of the evening without the mortgage on tomorrow’s energy levels.
This sense of sensible indulgence carries over to the spa. In many of Thailand’s newer ultra-luxury resorts, a 60-minute massage has become a financial event, priced with a grim determination to separate you from your savings. Here, the spa menu feels like a throwback to a time when ‘value’ wasn’t a dirty word in luxury travel.
The treatment rooms are, naturally, Bensley-designed sanctuaries of stone and water, hidden behind walls of greenery. The therapists possess that intuitive, heavy-handed skill that is the hallmark of Thai wellness. But it is the pricing that allows for true relaxation. It is accessible enough that ‘multi-treatments’ during a stay aren’t just a possibility—it becomes a routine. I find myself booking a morning session to recover from the sleep, and an afternoon session to prepare for dinner. Why not? In this rust-coloured bubble, the normal rules of rationing relaxation do not apply.
Leaving Anantara Hua Hin Resort, the contrast with the outside world is jarring. The drive back to Bangkok takes you past glittering new condos and stark, modern hotels that gleam with glass and steel. They are impressive, certainly. They are now. But they lack the narrative weight of Bensley’s rust-coloured village. They lack the overgrown, secretive gardens, where you can lose your way. And, crucially, they lack a goat named Lisa.
Anantara Hua Hin Resort succeeds not because it has changed to fit the times, but because it has stayed stubbornly, beautifully itself—with a new side of Zootopia-worthy attractions. It is a reminder that, while trends in luxury hospitality may oscillate between minimalism and excess, there is no substitute for a place that has a soul, a sense of humour, and an excellent sober gin.
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