It's just like going home, only better ... Richard McComb and family check in to The Berkeley in Knightsbridge.

Bobbing on my back in the roof-top swimming pool, looking at the languid high-level cloud, it takes a while to remember where the hell I am.

The weather, outlook and ambiance suggests I am flopping about on the Mediterranean’s Costa del Jet-Set, but this is far better than that, far more discreet, less showy, not a whiff of coconut tanning oil or a glimpse of g-string. For on this gloriously warm summer’s day I am unsizzling in an open-air pool in central London, floating atop The Berkeley in Knightsbridge. And oh my, it’s a delightful experience.

The Berkeley sits in that rarified stratosphere of London hotel accommodation known as five-star luxe but there is nothing shouty about the opulence.

The charm of this place, with which I am enthralled within an hour, is the spirit of relaxed understatement. It is all-pervasive among the staff, from the waiters who greet young babies and children with genuine warmth at breakfast to the reception team who welcome all guests as equals, where they are dripping in gold Rolexes or nervous anticipation.

As our taxi driver comments: “The trashy celebs go to X and Y [names deleted] but the classy crowd, the ones who don’t need to be seen, go to The Berkeley.”

There’s barely an indication of the name of the hotel from the outside, no fawning from the doormen. Going to The Berkeley is like going home – it’s just that the place is far better appointed with a far better cellar and superior food.

We stayed in a superior king room overlooking St Paul’s Church and the grand town houses of Wilton Place.

It was so peaceful, even with the balcony windows open, it was genuinely hard to believe we were only five minutes’ stroll from the tourist mayhem of Harrods along Brompton Road.

Our extremely excited daughters were lodged in a similar room across the hallway. Not once did we feel concerned for their safety, which can be a worry in big city hotels, although we did become alarmed by the ease with which they slipped into pampered pop princess mode. The guest rooms sparkle with restrained Art Deco-style glamour. There are feature marble bathrooms and hugely comfortable beds with designer lifestyle linens. There’s no crass technology overload and the polished furniture and fittings look like they have been around since the old king was on the throne. I mean that in a good way. This is the real deal, not jaded reproduction.

Should you be dating a Russian oligarch, a diamond merchant or a BBC big earner like Fiona Bruce there are all manner of suites to choose from including conservatory suites with roof terraces. VIP service comes as standard.

I contented myself with nibbling Victoria Beckham’s handbag, which had been left in the room. Dear Mrs B has got so many designer accessories these days that she doesn’t know what to do with them.

The tote was, in fact, a weeny, edible, replica of Posh’s latest bag made in sponge cake, complete with a chocolate crocodile print, and was a foretaste of The Berkeley’s splendidly bonkers afternoon tea.

The hotel’s pastry team has outdone the stuffy cucumber sandwiches and scones brigade by introducing Prêt-à-Portea, a designer afternoon tea in which the irresistible sweet concoctions and fancies evoke the catwalk trends of Paris and Milan. It’s a dream tea for fashionistas, the cakes served on bespoke bone china designed by Paul Smith for Tom Goode.

There are tasty skewers and taster spoons of savoury treats but the spotlight is on the glamour cakes. Take your pick from Marc Jacobs’ raspberry and lychee cream jumpsuit with oversized chocolate flower belt, Stella McCartney’s citrus print dress of orange and lemon mousse topped with marzipan fruit, or (my personal favourite) a Chloé praline clutch finished with gold chocolate beads. Mind you, Tory Burch’s strawberry and rhubarb bavarois was a close second to Stella.

Prêt-à-Portea is served in The Caramel Room and is £36.50 per person, or £46.50 with a glass of Laurent Perrier champagne. Compared with Posh’s real life bag (upwards of silly money) it’s a snip.