If Amanresorts decided to build in Mablethorpe, the A list would go to Mablethorpe. This is the hotel chain as cultural phenomenon, so influential that Vanity Fair coined a term for the elite travellers who worship its discreet take on designer luxury. They are “Amanjunkies”, and for years they have been crying out for a Caribbean resort with the golden prefix. Finally, it has arrived. It is called Amanyara, and it has just opened in the Turks and Caicos — at a stroke making this enclave of the British West Indies the hottest destination on the planet.

I am not an Amanjunkie. For me, Amanjena in Marrakesh (where Posh and Becks escaped in the wake of Loos-gate) felt strangely sterile, a very pink palace in the wrong part of town. And while Kate Moss might rave about Amanpuri on Phuket, I found its endless steps soon began to feel like a commando course. I also objected to Amanpuri’s swimming pool, which offered no respite from the harsh Thai sun. Apparently, umbrellas would have spoilt the aesthetic. Excuse me? The average pale-skinned Brit fries under prolonged exposure to a fridge light: should we be expected to pay £900 per night to come second to style considerations?

So, as my transfer limousine (complete with music menu and cold towels) bounced along the unmade road towards Amanyara, I was still to be convinced about the Aman cult. I knew that this new hotel had already beguiled the likes of Tina Turner and Will Smith. But I wasn’t so sure.

The resort sits in a remote nature reserve on Providenciales, the main island in the 40-strong archipelago, skirting an unusual mix of could-be-Cornwall ironshore coves and smooth-as-silk virginal sands. It is also a five-minute paddle from one of the world’s top dive sites. Not bad — and this jaw-dropping setting is more than matched by the beauty of the hotel.

Amanyara is a persuasive argument for the theory that hotels are the cathedrals of the 21st century. Indeed, its soaring ceilings and contemplative corners feel so much like an Asian temple, you’ll wish you were dressed head to toe in tangerine. There are countless simple but stunning touches. The creamy palaman stone walls were carved on site into delicate waffle-folds by a team of Indonesian craftsmen. At night, clever lighting creates the slinkiest atmosphere imaginable. And the pool is a 164ft, volcanic-black, infinity-edged masterpiece with water so pure, you feel as if you’re diving into Evian. Thankfully, there are umbrellas. Better still, no punishing inclines. Already, I was beginning to believe.

Those were just my first impressions. Twenty-four hours later, I’d been seduced by the simplicity of my personal “pavilion” and was racing towards a hard-core Aman habit. The 40 rooms are stylish glass boxes (privacy can be achieved via a combination of blinds and slats), a model of fuss-free, flowing design. Their interiors are pared-down sleeping zones, decorated in earth tones with a dash of slatey blue. Outside, the luxurious lounging areas include day beds generous enough for a Roman orgy, yoga sunning mats, to promote zen thinking, and a fabulous sunken eating area.

The attention to detail is awesome, although, personally, I’d be inclined to skip the pond rooms, which are less private, in favour of the ocean pavilions. And Aman might need to invest a little more in the hotel kitchen. The food (Asian and Mediterranean) is tasty but uninspired, and service sometimes takes far, far too long. At dinner, the agony of our wait was compounded by a guitarist who played I’m Stone in Love with You by the Stylistics... twice. Habitual criminals have been dealt lesser punishments.

Which leaves only one serious drawback to discuss: cost. Although the rates here include free phone calls, free internet, free laundry and free minibar, you’d need to consume your own body weight in chocolate bars and beer, and spend every other waking moment calling everyone you’ve ever met, to claw back the £750-per-night price tag. That said, you can see where the money has gone: everything is A1 quality, from the crispest Frette linens to the creamiest Kiehl’s toiletries.

Construction continues for the next 18 months, with the planned addition of 33 villas, a golf course and a spa — though the latter will, I think, struggle to better the shiny new Como Shambhala Spa at Parrot Cay, Amanyara’s chief rival in these islands.

Parrot Cay, a half-hour boat ride north of Providenciales on its own private island, is the hotel that brought the Turks and Caicos to international attention back in 1998, and it’s a far less expensive proposition. From the same stable as London’s ever-trendy Metropolitan, it is Princess Stephanie to Amanyara’s Princess Caroline: less serious, but no less attractive, especially if you like the circus.

The celebrity circus, I mean. The main pool is so packed with A-listers, it looks like a 3-D version of Heat magazine. Regulars include Julia Roberts, Matt Damon, Cindy Crawford and Bruce Willis.

As at Amanyara, the decor is Asian- inspired, but Parrot Cay also succeeds in incorporating a Caribbean vibe. The rooms have a romantic, all-white ambience: lots of tongue-and-groove, sink-in four-posters and billowing muslin. They put me in mind of a Scarlett Johansson photoshoot.

The hotel’s hideaway beachfront villas, each with private plunge pool, have the most cachet — but for guests lodging in the main complex, here’s a tip. If you need some respite from the Botox and bikinis, head for the old spa complex. Its infinity pool is lovely and usually deserted, so you get the privacy of a villa without paying the premium.

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