Jumeirah Muscat Bay

Oman

Oman greets you not with noise but with Arabian Mystique. While the Emirates shouts in glass and steel, here the land whispers, cliffs dropping into coves, minarets flashing white against the sun, the sea a sheet of lapis lazuli stretched to the horizon. 

In a bay cut like a crescent from the sandstone, the Jumeirah Muscat Bay appears as though conjured, less a hotel than a mirage kept alive by quiet devotion. And into this scene we arrived, father and daughter, a reward and celebration for an early GCSE victory, folded neatly into the silk embrace of the Arabian coast.

Check-in happens on the fifth floor, a quirk that startles until you see why. The doors part and there it is, the view. A natural beach lapped by the Gulf of Oman, sandstone cliffs rising like cathedral walls, light playing across the sea. It was the sort of entrance that makes you run to the window, laughing at yourself for behaving like a tourist.

Our corner suite was impossibly generous: a balcony that seemed to hang above the water, a second Juliet balcony from the living room, a dressing room and two bathrooms, each with Amouage toiletries steeped in Omani spice. Housekeeping performed nightly theatre with towel animals on the beds, a charming reminder that whimsy belongs in luxury too. Neutral tones echoed the cliffs, pale turquoise mirrored the sea. Even the tumblers, heavy glass swirls, felt considered. And the coffee mercifully, brewed mornings that began on the balcony, watching the horizon rearrange itself.

Outside, the pools shimmered at 29 degrees. There was an adults-only sanctuary, torch-lit at night, serene as a temple, while the family pool offered bubble beds and space. Loungers were plush, shaded or sunlit, never scarce. Service was discreetly choreographed: attendants materialised to adjust umbrellas, bring iced water, or whisk towels away. On the private beach, golden and natural, the sea sloped gently, warm and clear, children shrieking with joy in the shallows while dolphins arced further out.

Restaurants became our compass points. Zuka, barefoot by the beach, delivered sushi with a spicy flourish, and prawns the size of a forearm, grilled or in citrus salad, always exquisite. Brezza, high on the rooftop, countered with Italian exuberance: truffled carpaccio, lobster risotto, Sicilian flair. Anzo was smaller, intimate, a balcony bar serving Asian bites and cocktails against a skyline that darkened from peach to indigo. Breakfast at Peridot was a theatre of its own: dim sum, saffron-scented khabeesa, pastries that made restraint impossible. And every morning Simran, at breakfast, remembered us, our names, our drinks, the small details that make strangers feel like family.

The Talise Spa offered the Rolls Royce of mani-pedis, Bastien Gonzalez shaping feet and hands as though they were architecture. Treatments lulled guests to silence, relaxation areas glowed with heated stone. Elsewhere, yoga unrolled on paddleboards, snorkelers drifted among reefs, boats pushed out from the dock in search of turtles and, occasionally, harmless sharks. 

The great surprise of Oman is how much it asks you to look outward. A short drive brought us to the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque, vast and serene, or into the souk where frankincense smoked and silver gleamed. But each excursion only made returning sweeter, back through the sandstone cliffs, back to the bay, back to the view that stilled conversation.

If Dubai dazzles and Abu Dhabi impresses, Oman disarms. And the Jumeirah Muscat Bay is its jewel: modern but touched with local soul, luxurious yet warm, a place where housekeeping leaves towel swans on the bed and the concierge somehow remembers every plan you vaguely mentioned.

We left reluctantly, promising ourselves another visit. Because some hotels are destinations, but this one is a return.

“The view from reception is so staggering you forget you’re indoors.”