I tend to get a little silly when it comes to palaces.

All that history and romance, gilt and glamour. It’s the ideal setting to pretend I’m royalty, with all accompanying affectations and theatrics. So I’m delighted when our prosaic car is replaced with a carriage pulled by neighing, stamping black horses at the gates of Taj Falaknuma palace.

As we gallop up the hill, it looms above us in an appropriately intimidating fashion.

Falaknuma, or ‘‘Mirror of the sky’ is built in the shape of a scorpion, at the crest of a 32 acre compound. As we descend grandly from the carriage, I gawk in a most un-princess-like fashion. A line of glittering guards escort us to the door in a ceremonial welcome, while rose petals softly rain down.

It’s quite a view. The palace blends so dramatically into the evening sky it almost looks like it’s a part of the heavens. And all it took was ten years of restoration, and 30 coats of paint to get the colour just right.

This story begins in 1884. Nawab Vikar-ul-Umra, then Prime Minister of Hyderabad was determined to create a palace of dreams. With foreign architects, luxury products shipped from all over the world and challenging design, Faluknama ended up taking him 10 years to build, and 22 years to decorate. Then, the 6th Nizam of Hyderabad, dropped by for a visit and expressed admiration. And Nawab Vikar-ul-Umra immediately gave it to him as a gift. He moved out the next day with his family, taking nothing.

We glide in over a carpet of red rose petals. In princess mode I sweep through the foyer, featuring images of nubile angels cavorting all over the high ceiling. To the left is the Gossip Room, where Queen Ujala Begum and her girls caught up on the daily news. Under a lustrous chandelier the furniture sparkles with nifty mirrors flaked by shelves for cosmetics. I grab some champagne, and teeter across to the study, where the last Nizam famously used the hefty Jacob’s diamond as a paperweight.

Wandering around, it becomes easier to understand why restoration by The Taj overseen by Princess Esra (who was married to the last Nizam’s son) has taken a decade to complete. Unabashedly ostentatious, the palace is lush with luxury. Even light comes from myriad sources: vivid glass lanterns from Bohemia, Belgian chandeliers dripping stars and sunshine pouring through glass stained windows.

It’s all very over the top – but then restraint was hardly a virtue in those days. Restoration’s been so meticulous we hear Princess Esra got a single carpet dyed 300 times before she was satisfied with the colour.

Though I’m too busy bouncing excitedly around my room to care about interior decorating details. The bathroom’s humongous, featuring marble bowls brimming with delicious scrubs and creams. At night, a tray bearing silky cardamom infused moisturiser is placed on my bed, along with an array of decadently dark chocolates. If I need anything else, there’s a button I can press for ‘palace services.’ I briefly considering trying to order a palanquin or royal elephant to take me to Charminar, 15 minutes away, but am so happy slathering myself in velvety creams I can’t bear to leave the room.

As the morning sunshine filters in through billowing Turkish curtains, I’m finally drawn out by the sound of a flute. It leads me down the garden, and then mysteriously disappears.

So I head to the imposing Jade Room’s graceful balcony for warm sweet pineapple Danishes served with powerfully aromatic coffee. Downstairs, the begum’s bedroom’s open so guests can admire her specially-designed Doulton bathtub, equipped with pipes for hot water, cold water and perfume. I’d be jealous if not for the languid spa treatment lined up at Jiva, featuring frankincense and sandalwood infused sesame oil.

Finally, like the princess in the fairy tale, I climb into my carriage – drawn by white horses this time – and gallop away. As I settle down in my cramped aircraft seat, I wonder why I’m drawing strange glances. Then I realize my skin’s still redolent with the scent of spices. Perhaps I should have called for the palanquin after all.

Apparently you never forget your first taste of champagne.

Mine was at a bustling bar in Singapore, renowned for its easygoing attitude towards customers dancing on their tables. A blackboard announced ‘champagne on the house for babes.’ (Quite flattering, till I realised it was a blanket term for all women.)

Nevertheless, it was a good start, shattering the illusion that drinking it on a yacht in the Cote d’Azure was the only way to go. Except, I now realise it was probably sparkling wine.

What’s the difference? Thousands of kilometres for starters.

Over a chilled glass of Laurent Perrier Rose Champagne at the dramatic Taj Falaknuma Palace in Hyderabad, Rajiv Singhal Ambassador to Champagne in India discusses the fact that Champagne (the drink) can come only from Champagne (the geographical location). He represents the Comité Interprofessionnel du Vin de Champagne (CIVC), an interprofessional body that brings together all the Houses and Growers in Champagne, defining policy, quality control and protection of the Champagne appellation.

With 15,000 growers, 300 houses and 12,000 brands to oversee, they really have their work cut out for them! Especially considering the term ‘champagne’ has become so synonymous with luxury that it’s indiscriminately used to justify anything with a hefty price tag. So far, besides a variety of sparkling wines masquerading as Champagne, Rajiv’s found mangoes, biscuits and — yes — pantyhose bearing the label.

In reality, if it’s not grown in the production zone, delimited in 1927, it’s not the real thing. The area, 150 km to the east of Paris covers roughly 34,000 hectares of vineyards spread across 319 villages.

Thanks to CIVC you’re guaranteed a quality bottle if it originates here since there are strict rules at every stage: only 8,000 vines can be planted per hectare with a 1.5 mt distance between rows, only bunches bearing 12 to 15 grapes can be picked, and then only 102 litres of juice can be pressed out of 160 kg of grapes.

The results are evident when we settle down for a ‘Prestige Cuvee’ dinner at the suitably flamboyant Durbar Hall of the palace, glittering with spangled chandeliers and rows of long stemmed, delicate champagne glasses.

Seared scallops on smoked salmon are served with Ayala Cuvee Perle, 2002, blending ripe citrus fruit with feisty bubbles. It’s followed by the iconic Krug, Grand Cuvee. Rich and toasty it stands up bravely to aromatic lamb shikampuri kebab and spicy king prawns.

More champagne, more courses — each demonstrating that the drink can hold it’s own in any company. As we reach dessert, we’re tipsy enough to find the murmur of bubbles neck lacing up to the surface great theatre. After a dessert of strawberry mousse truffles served with Armand de Brignac Rose (a bottle so delightfully pink I consider using it as an accessory), we’re rambunctiously cheery and dive into the Nawab’s grand dining room, featuring his gleaming table for 101 people, and attempt conversations from both ends.

Of course, gilt and glamour are purely optional. Rajiv says one of the most memorable bottles he drank was in Paris, after he cooled it on a snowy window ledge in winter, teamed with Chicken Mc Nuggets.

The point of this ‘Champagne Experience’ is to prove the drink’s versatility. Rajiv even laughingly offers to send some to our rooms to brush our teeth with. However, after drinking till 1 a.m., all I want is a cup of coffee when I wake up, bleary and hoarse.

Clearly, I’m a lightweight. As I stagger to breakfast at 8 a.m., I find everyone in high spirits drinking champagne with warm croissants and fluffy omelettes. Too early? Apparently not. I stick to coffee and toast. But unbend enough to sip some Louis Roederer by the swimming pool a little later. It’s chilled, complex and fruity — ideal for the gentle sunshine. This is the life.

T he lobby’s an unusual shade of gold. Sure it has the usual five-star accoutrements — majestic chandeliers, plush sofas and a bar tinkling with expensive crystal. But, what makes Taj Cape Town’s lobby so instantly soothing is a lot more basic — structure.

A cathedral-like space with high ceilings, a barrel-vaulted skylight and dramatic lines, it’s clearly been created with a passion that borders on the obsessive.

So, it’s hardly surprising to learn the original architect James Morris, who designed the grand old Reserve Bank that now houses the Taj lobby, was an exasperatingly pernickety man. Intent on glittering Capetonian sunshine in the main banking room through the year, he bullied the Astronomer Royal into measuring the position of shadows in the skylight for every month of 1929 so he could design the skylight appropriately. He then imported Portuguese marble columns, commissioned a sculptor to create four medallions of lions for the façade and even organised special tiles, complete with spares “in case an aircraft crashed into the building”.

Recklessly flamboyant architecture of this sort creates memorable spaces. It’s also notoriously difficult to replicate. The Taj didn’t even try.

Instead, Tata’s Taj Hotels Resorts and Palaces, along with Eurocape (an Irish property investment company) spent two years and over $69 million, meticulously restoring the old South African Reserve Bank and neighbouring Temple Chambers buildings for their new 177-room luxury hotel. A ponderous clock from 1932, balconies for the mistrals that once entertained the public during banking hours, gates of detailed bronze… they’ve all been retained, giving the building a depth, character and gravitas that could never have been achieved by any contemporary structure, no matter how extravagant.

Recently inaugurated, this is Cape Town’s ‘oldest new hotel’. Set in the heart of the city’s historic downtown area, it’s surrounded by monuments representing much of South Africa’s turbulent history — from the Slave Lodge (now a museum) to St George’s Cathedral, from where Archbishop Desmond Tutu rallied the masses and demanded equality.

In tune with contemporary South Africa, the hotel is designed to be welcoming to one and all — hence the two main entrances, the Temple Chambers’ doors on Wale Street, and the South African Reserve Bank entry off St. George’s Mall, a pedestrian road that bustles with street artists, cafes and colour. There’s also street access to its coffee shop Mint and The Twankey, a seafood, champagne and oyster bar.

Of course, two buildings, no matter how steeped in history, aren’t ever big enough for the kind of full-scale, decadent luxury Taj hotels concentrate on. Hence, a more modern tower rises from the fabric of the heritage buildings, culminating in the gargantuan Presidential suite.

We watch the sun spilling a thousand shades of red and orange over Table Mountain, as it sinks away from the terrace of the suite, over glasses of chilled champagne and succulent smoked salmon. Then it’s time for dinner at Bombay Brasserie, where the menu balances tradition and plucky experimentation. Roasted corn soup served with fluffy turmeric popcorn. Tandoori Norwegian salmon flavoured with Bishop’s weed. Baked Alphonso mango yoghurt.

After a few days of incessant pampering, we’re getting dangerously spoilt. Our rooms, set in the heritage suite are luxuriously charming, with dignified pastel furnishing, chocolates and pillow menus.

Our 24-hour butler, who — to our delight — is called ‘Lovemore’ plies us with chamomile tea and gossip, in the Business Lounge every evening, when we stagger back after yet another party or dinner bristling with heady South African wine.

We hear Paris Hilton and her entourage occupied our rooms during the World Cup. But, don’t let that put you off. Especially if, like us, you have a fondness for drinking creamy Amarula cocktails in a lobby that glitters with cheerful South African sunshine, amid echoes of a colourful history.