‘Nothing can prepare you for the size of the Karakoram mountains and their glaciers,’ says art dealer and mountaineer William Mitchell. ‘From Concordia, K2 looks like it is just beyond the moraine in front of the camp — when in fact it takes eight hours to walk to its base. Everything is on a gigantic scale.’

In July 2025, he and artist James Hart Dyke, a veteran of painting Mont Blanc, Mount Everest and Patagonia, had set out to journey from Askole, in Pakistan’s Braldu Valley, to K2, the world’s second highest mountain, and back. The result of their extraordinary endeavour is an exhibition of Hart Dyke’s paintings, presented by Mitchell at Marquis House, London.

1. Artist and art dealer followed in the footsteps of Italian photographer Vittorio Sella, who had travelled to K2 in 1909 and taken large-format photographs that have since inspired generations of mountaineers. So rugged and difficult is the terrain that Hart Dyke had to prepare for more than a year for his expedition. Once there, he sketched almost every day of the three-week, 124-mile trek, creating an extraordinary visual record of one of the world’s most inaccessible mountains.
2. The two took on the 40-mile-long Baltoro Glacier. ‘They were long days and, in altitude terms, we were already much higher than the top of most ski resorts in Europe,’ says Mitchell. ‘The midday sun seared straight down on us. As a result, we covered much of the distance from well before dawn, using headtorches over our woollen hats, and then stopping in the early to mid afternoon’.
3. The weather was decidedly not their friend. ‘On our way to Concordia, we passed through a few miles of very steep gullies running between the glacier and the southern flanks of the peaks. Our lead guide, Gul, said we should be very thankful that it wasn’t raining, as this was the most treacherous part of the voyage, because of rockfall,’ recalls Mitchell. The group cheered at the news that they would return a different way, via the Hushe Valley — only for that pass to be snow-bound. ‘We had to come back through these gullies — and it was raining. For two very fraught hours, we had to run in single file through a “bowling alley” of small rocks and even boulders tumbling from both sides. It was extremely unpleasant.’
4. The Balti porters who accompanied Mitchell and Hart Dyke loved cricket. ‘On the way down from K2, we passed through a military checkpoint by a bridge and Ali, the cook, managed to fashion a cricket bat from a piece of abandoned decking. At our last camp before the end of the trek, using a hard, blue physiotherapy ball, we staged a “Pakistan versus the Rest of the World” match. The tourists lost, but it was played at 3,250 metres [10,663ft]’.
5. Hart Dyke’s paintings will be on show until November 22, after which they will travel to Italy, where they will be displayed at Forte di Bard, a fortress at the mouth of the Aosta valley that also hosts the Museum of the Alps, next to 20 photographs by Sella.

‘K2 Artistic Expeditions: James Hart Dyke’ is at Marquis House, London, from November 16–22.

This article first appeared in the October 28, 2026 issue of Country Life. For more information on how to subscribe, click here.

Go west

Brits rarely need encouragement to chat about the weather, but this winter presents a particularly compelling reason to do so. A powerful El Niño is brewing in the Pacific — already dubbed a super El Niño — and it could redraw the American ski map.

Named by Peruvian fishermen after the Christ Child, El Niño is a natural climate pattern that produces unusually warm Pacific waters, which tend to peak around Christmas. Returning every few years and generally reaching its height during the northern-hemisphere winter, it can push the Pacific jet stream south, carrying storms and moisture with it.

Although the knock-on effects for European winters are harder to predict, across North America the pattern is clearer: El Niño years historically tilt the odds for snow in California and southern USA mountains, with resorts further north often missing out.

Among the more intriguing beneficiaries is Taos, New Mexico, where Aspen locals go to escape ‘silly season’ in Hollywood-on-snow. Founded in the 1950s by German-Swiss émigré Ernie Blake, Taos retains an old-school, European mountaineering streak: steep chutes, bumps and glades, with some of its finest terrain still reached by hiking along the high-altitude Highline and West Basin ridges.

In Taos itself, low-slung adobe buildings house art galleries, margarita bars and laidback restaurants serving bluecorn enchiladas, with the desert stretching towards the Sangre de Cristo Mountains beyond. Will El Niño deliver? Ask us in April. Until then, it provides a splendid excuse to ski somewhere new.

It’s all down from here

For decades, Courchevel’s hierarchy has been expressed in altitude. Courchevel 1850 had the palaces, Michelin stars and eye-popping chalets, then, as one descended the valley, things became progressively more relaxed — and affordable. That distinction is beginning to blur.

This winter, Maisons Pariente, founded by the fantastically stylish French family behind Le Coucou in Méribel and Crillon le Brave in Provence, unveils the 37-room Hôtel Saint Roch, with richly layered, dacha-inspired interiors and laidback intimacy (above).

Perhaps the more interesting shift, however, is downhill. Courchevel Moriond (1,650 metres) gains two five-star hotel-residences, Sundance Courchevel and Steamboat Lodge, as La Tania, the valley’s low-key, wooded outlier, welcomes the four-star ski-in/ski-out La Bârma hotel and Residences. Courchevel’s appetite for the high life remains undiminished, but you no longer need to climb quite so far up to find it.

The long way round

Verbier has spent the past 15 years trying to solve a peculiarly Swiss inconvenience. Savoleyres and La Tzoumaz — the sunny slopes rising above the left side of town — form part of the Verbier 4Vallées ski domain, yet reaching them from the resort’s main ski area has traditionally required a bus journey across town.

The solution, a new lift linking Savoleyres with Les Esserts, was first proposed in 2011, but Swissness intervened. Local objections, including a determined challenge from a Savoleyres chalet owner, raised concerns over forest clearance, landscape and environmental impact, ultimately reaching the Swiss Federal Tribunal. In 2016, the court partially upheld the appeal and demanded further environmental assessment, leading to a redesign.

This December, the full Esserts–Planards–Savoleyres Télémixte (a blend of gondola cabins and chairlifts) is set to complete the missing link. In preparation, Verbier has retired its 56-year-old Savoleyres gondola — Switzerland’s oldest operating gondola until last month — and added a new piste from Carrefour to Les Esserts. Visitors arriving to inspect the hard-won new connection can also check into Norwood’s shiny new 36-suite Ski Lodge, opening this December in the heart of town.

A home from home

The best hosts know that a comfy bed and well-stocked cellar are only the beginning. Invite close friends to stay and part of the pleasure is knowing what will interest them, whom they might enjoy meeting and how best to share the place you love with them. It is an ethos that defines Iconic House, a collection of ‘Maisons Hôtelières’ founded by brothers Robin Michel and Thibaud Elzière and dotted across France.

The brothers own all seven houses, each of which is selected to reflect their passions and the way they like to spend time with family — from skiing in the Alps to surfing on the Atlantic coast and lazy Provençal wine harvests. Each is fully staffed and impeccably equipped, yet retains the privacy and ease of a family home.”

This winter, that idea extends beyond the houses with Compositions, a new approach that begins with getting to know guests before they arrive, then suggesting days around what might interest them. At Le Sarto in Megève — a classic chalet designed by Henry Jacques Le Même — a day’s ski touring far from the lifts might be followed by a guided tour exploring Le Même’s architectural legacy in the village (above). At Le 1550 in Courchevel, guests can drive a piste basher before enjoying a cheese tasting at a local farm.

It is a pleasingly personal alternative to the ubiquitous menu of ‘money can’t buy experiences’ proffered by many properties, rooted in the simple truth that the best hosts are those who anticipate what their guests will enjoy.

Bottoms up

Three years ago, Matteo Oddo, the genial bar manager at Badrutt’s Palace in St Moritz, Switzerland, stumbled upon rows of forgotten spirits and wines in the hotel’s dusty cellars. The Ports, whiskies and vermouth wines, among others, had been collected by generations of the Badrutt’s family. A bottle of honey liqueur, bottled, according to its label, in 1870, was in perfect condition thanks to the subterranean room’s steady temperature and dim light.

A carefully curated selection of cocktails, made using some of these rediscovered alcohols, are available to sample in the Renaissance Bar. Quantities are restricted and service is only available to guests whom Oddo and his team feel will understand the messaging behind these very special drinks.

The bottles are symbolic, he explains, of the hotel’s heritage and pioneering hospitality philosophy. ‘My name is not Badrutt’s,’ he concludes, ‘but I am honoured to be here and to provide exceptional service’.

Beyond the piste

Set amid rolling meadows with views over Mont Blanc, Megève has always understood that there is more to a ski holiday than skiing (just ask Audrey Hepburn’s character in Charade, 1963, above) and this winter offers fresh temptation for those who prefer their mountain air served with a long lunch and an excellent facial.

The Sibuet family, whose cluster of rustic-chic hotels has helped shape Megève’s particular brand of Alpine living, has been busy. Lodge Park enters its centenary year with the region’s first Longevity Spa, offering advanced therapies, including photobiomodulation and cryolipolysis, and the adjoining Chalet du Lodge, complete with its own pool and wellness facilities.

Les Fermes de Marie is also adding a three-bedroom family chalet in its grounds and the group’s skincare brand, Pure Altitude, takes its Alpine credentials a step further with SkiCare, a six-piece limited-edition collection formulated specifically for skin exposed to altitude and winter weather. It might all sound suspiciously like an excuse not to ski. In Megève, of course, nobody has ever required persuading.

'What I look for is people who love people. Everyone on my team has to exude warmth, creativity and love.’ This isn’t a woolly echo of the Apostle Paul, but the guiding mantra of Kevin Wendle, the man behind Hotel Esencia.

Esencia, a 47-suite hotel, is nestled in 50 acres of Mexican jungle that runs down to a secluded beach. At either end, the beach is guarded by coral promontories, where rays and tropical fish swim and manatees are frequent visitors. It is a spot of serenity on Mexico’s Riviera Maya, only an hour or so from Cancun International Airport, in a region otherwise known for its all-inclusive resorts, where room numbers often run into the thousands.

Hotel Esencia regularly appears in lists such as The World’s 50 Best Hotels — in 2023, it was number 19 — and holds three Michelin Keys, an accolade that signals something close to hotel nirvana.

This level of recognition makes Wendle’s approach even more striking. To reach such a pinnacle normally requires a team in the mould of the SAS: unnervingly competent, efficient and ruthlessly trained. ‘Before I opened Esencia, I booked into 25 hotels in the region — from beach shacks to mega resorts. Even at the best ones, I felt that the service was somewhat robotic.’ Esencia’s familial approach is refreshing — and it is an ocean away from corporate training manuals and human-resource diktats.

Waking up here on your first morning does, indeed, feel like waking up at the home of an old friend, albeit an especially luxurious one. On the balcony of your room, you’ll find a lock box. Inside, there’s a basket of buttery pastries, a flask of fortifying coffee and another of Mexican hot chocolate; a thick, irresistible blend of cacao, cinnamon, vanilla and a touch of chilli.

I travelled with my wife and our three-year-old daughter and there was a daily battle with the toddler over who was going to get a refill of this sweet elixir. Next to these breakfast treats is a little note explaining why the basket is left under lock and key: ‘So our wild friends don’t steal it.’

At the clatter of cups, a gaggle of Yucatan jays — head to toe in an iridescent sapphire livery and much more elegant than their European cousins — and great-tailed grackles appeared on the surrounding branches. A couple of pygmy raccoons poked their snouts through the palapa thatch of the roof, hoping for scraps. The journey from Cancun — the busiest airport in Latin America — and down the bustling coast road was quickly forgotten amid the tree tops and sound of Caribbean waves.

The Riviera Maya is part of the wider Yucatan peninsula. This sliver of land has more than 1,200 miles of coast and stretches from the Gulf of Mexico in the north to the border with Belize in the south. It is a land of extraordinary natural wonder. Near the north is the Chicxulub crater, the site of the asteroid strike that saw off the dinosaurs. Moments from Esencia is the Sian Ka’an Biosphere, a UNESCO Heritage Site with world-class birding, diving and fly-fishing.

At every turn, you’ll find another cenote — a sinkhole filled with fresh water, caused when the limestone bedrock collapses into the groundwater beneath. These pools were considered portals to the underworld by the Mayans and used for sacred rituals, especially sacrifices. Cenotes are often connected to the nearby ocean by an underground river, and provide that important habitat where sweet-and saltwater meet.

Closer to the hotel, a brackish lagoon winds through mangroves. One evening, we paddleboarded through its narrow channels, ducking beneath low branches before slipping into the water with snorkels and letting the current carry us back towards the sea. Colourful fish swam, unbothered, beneath us and baby tarpon splashed in the knotted mangroves as we passed.

Despite the cultural and ecological abundance beyond its borders, the challenge for the hotel is persuading its guests to leave ‘my little patch of paradise’, as Wendle calls it. I’ve always seen hotels as somewhere to lay my head and a springboard into exploring the local area, yet, after a few hours at Esencia, I embraced the first hot beach holiday I’ve ever had (I’m more used to the remote and chillier sands of the Hebrides or Donegal).

The antidote to a Mezcal tasting on our first evening was sunrise yoga overlooking the ocean for my wife and a visit to the spa for me. I’m not one for spending hours in sterile treatment rooms, but I was converted by the Esencia spa, a cathedral to wellbeing, constructed out of Mayan materials. The incense and oils are made on site using ingredients from the hotel’s herb garden.

There are three small restaurants, but we mostly chose to dine among the trees of the jungle or next to the sea. To our shaded cabana on the sand, devastatingly good margaritas and locally caught ceviche appeared with wondrous regularity. No request was too much and no outcrop near the surf too distant to set a table.

The hotel employs more than 250 people, ensuring no detail is left unrefined. One member of the team is Juan Carlos Gutiérrez. Once a lead graphic designer for Chanel, Gutiérrez arrived to help Wendle with a design project, and never left. He is now his full-time artistic director. This is not a usual employee for a hotel, but that flair for design, from logos to menus to planning lavish private parties, is one of the things that makes Esencia so special. The hotel’s style has even been the subject of a glossy coffee-table book, produced by the king of design-led publishers, Assouline.

Esencia started life not as a hotel, but as the hedonistic hideaway of Rosa de Ferrari, an Italian duchess. She later opened it to guests with the help of a handful of investors. When Wendle first laid eyes on it, it was down at heel and loss making, ‘run by a committee and without a singular vision. But it did have the best lick of beach in the area and buildings that shone with old-world glamour. If I couldn’t turn it around,’ he recalls, ‘I figured I’d make it my home and occasionally rent it out.’

The hotel now has cult status, with a troop of cus-tomers that reads like the guest list at an Oscars after party — quite fitting considering Wendle started his career as a producer in Hollywood.

He never attended a hotel school in Switzerland or studied hospitality. He honed his craft by visiting hotels and falling in love with design and architecture. Esencia is that rare thing, a truly independent hotel operated, not by men studying spreadsheets in an office, but by a visionary on the ground. It is precisely because his mantra doesn’t align with corporate busybodies that his guests genuinely do feel treated with ‘warmth, creativity and love’. That, and the procession of margaritas that sees in each evening.

Rooms at Hotel Esencia start from $1,059 (about £788) per night, excluding taxes.

This feature originally appeared in the October 14, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.'

Keep calm and glow on

The ultimate luxury is coming home from a holiday feeling better than when you left. Thankfully, that no longer means confessing to your carbohydrate-guzzling sins and subjecting yourself to myriad tests at a medical retreat.

Wellness has ‘exploded into the norm,’ says James Bell, Turquoise Holidays founder and managing director. His highlights include Six Senses’s alchemy bars (where guests make their own massage oils), The Brando’s nest-like Fare Manu (Bird House) spa (above) in French Polynesia and Ladera’s Lévé spa, 1,000 feet above Sugar Beach in St Lucia.

Before check in, I used to peruse a hotel’s breakfast menu online. Now, I look to see what gym equipment they have. A poky room in the basement won’t suffice. My favourite is the one at Maybourne Beverly Hills in California — a light-drenched space with a wellness mineral pool.

World-class hotels Soneva Fushi in the Maldives and NIHI Sumba, Indonesia, have cottoned on and announced enhanced workout spaces — a real boon for sun-averse travellers like me who need something to do inside in the middle of the day, when the UV reaches stratospheric levels.

We also crave food that makes us feel good. Singita’s pantry concept means that, instead of sugary-snack-stuffed mini bars, guests have access to a communal 'delicatessant’ full of tasty, farm-to-table-inspired, sweet and savoury treats.

Then there is sleep, perhaps the most fundamental pillar of wellbeing. Sleep coaches, bespoke programmes, temperature-controlled beds and pillow menus are becoming as de rigueur as room service. At Gili Lankanfushi in the Maldives, guests can choose from 17 different types. After all, paradise is no place for a bad night’s sleep.

Cleared for take-off

British Airways has announced new routes and improved services on journeys to exciting winter-sun destinations, such as South Africa, Zanzibar, Brazil and Costa Rica.

Its Heathrow to San José service now operates three times a week, year round. Waldorf Astoria Costa Rica, on the dramatic cliffs of Punta Cacique, Hotel Fermata in Santa Teresa (it’s in front of one of the Pacific’s most consistent surf breaks), and Santa Lucia Jungle Hacienda in Carara National Park, are among the country’s notable openings.

The airline is also countering stiff competition by introducing a major refresh of its long-haul first-class experience. The ongoing mile-high arms race has spawned some of aviation’s most creative launches, including Qatar’s Qsuite Business Class, which was so successful that former CEO Akbar Al Baker suggested it had eliminated the need for first class.

The carrier has done a full 180 and, in the coming months, will introduce a private jet-inspired first-class suite. Look out for similarly opulent launches from Qantas, Air France and Lufthansa. AeroLOPA provides craft information and detailed, to-scale digital seat maps for major global airlines — so you can check exactly what you’re flying on before you book.

Off the beaten screen

The average person spends roughly 21 years looking at a screen over the course of their lifetime or more than 40% of their waking hours — a statistic that should horrify you as much as it probably does your optician. The good news is that, despite the rampant progress of addictive, brain-numbing technology, we still yearn, on a primal level, for human connection. Interacting with other people, in person, releases feel-good chemicals.

Last week, we reported on the boom in physical shopfronts in the capital, including Wiggy Kit, Loeffler Randall, Ulla Johnson and DeMellier this year alone. Now, Audley Travel is following in their fashionable footsteps. This autumn, the tour operator will launch its first-ever physical retail presence inside 12 John Lewis stores. Remember when tour operators dotted the high street, their posters of far-flung sunny shores a bright light on an otherwise grey commute?

These dedicated spaces will replicate that inspiration and give clients the opportunity to talk to Audley’s travel experts, face to face. After all, the algorithm can show you a picture of a beach, but it takes a person to get you there in style and comfort.

The world is divided into two groups of people, those who have never been on a cruise and cannot hide their horror at the idea and those who have actually been on one. More than 80% of people who have been on a cruise intend to do it again. These are remarkable figures. I first went on a cruise some 20 years ago, with my son Charlie. My main memory of it was of 1,000 people singing Tom Jones’s Delilah as they entered the main restaurant. It was a truly remarkable sight — people swayed on tabletops, clutching at their cocktails and new best friends. I decided, at the time, that it was not something I should write about for Country Life because I wasn’t sure it would appeal to the readers — but I couldn’t deny that all the guests were having a wonderful time.

What the cruise critics need to understand is that there is a type of cruise for everyone. To deny one is like saying that you would never go anywhere ever in Spain because the Costa Blanca didn’t appeal. This time around, my trip was from Rome to Monaco, on Evrima, part of the Ritz-Carlton Yacht Collection. Evrima has 149 suites and accommodates only 298 guests. She was dwarfed by other yachts when we were in port, but seemed big to us, with a lift to 10 different floors.

The size provided spaciousness and a relaxed sophistication, with both a good spa and a well-stocked cigar humidor on board — you can take your pleasure in many different ways. The food was of remarkably high standard, especially in SEA, designed by three-Michelin-starred chef Sven Elverfeld. My wife, Rachel, and I both agreed it was one of the best dinners that we had had anywhere — on land or at sea. Better still, there are no buffets among the yacht’s four other restaurants.

After boarding Evrima on our first afternoon, we slid out of port so gently that we didn’t realise that we had left — it was like being in The King’s Rolls-Royce leaving Royal Ascot after a day at the races — and headed to the Italian island of Elba. By the morning, we had arrived and caught a tender to the shore. It was at this moment that I ‘got’ cruising.

What it does, at its best, is take you to places that you wouldn’t normally go to, but have always sort of wanted to. The sort of places that you only need a half day or a whole day to explore so, therefore, never plan a whole holiday around. The smaller the yacht, the smaller the place you can visit. I knew Elba from my history teacher at Summer Fields, who delighted in a palindrome attributed to Napoleon who was exiled there for 200 days: ‘Able was I ere I saw Elba’, which reads exactly the same forwards and backwards. Elba is a sleepy place; men play cards outside cafés, little fishing boats dot the harbour and, above, the land folds into green hills.

We were taken by car — our excursions were created just for the two of us, with a guide — to Tenuta delle Ripalte, a winery on the east coast of the island where they make the famous Aleatico Passito dell’Elba, a ruby-red dessert wine that is quintessential to the island. From here, we could see the flat island of Pianosa, known as the Alcatraz of the Tyrrhenian Sea, where top-ranking Mafia bosses were once held, and the Toblerone-shaped island of Montecristo that inspired Alexandre Dumas’s classic adventure novel of counts and hidden treasure.

Our next sunrise was in Bastia, Corsica, on the day the French were celebrating the end of the Second World War in Europe. This is a place with a remarkable history, from Genoese rule and Napoleon’s birth to, most interestingly, its role as a laboratory for Enlightenment under the inspirational Pasquale Paoli. He established one of the world’s first modern democratic constitutions in the 18th century that included early female suffrage. This golden age inspired everyone from Rousseau to Voltaire.

Onwards to Florence, about 60 miles from the ugly port of Livorno. Florence doesn’t need any further gloss from me, except to say that through the guides we were able to visit an ancient mosaic workshop still practising the skills that Michelangelo drew upon so wonderfully in the Cappelle Medicee, as well as the Giardino Torrigiani. The latter is an almost unknown 17-acre, English-style garden within the city walls, steeped in Masonic symbolism, with ancient statues, a large Gothic tower and an escape tunnel for if you needed to get away from the Medicis in a hurry.

Then we had a bit of luck — that night, the wind got up and it was decided that we couldn’t stop at Portofino, and would have to head for Genoa instead. I had never been before, but I would now arm wrestle anyone who disagreed that Genoa is the most underrated city in Europe. Without being on a cruise (and having the fortunate storm), I would never have seen The Caruggi, the vast maze of medieval alleyways, visited the black-and-white cathedral or strolled down Strada Nuova, a UNESCO World Heritage-listed street filled with 16th-century aristocratic palazzi to rival its great enemy, Venice. This is the birthplace of pesto, focaccia and trofie pasta — the food is the rival of anywhere in Italy and there are very few tourists. Go Genoa.

After Genoa, Cannes was a disappointing traffic jam of people attending the film festival, from which we retreated to the sanctity of Evrima and then finally along the coast to Monaco, where our trip ended.

Would I go on a cruise again? Yes, but on a boat such as Evrima. A smaller craft that can go to smaller places. The whole point of cruising, to me, is to discover places you don’t know much about. You will get what you pay for, but luxury onboard is important. Plan your shore visits; be adventurous; make sure you do what you are interested in and tell your guide what that is.

A similar, seven-night journey with Ritz-Carlton, from Rome to Monaco, starts from £9,900) per person per suite, based on double occupancy. The fare includes a private terrace, dining, beverages, access to water-sports equipment and a suite ambassador service to help with tasks such as unpacking, garment pressing and in-suite dining.

Like fine wine, cheese and oh so many other things, the French do a particularly good line in saints. One of my favourites is the 13th-century St Guinefort of the Dombes region, whose story bears remarkable similarity to Gelert of Beddgelert, a pretty village in North Wales.

In both cases, the protagonists are faithful dogs — Guinefort a greyhound and Gelert an Irish wolfhound —and both save their master’s babies, from a viper and a wolf, respectively, only to be bumped off in a regrettable case of mistaken identity.

Gelert, alas, was never canonised and, in the eyes of the Catholic Church, neither was Guinefort, but the locals were having none of it. They believed Guinefort was a true martyr, declared him a saint and began to pray to him in times of need. A dog in Heaven is a concept, I am confident, that many of us could get on board with today.

We encountered another random French saint in Provence this summer. St Quinis was born in about AD500, a time when the religious landscape of southern Gaul was changing dramatically. Educated at the famous monastery of Lérins on the island of what is now called Ile Saint-Honorat off Cannes, Quinis became a wandering preacher throughout the Var region of Provence, encouraging people to abandon pagan practices and adopt Christianity.

When this kind man, venerated for his care of young and old, widows, working people and prisoners died some 75 years later, little did he know that a few centuries down the line his name would become associated with a splendid tale of folklore in the Provençal village of Gonfaron, which claims St Quinis as its local saint.

The story goes that one year — in probably the early 17th century — before the annual procession through the village to mark the Feast of St Quinis, the village authorities demanded that everyone whose house lay along the route should clean the area outside their front door. One unruly fellow refused, allegedly saying something along the lines of: ‘If St Quinis finds my doorstep too dirty, he will just have to jump over it.’ A poor neighbour did the clean-up job instead and the procession went ahead.

However, like all good moralistic tales, there was comeuppance to be had and sometime later, when the man was riding his donkey home from the countryside, a swarm of horseflies attacked the poor beast. Agitated by this, the donkey leapt into the air, threw the rider violently from its back, and flew across the nearby ravine. ‘Aha!’ cried the villagers, ‘St Quinis l’a puni, l’âne a volé’ (or 'St Quinis has punished him, his donkey has flown') — or so at least says the blurb outside the tiny chapel dedicated to the saint on a hilltop above Gonfaron.

There is lots to be marvelled at here, not least the fact that the villagers were given a perfect excuse to start a new annual, non-religious festival — the Feast of the Flying Donkey. This takes place each spring and, alongside the blessing of a few real donkeys, involves the parading through Gonfaron’s narrow streets of a giant effigy of a donkey, which is then, somewhat randomly I feel, set on fire outside St Quinis’s chapel.

This makes me think two things: first, that perhaps a more appropriate scenario would be to burn an effigy of the unpleasant man — a bit like our own Guy Fawkes — and not the poor old donkey, even if the burnt bits of paper floating in the afternoon sky are more symbolic of un âne qui vole; second, that religious folklore, however eccentric, is always a good reason to throw a party and the French are very good at this. Perhaps modern Christianity needs a few more martyred dogs and flying donkeys to help us on our way.

Dear like-minded travellers, are you thinking of heading south — of packing up your notebooks and chasing the same coruscating light that has always drawn dreamers to the Côte d’Azur?

Here, it is easy to imagine F. Scott Fitzgerald balanced on the rocks in Antibes, Jean Cocteau drafting angels in Menton or James Baldwin writing late at night at home in Saint Paul-de-Vence. Why don’t you follow them there?

For more than a century, the French Riviera has been more of a story than a coastline — written and rewritten by exiles, novelists and poets who came in search of silence, spectacle or to find themselves reflected in its mirrored sea.

It was not all down to the light. We should not deceive ourselves: luxury, peace and pleasure are tempting indulgences. Perhaps the greatest appeal of the Côte d’Azur for this new generation of modern artists was the sheer hedonism suggested by those blue skies and the warm sunshine.

As the 20th century dawned, the Riviera became a refuge for some of the world’s most famous painters. Renoir built himself a villa in Cagnes-sur-Mer in 1907 and was still painting fleshy nudes until his death in 1919. Matisse moved permanently to Nice in the early 1920s, when his favourite subject was painting semi-naked odalisques bathed in sunshine. This was also the era when socialites and writers such as Francis Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway and William Somerset Maugham were drawn to the Côte d’Azur.

After the Second World War, the reputation of the Rivera for hedonism and creativity was secure. The most famous artist in the world, Picasso, moved to the Golfe-Juan in 1946 and Marc Chagall was also a convert. He spent the last four decades of his life in the area, moving first to Vence in 1949 and then to the hilltop village of St-Paul-de-Vence. His subjects were more whimsical, but suffused nevertheless with the light and colour of the south.

The Riviera they knew, however, is not quite the one you will find. The bohemian hotels they once frequented have become five-star palaces and their beaches privatised; the cafés curated for Instagram. Today, you’ll find inspiration in the Riviera’s quieter corners: in small hotels scented with orange blossom, in the back rooms of restaurants where menus are scribbled in chalk and in garden cafés where a glass of rosé is poured without performance.

This is a slow journey along the coast towards places that still reward time and attention.

Who? F. Scott Fitzgerald and Pablo Picasso

Where? Antibes

Begin in Antibes, as Fitzgerald did before you. The American author arrived with his wife, Zelda, in 1925, in search of respite from the excesses of New York. They rented Villa Saint-Louis in Juan-les-Pins, rechristening it Villa America, where Fitzgerald began work on his semi-autobiographical novel Tender is the Night.

The light remains extraordinary. Stand on Cap d’Antibes as dusk falls and you will see what he saw: the sea wrapped around you like swathes of blue silk; the sky bruised pink and cream.

The difference is, of course, that Fitzgerald stayed on the Riviera when it was surprisingly inexpensive and known more as a winter refuge than a summer playground. Today, his villa masquerades as a hotel, the Belle Rives, where even the sun loungers come at a steep price.

Instead, head further round the cap to La Villa Fabulite, a 12-room hideaway shaded by fragrant pine and lemon trees. After a vermouth cassis cocktail, traverse the coastline on foot to the Musée Picasso. Look at them long enough and you’ll start to see the artist’s Cubist faces in the rock formations on Plage de la Garoupe.

Pablo Picasso first came to the Côte d’Azur in the 1920s, but it was his return here 1946 that was to prove a turning point in his life. After enduring the Occupation in Paris, he had emerged from the war with renewed energy and a new lover, the young artist Françoise Gilot. That June, the two of them headed south to the Golfe-Juan and then, in September, he was offered an empty room on the second floor of a medieval château in Antibes.

For two months, he worked feverishly. With artists’ materials still scarce after the war, he improvised with boat paint, asbestos-cement panels and decorators’ brushes.

A succession of exuberant still lifes, nudes and humorous sailors poured from his brush. The masterpiece was La Joie de Vivre, a monumental celebration of peace, sunlight and sensuality, with Gilot dancing naked at its centre.

The couple then moved to nearby Vallauris and Picasso began to experiment with ceramics, producing thousands of pieces over the next decade, as well as the great murals War and Peace.

However, he was not an easy man to live with. In 1953, the relationship with Gilot failed and she was replaced in his affections by Jacqueline Roque — a 27-year-old girl who worked in the local pottery shop. They moved to Cannes, then, in 1958, the château at Vauvenargues near Aix-en-Provence, which had a view of his hero, Cézanne’s Mont Sainte-Victoire.

After they married in 1961, Picasso spent the rest of his life with Jacqueline and he lies buried in Vauvenargues. Yet, it was the decade in the Golfe-Juan when he was perhaps at his happiest and you can still see the work he made during those golden years in the museums in Antibes and Vallauris.

Who? Alexandre Dumas and the Impressionists

Where? Nice

In 1841, Alexandre Dumas wrote: ‘A beautiful courtesan, softly lying on the edge of her azure mirror, in the shade of her orange trees in bloom, with her long hair abandoned to the sea breezes, and whose waves would come to wet her bare feet, for Nice is the city of sweet laziness and easy pleasures’ — and plus ça change.

If Antibes is the cocktail party, then Nice is the café the morning after: a little battered, but all the more alive because of it. Here, the Belle Époque façades are peeling, charmingly, the Cours Saleya market is a riot of flowers and the smell of socca drifts from wood-fired stoves in Old Town alleys.

In March 1882, Eugène Manet boarded a train from Nice to Paris with a stash of freshly made oil paintings in his baggage. They included a view of the fishing boats in the port at Nice and one especially charming and spontaneous depiction of his daughter Julie playing on the beach. The work of his wife, Berthe Morisot, both pictures were destined for the seventh Impressionist exhibition, which opened the following month on the rue St Honoré.

Morisot, the most prominent female artist of the group, had spent the winter in the Hôtel Richemont with Eugène and Julie. The mild winter climate of the Côte d’Azur had been a boon for an artist who was deeply committed to the new movement, which championed a more spontaneous approach to painting. As did her fellow Impressionists, Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir and Camille Pissarro, she strove to capture the fleeting effects of light and the atmosphere by working en plein air and immersing herself in her subjects.

Such an approach was fine during the summer in the coastal resorts of Normandy, where Impressionism was born during the 1870s, but it was not so alluring when winter came and the weather turned cold and grey. By heading south, Morisot was part of a new geographical trend — the moment when the light of the south began to filter into French painting. Over the next century, the landscapes of Provence and the sunny skies of the Riviera were to become one of the most important themes in modern art.

Nowadays, writers and artists seek out the Hôtel du Couvent, where a resident herbalist blends together teas and tinctures using herbs growing in the cloister garden, to help sharpen thoughts.

Stop by Les Grandes Caves Caprioglio — a family-run institution since 1910 — for a thoughtfully priced selection of local Bellet and Provence wines. Or Pizza Pili, where the montagnarde — crème fraîche, lardons, potatoes, reblochon — can be carried, hot, to the beach and eaten on the stones as the Mediterranean folds itself against the shore.

Who? W. Somerset Maugham, Rudyard Kipling, T. S. Eliot, Virginia Woolf, Jean Cocteau and Princess Grace of Monaco

Where? Cap d’Ail

There are few train journeys lovelier than the one that connects Nice and Cap d’Ail. The train pauses at Villefranche-sur-Mer—a station set directly above the water—where Cap Ferrat juts into view.

W. Somerset Maugham settled on this peninsula for much of his life, although he also described the south of France as ‘a sunny place for shady people’. His choice of guests — Rudyard Kipling, T. S. Eliot, Virginia Woolf — suggest otherwise.

Cap d’Ail is a pocket of calm at complete odds to Monaco. It was here that Greta Garbo retreated from Hollywood, where Sir Winston Churchill painted and where Gabrielle Réval lived and wrote about the town’s intimate relationship with the sea. She is buried here, overlooking the sea she so often returned to in her work.

From the train station, a staircase winds its way down, through palms and pines, to Plage Mala, a crescent of sand and stone. It feels like a secret. In this cove, it's not about being seen.

Villa les Camélias: Musée à Cap d'Ail is the only Belle Époque villa in Cap d’Ail open to the public and exhibits objects and countless photographs dating from the late 19th century to the 1950s, capturing the daily life of Cap d’Ail’s visitors and residents (Sacha Guitry, Jean Cocteau, André Gide, Princess Grace of Monaco).

The Nietzsche Path, a steep mountain trail that starts here and ends in Èze, takes about 1½ hours to climb. The philosopher from which it takes its name was inspired to complete Thus Spoke Zarathustra when braving it. (‘All truly great thoughts are conceived while walking,’ he once wrote.)

Èze, a medieval village, clings to the mountain like a mirage and is sometimes referred to as ‘the eagle’s nest’. Stay at Les Terrasses d’Èze, a hotel and spa in which you can partake in a form of float therapy. Lying in near silence, weightless, in saltwater, your imagination slowly starts to drift.

Who? James Baldwin, D.H. Lawrence, Henri Matisse, Auguste Renoir, Nicolas Poussins and Marc Chagall

Where? Saint-Paul-de-Vence, Vence

James Baldwin lived in Saint-Paul-de-Vence for 17 years and his house, Chez Baldwin, was a meeting space for intellectuals, artists and exiles. The Provencal landscape, he said, ‘demanded contemplation’. La Colombe d’Or, a historic restaurant with rooms, is Saint Paul’s calling card — its walls hung with Picassos and Braques, left behind in lieu of payment. Alternatively, there is Orion Treehouses, which sits in the middle of a cedarwood forest just around the corner from the Fondation Maeght.

The market town of Vence, Saint Paul’s larger and more authentic sibling, was the first resting place of D.H. Lawrence — before his wife, Frieda, had his remains exhumed and moved, five years after his death.

It was here that Henri Matisse found a second wind: Chapelle du Rosaire was, in his own words, ‘the culmination of a whole life of work and the flowering of a tremendous, sincere, and difficult effort’. Bathed in cobalt blue, lemon yellow and emerald green, the chapel is one of the most spiritual spaces on the Riviera. Pared back and radiant, it is a reminder that simplicity boasts its own kind of grandeur.

If Nietzsche hasn’t made you feel Human, All Too Human, climb to the peak of Baou de Saint-Jeannet, an enormous cliff whose viewpoint attracted Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Nicolas Poussins and Marc Chagall. It’s a lesson in perspective: climb higher, see further.

(St Tropez: Best left to the superyachts and paparazzi. A writer will find little here but distraction.)

Who? Blaise Cendrars, Patti Smith and Anthony Bourdain

Where? Marseille

Marseille, France's second-most populous city (above), is all too often dismissed as being rough around the edges, but it’s never felt more vibrant. Novelist Blaise Cendrars described it as ‘a mess after my own heart’; Patti Smith performed at the Gare de Marseille-Saint-Charles; Anthony Bourdain wanted to retire here. ‘Wherever you are from, you feel at home in Marseille,’ observed Jean-Claude Izzo, the author of the Fabio Montale hard-boiled detective novels. He was right.

The city is raw, restless and constantly being refashioned. There is, right now, a new wave of chefs determined to do more than bouillabaisse and looking to its migrant population, past and present, for inspiration.

At La Friche la Belle de Mai — a multifaceted public space that’s part restaurant, part Arts centre, part market, part skatepark — enjoy a glass of pastis with panisses (chickpea fritters), then slip into Atelier Renata, an exclusive supper club venue without a menu, where dinner is whatever the chef picked up that day. In the morning, browse the sap green Librairie Mazette for something to read before moving east along the coast.

Who? Frédéric Mistral and the Fauvist painters

Where? Cassis

‘He who has seen Paris and not Cassis, has seen nothing’ wrote the poet Frédéric Mistral. The colourful fishing port, with its limestone cliffs, terracotta houses and sheltered, fjord-like inlets known as calanques, once drew in the Fauvist painters — André Derain, Maurice de Vlaminck — who captured its magic on canvas, in bold and vivid tones. Linger here.

At Le Petit Oyster Bar, work your way through oysters, razor clams, shrimps, and moules gratinées, washed down with bone-dry Cassis AOC whites. And then onto the Calanques, where the water is so clear that boats look like they’re suspended in mid air. The Calanque d'En-Vau, a narrow limestone cove backed by sheer cliffs, can be reached by boat or a steep, two hour-long trail that’s worth every uphill step.

For writers and artists, this fabled coastline has long offered lessons in how life is best lived. Good writing, like sculpture, removes excess to reveal essence. Inspiration is found not in the opulence of hotel lobbies, but in winding, cliffside paths with the promise of a view at the top. Carry a notebook, and let the landscape do the rest.

Nick Trend’s new book, ‘France: In the Footsteps of the Great Artists’, is out now (Thames & Hudson, £50).

‘Painting the French Riviera’ is at the Royal Academy of Arts, London, until January 31, 2027.

Day one

Despite weeks of scaremongering from the press, social media and my dad, there are no queues at border control at Faro Airport. We — me and my university friend Annabel — sail through smugly. Our smiles, however, are short lived. The crowds have simply migrated to the car-hire desk, where we subsequently gather dust and burn through the majority of our substantial snack haul for more than an hour.

The journey to Casas da Quinta de Cima — a roughly 40-minute drive east, towards the Spanish border — is more straightforward. We arrive in the evening's soft gloam. Our senses are muffled by darkness and the gentle patter on cobblestones of the rain that we’ve thoughtfully brought with us, but we can smell what we think is jasmine.

We snatch glimpses of the hotel as we’re escorted to our room, one of nine former whitewashed worker’s cottages (below). It is simply and thoughtfully furnished with a terracotta brick floor, traditional cane and plaster ceiling and a mixture of contemporary and antique pieces of furniture. The bathroom — with its tongue and groove pocket doors, freestanding bath and ginormous walk-in shower, big enough for a party of five — is a masterpiece. It is so overwhelmingly calm that our eyelids start to droop during a dinner of delicious room service steak sandwiches.

Day two

Quinta de Cima is a working lemon, orange and avocado farm that’s been handed down through five generations of the same family. When they are grown next to one another, lemons and oranges, we learn, smell like jasmine. We walk past the leafy rows on our way to breakfast, which is served in one of the cathedral-like agricultural warehouses, its doors nearly always open to the cobbled courtyard beyond. In the middle, the spindly legs of an antique table groan beneath the weight of hams, cheese and yoghurts, fresh juice and thinly sliced fruit and bowls of homemade granola so good that we try to squirrel away handfuls of it in our jean pockets.

This region, the Algarve, is synonymous with golf resorts with false delusions of grandeur, but there is so, so much more to it, if only I can tempt you to leave the soulless confines of your gated hotel or, better yet, stay in one of the boutique offerings like Quinta de Cima that are popping up in pleasing numbers. They have a real sense of place.

There are far-reaching stretches of sand and surfing, Moorish architecture and moreish food. And salt. Some of the finest in the world, in fact. We roll from breakfast to Salmarin, whose salt flats are nestled into Sapal de Castro Marim Nature Reserve, the oldest nature reserve in the country and a vital habitat for black-winged stilts, common ringed plovers, white storks and more.

Good salt, says Salmarin’s founder Jorge Raiado, is at the mercy of nature and takes time. He demonstrates how to best use it to bring out the flavour of different foods by pairing it with tomatoes (expected) and strawberries (unexpected).

Under João III (1502–57), numerous new pans sprung up throughout the Algarve and towns such as Castro Marim — the fortress of which looms over Raiado’s land — and Tavira became rich and lively export hubs, trading salt to northern Europe. In the latter, we scale the ruins of a medieval castle the innards of which are now a very pretty garden and feast on creamy fig-cream from a kiosk next to the slow-flowing Gilão River.

In the later afternoon, the hotel reveals that it has arranged massages for us, in a bijou space next to the surprisingly spacious gym. Like everything here, it’s perfectly formed, unpretentious and, did I mention, calm. A life here, I surmise, would be one entirely devoid of problems.

Day three

The hotel has bussed in two elderly women and a man from a nearby village to teach us how to weave with local dwarf palms. I am determined, but not particularly good. Annabel is no better. I don’t speak Portuguese, but I understand the gentle jokes the women make about working faster than the men.

And so to Alentejo, Portugal’s vast central region renowned for its white wine. The drive is mostly on single-lane roads that gouge a winding line through narrow valleys. Occasionally, the view broadens to fields of spectacular wildflowers (it is mid April). Our precise destination is Quinta do Paral, a 210-acre wine estate. Its owner is Dieter Morszeck, who sold a majority stake in his Rimowa luggage brand to LVMH for €640 million. He has a 10-seater PC-12 Pilatus plane, in which he sometimes ferries guests on day trips to Morocco or Spain.

The difference between the two hotels is stark. Quinta de Cima is soft, Paral is sleek; de Cima feels like a hidden secret, protected from the outside world by densely planted fruit groves; Paral is very much open to it with expansive views over gently undulating vineyards. Some of their vines are ‘old’, or ‘ancient’, the not-very-technical term given to ageing plants that produce rich and complex wines due to their deep root systems and low yields. Inside the impressive winemaking facilities we spot six-or-seven-foot-tall replica clay vessels, or talha, in which grapes can be fermented. Used for more than 8,000 years and precursors to today’s stainless steel and oak barrels, they’re currently enjoying something of a renaissance.

In a rare fit of maturity I decide to unpack — and in every bag I find an orange or lemon, each one the size of two adult fists, that Annabel has stolen from Quinta de Cima. There will be no vitamin c deficiencies to speak of on this trip.

Day four

Day four passes at a languid pace. Breakfast in Portugal is a revelation. A proper meal, encompassing sweet and savoury. Here, it is served outside and there’s no menu. Instead, small dishes of everything — scrambled eggs, soft cheeses, meats, fruit — arrive in quick succession. Imagine an all you can eat buffet that you don’t even have to stand up for.

Several hours slip through our fingers lounging by the swimming pool and then it’s time to surreptitiously sneak into some of the other rooms. My favourite is one with a barrel roof and French doors that open out onto a communal courtyard. A walk-in wardrobe cleverly bisects the living bit from the bed.

Clemmie, a friend who (helpfully) lives in Portugal and (very helpfully) works for Lightfoot who has organised this very trip, arrives as dusk starts to gather at the edges of the sky. A chorus of frogs serenades her in. They live in the pond (above) in front of our room, one side of which has been sunken into the landscape so as to blur the boundary between lawn and water and stop wildlife from drowning. I’m thrilled that Clemmie can help me get through Annabel’s fruit stash.

We have dinner at The Wine Restaurant which spills out onto a still-fragile, but promising-looking herb garden. Wine pairing is practically de rigueur.

Day five

The three of us, plus the remaining citrus fruit, pile into the car for the one hour drive to Comporta, Portugal’s answer to The Hamptons. The road is studded with cavernous potholes, a not-very-welcome reminder of home, caused by recent, heavy flooding. On the way, there is a turning to Santiago do Cacém, the site of an ancient town mentioned by Pliny the Elder and Ptolemy. I make a mental note to come back to visit the Roman ruins.

I’ve never seen a stork before, but Comporta is full of them — nesting in massive, messy nests, balanced precariously on top of telephone poles, church steeples and chimneys (above). I’m the designated driver, but it’s hard not to crane my neck to catch a glimpse of them. Their smooth, gliding flight, peachy bills and monochrome plumage is captivating.

In recent years, this once-quiet, windswept stretch of Portugal has been co-opted by glamorous travellers who think bohemia is more of a trend than a lifestyle. It’s hard, however, to blame them. The village — a compact cluster of cafés and boutiques — still hasn’t burst its seams. Fishermen potter in the estuary and horses graze the dunes. Pine forests give way to rice paddies give way to beaches, each one wider than the last and all bashed, relentlessly, by wild Atlantic waves.

At dinner, at Sublime Comporta — a 168-acre resort shaded by cork trees — I cannot help but wonder which trusting member of staff has decided to sit me, a journalist, at a table next to Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie (Eugenie, 12th-in-line to the throne lives, part-time, nearby). I try to eavesdrop because I am not perfect, but am distracted by the best cheeseboard I have ever had. Portuguese cheese is, like its breakfast, a standout. Apparently, it's famous for its variety, which is news to me — and to my waistline. At even the most humble restaurants, including the one with paper tablecloths and school chairs that we sampled on our second night in the Algarve, meals start with something called couvert. Bread, local butter and regional cheeses and, if you’re lucky, olives and pâté. My favourites are the soft sheep cheeses.

Sublime’s rooms are scattered among the trees in cabin-style buildings. It’s like glamping for grown-ups, but with a supersize gym, phenomenal spa (a friend who stayed here cried tears of joy during her treatment) and a dramatic vaulted library-cum-bar. It’s set the standard for hotels in the area which are opening at lightning speed. Ando Living, Sublime Sand and Na Praia opened this year; two more are planned for 2027; a Six Senses for 2028.

Day six

It’s a wrench to drag myself out of what might be Portugal’s comfiest bed, but drag myself out of it I do, because me, Clemmie and Annabel have a ferry to catch. It crosses the protected Sado Estuary and deposits us in Setúbal, an hour away from Lisbon. We enter the capital via the futuristic-looking Vasco da Gama Bridge and head straight to Palácio Príncipe Real, one of Portugal’s most talked-about hotels.

The crumbling remains of a once proud pad — owned by the Teixeira da Mota family who hosted what sound like rip-roaring parties — were rescued by Gail and Miles Curley in 2014. The couple were lured in by its large-by-Lisbon-standards garden (what else, they’re British). It’s big enough that they’ve erected a swimming pool in it, around which a selection of yellow rubber ducks — gifted to them by staying guests — stand sentry. The Curleys are duck obsessed in the best kind of way. The hotel’s signature motif is an Indian runner duck and there are duck-shaped door knobs and ornaments, and duck-feet table legs. The couple make their own organic, extra-virgin olive oil, which is used generously at every available opportunity. The bottles are all stamped with a picture of an Indian runner duck.

We stumble uphill to Príncipe Real Garden, famed for its Mexican cypress tree which was planted in around 1869 (above). Its sweeping, horizontal canopy is now so large that it requires an internal iron and wooden framework to hold it up. In 1940, it was the very first tree in Lisbon to be listed as a Tree of Public Interest.

Day seven

While tumbling down Lisbon’s steep streets, on a private walking tour organised by Clemmie, we learn that Lisbon’s aristocratic families appropriated the lengths of pavement outside their houses and employed craftspeople to lay brick and stone in increasingly-elaborate patterns. And about the city’s Shops with History programme, an initiative to protect traditional and culturally significant shopfronts, which are identified by copper signs. There’s Sant’Anna, the city’s oldest ceramic factory, which took part in the rebuilding of Lisbon after 1755’s devastating earthquake by supplying tiled façades for new buildings and is therefore an indelible part of the Lisbon landscape you see today, and Caza das Vellas Loreto, which opened one month after the storming of the Bastille, making it one of the oldest candlemakers in the world.

We linger only briefly in Rossio — which sits directly on top of the buried ruins of a Roman hippodrome — because our affable guide is scarred by a previous client who insisted on dragging him around the square’s mega-Zara, the second-largest Zara store in the world, for four hours.

We spend longer, and rightly so, at the Church of St. Dominic (above). This is where Jesuit missionary Gabriel Malagrida was executed and where, in 1506, thousands of Jews were massacred by a Christian mob. Nature had its own way with it: the church was damaged by the 1531 earthquake and almost completely destroyed in the 18th-century one. In 1959, a fire killed two firefighters and took more than six hours to extinguish. The ceiling has since been rebuilt, painted in grotesque shades of pink and orange that are meant to be reminiscent of the flames, supported by still charred and sagging columns.

In Portugal, there is history hiding around every corner, and underneath every pavement. And variety — enough to rival any of Europe’s more established holiday destinations but without, so far, quite the same eye-watering prices or sense of having been overrun. Perhaps its most appealing quality is the sheer number of independent, family-run and boutique hotels, shops and restaurants. I’m already plotting my return — northwards, through the Douro, to Porto. You never know, Annabel’s stash of fruit might just run out by then.

Lightfoot Travel can organise seven-night, bespoke road trips through Portugal from £3,700 per person. The price is based on two people travelling together and includes: two nights at Casas Quinta de Cima, two nights at Quinta do Paral, one night at Sublime Comporta and two nights at Palacio Principe Real on a bed and breakfast basis. Plus, flights from the UK, a hire car and select meals, experiences and excursions.

Visit the Lightfoot Travel website for more information.

Blood, sweat and tears — quite literally —have been poured into my vegetable garden this year, but to no avail. The dry weather has been a disaster and a few furry friends holing up in my raised beds have caused havoc below surface level.

When the hosepipe ban was announced, the prospect of lugging endless watering cans around led to instant surrender. I’ve shrugged off the beetroots, the dwarf beans, the parsnips and countless other failures, but the things that have really upset me are the carrots.

I am normally an expert carrot grower and was hoping during August, when mine tend to be at their best, to emulate a particularly fine carrot dish I had enjoyed a few weeks earlier.

It was one of those hot, balmy July days that is, in the face of our climate crisis, somewhat unfashionable to applaud (although, shamelessly, I have relished every single one) and I found myself, dog in tow, in the tiny, picture-perfect village of Teffont Evias in Wiltshire’s Nadder Valley.

The task in hand was to visit the Teffont House hotel, newly emerged from a major refurbishment and a change of name. Some may remember it as Howard’s House in days gone by.

That clever old Beckford Group, comprised of Dan Brod, Charlie Luxton and Matt Greenlees, is behind Teffont House, bucking the trend of doom and gloom in the hospitality industry by opening not only this property in the past couple of months, but also Corsham House, a wine-led townhouse restaurant with rooms in Corsham in Wiltshire. Its tally of establishments, which includes the much-loved Beckford Arms in Fonthill Gifford, Wiltshire, and The Talbot Inn in Mells, Somerset, is up to nine.

The secret of its success comes down to a few key factors, plus one defining one. In the context of Teffont House, we have the group’s signature lack of pretension, the highly desirable location, the deep understanding of what makes a hotel characterful and comfortable, the appreciation of fresh food, the respect for guests’ wallets in not wanting to rip them off and the total disregard for any Booking.com nonsense or fancy marketing partnerships. The defining factor is the full-throttle Englishness of every pub or hotel or restaurant to which it turns its hands.

The dog likes our dog-friendly room, but, on that hot afternoon, she likes the narrow chalkstream that ripples through the village more. She likes the hotel’s large garden, too. We all do, spread out on parched grass in the shade of a liquidambar tree, cool drinks in hand, wondering how starry the night sky will look when the Cranborne Chase Dark Sky Reserve comes into its own.

Luckily, there are three telescopes and a star chart provided for that, just as there are easels, watercolour sets, pens and paper available for those of an artistic bent. Some guests, quite sensibly, have checked in for a few days.

Now, what of the carrots? I had already spotted them on the menu when I joined some friends on the terrace as they were finishing lunch. One of these friends, who knows a thing or two about restaurants, was full of praise for what he had eaten and was already looking forward to dinner.

Accordingly, we walked awhile along blowsy, heat-baked footpaths — this is marvellous countryside for walking — to work up an appetite for herb-crusted rack of lamb later. On the side of this came Paget’s carrots, whole, tender and delicious, a little bit sweet and a little bit nutty, helped on their way by a dash of elderflower and a sprinkling of roasted hazelnuts.

I have yet to discover who Paget is, but he certainly knows how to grow a good carrot — and the chefs at Teffont House certainly know how to cook them.

This feature originally appeared in the September 2, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe

I am in Thrace, a large, historical area shared by Greece, Bulgaria and Turkey. More specifically, I am in Kavala, one of the region’s major port cities in northern Greece, positioned at the crossroads of civilisations between Europe and Asia Minor.

‘Constantinople 460km’ reads a road sign, stamped with a Byzantine eagle, beneath the city’s landmark aqueduct. Athens lies 652 kilometres — or 405 miles — in the opposite direction.

My two-hour drive to Kavala from Thessaloniki is haunted by the ghosts of ancient peoples who traversed this route. Xerxes’s army marched through this valley in 480BC. In that bay floated the fleet of Brutus, who would be defeated by Octavian at the Battle of Philippi. There went Philip II of Macedon, to fortify the city that now bears his name; a city where, some 400 years later, St Paul baptised Lydia, the first European Christian, and was subsequently imprisoned.

Kavala, the Neapolis of Antiquity and Christoupolis of Byzantium, dates, today, almost entirely to its period of Ottoman rule, which lasted from 1387–1912. There’s the famous aqueduct, built in the 1520s by Ibrahim Pasha, Grand Vizier of Suleiman the Magnificent; the Neoclassical houses of wealthy merchants; the 19th-century tobacco warehouses; and, most importantly, the magnificent Ottoman-Baroque Imaret, perched above a Byzantine sea wall.

To call Imaret a hotel would be a misnomer. The vast, two-storey complex sits around three internal gardens and consists of eight exquisite guest suites. Founded by Kavala-born Mehmet Ali Pasha in 1813 as both a religious and secular academic institution, with an imaret (soup kitchen) for the poor of all denominations, it comprised a hammam, mosque, underground cistern, store rooms and student rooms — all of which still exist, meticulously restored and transformed by Anna Missirian, another Kavala native, whose family is the region’s last major tobacco trader.

Every morning, Missirian delivers the Imaret Gazette which she writes and personalises to each guest. Bursting with local tips and historical facts, it’s best read over breakfast, outside (my suite opens onto the arcade framing the water garden), with a Greek coffee (served in Haviland’s rose-patterned Impératrice Eugénie porcelain) and freshly-baked koulourakia.

The day I’m due to visit Mount Pangaion, my copy of the Gazette is themed around the symbolism of the rose in mythology, and in both Islamic and Christian cultures.

The mountain range is best known as the home of the cult of Dionysus and the demise of Orpheus, and famous for its monasteries, for its rich ancient gold and silver mines that funded the campaigns of Alexander the Great and for the beauty and fragrance of its wild roses, extolled by Herodotus. Not for the first time, I am astonished by the Imaret’s team’s attention to infinitesimal detail.

The same care has been lavished on the interiors: Persian carpets and Egyptian kilims rest on solid Athos chestnut floors, old black-and-white photographs of Egypt grace polished mortar walls, and huge Egyptian brass lamps hang from the ceilings. There are also plenty of books and Islamic antiques.

Every night, someone lights scores of candles in the original fireplaces and, in the domed suites — each one with a distinct character — the weighty Rubelli curtains and fabrics are replaced, come summer, with airy natural linens. My enfilade, forged from three cells, once housed 24 students.

To fully appreciate Imaret’s place in Kavala, I walk some 650 feet through the Old Town to the house where Pasha lived, before serving as the governor of the Province of Egypt (1805–48), and established a dynasty that would last until 1952. Now a museum — restored by Missirian — it is considered one of the finest extant examples of 18th-century Ottoman domestic architecture in Greece, complete with sachnisi (protruding windows), selamlik and haremlik (male and female quarters).

‘Ali’s family originated in Konya where there was a strong Sufi influence,’ says Missirian, of Pasha’s famously tolerant views, ‘but he never forgot his native town, and gave the Imaret to Kavala as a waqf —an inalienable charitable endowment, under Islamic Law. It functioned as such for 100 years.’

The complex was inhabited by refugees following the 1923 population exchange between Greece and Turkey, and gradually fell into ruin by the late 1960s. Imaret still belongs to Egypt so Missirian had to spend six years negotiating a lease before she had the right to restore the dilapidated landmark. ‘It was a very complex process,’ she says, ‘and the renovation involved so much research. We had to bring [in] Egyptian workmen… the only people who knew how to replace the lead covering Imaret’s 67 domes.’

Following the €20 million restoration of the two buildings (during which a 16th-century bejewelled and gilded sword was discovered inside Imaret’s walls), Imaret reopened earlier this year. As well as the original hammam, there is now — in the healing hands of Ayurvedic master Sharu — a spa, where the candle-lit cistern was once fed by Kavala’s aqueduct.

The founding principles of Mehmet Ali Pasha extend far beyond the mere fabric of the two buildings. The museum is also home to MOHA, a research centre for promoting understanding between pan-Islamic and Western cultures. Nor has Imaret’s original function been forgotten: ‘Soup appears on all our menus,’ says Missirian, ‘in memory of the original soup kitchen here.’

Dinner is served in a different setting each night. In the gazebo one evening, the soup is chilled almond with grapes, followed by three courses of traditional Ottoman recipes including Imam bayildi (‘the Imam fainted’). As Missirian is telling me about the mysterious disappearance of the famous Imaret library — last documented in the National Library of Egypt — a cat sashays past, tail aloft, with all the grace of a pampered Odalisque. The waitress opens the door to let her through, without breaking step. She is, true to the spirit of Imaret, a rescue cat, but, from her demeanour, she is to the manor born.

Imaret has a five-night minimum stay, from €11,500 per person on a full-board basis. The price includes treatments, curated journeys and private transfers to and from Kavala and Thessaloniki airports. Visit the Imaret website for more information and to book.

This feature originally appeared in the September 16, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe

A fairly sizeable chunk of Scotland to the north and west of Glasgow has been Clan Colquhoun country for the past 850 years. Their patch. Their turf. Their hills. Their glens. Their forests, rivers, lochs, islands, farms, fields, forts, castles, churches, chapels, cottages, coaching inns.

Perhaps the best known of these assets, to the general public, is the Loch Lomond Arms Hotel, a beloved institution set back slightly from the shores of a likewise beloved loch, occupying a prominent spot in the famously pretty village of Luss.

The hotel has lately been given the treatment by Russell Sage Studios (The Fife Arms, The Goring, Lilibet’s) with all the wit and flair for which that man and his practice are renowned. The joyous tangle of newly added antlers on the outside walls — there are dozens and dozens of them; the effect is strange and beautiful, like ossified wisteria — barely hints at the delights and curiosities within.

With the full — if, perhaps, occasionally bemused — cooperation of the Colquhouns, Sage has plundered all those centuries’ worth of family history for design inspiration. Each of the guest rooms has been named in honour of a Colquhoun and designed to reflect aspects of his or her life.

I stayed in The Wallabies and the Jaguar, which celebrates Fiona Colquhoun, Countess of Arran (1918-2013), speed demon, committed animal lover and a noted beauty (Prime Minister Harold Macmillan said she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen). All three qualities were presumably on display simultaneously when she transported, by means of her E-Type Jaguar, a passenger-seat’s worth of wallabies to Luss and thence to the Isle of Inchconnachan in Loch Lomond.

Lady Arran went on to become the first woman to break the 100-mile-per-hour barrier in a speedboat, at the age of 62. In quieter moments she perambulated — quite quickly — around Luss in the company of a pet badger called Rosie. Her husband, Arthur ‘Boofy’ Gore, 8th Earl of Arran (who also has a room in the Loch Lomond Arms named after him), was remarkable in different ways, notably as an incendiary newspaper columnist and as the peer who sponsored the (successful) 1967 bill to decriminalise homosexuality as well as an (unsuccessful) bill for the protection of badgers. When asked why the one passed and the other didn’t, he replied: ‘There are not many badgers in the House of Lords.’

The Sage-ification of the hotel’s rooms and its ground-floor Map Room, bar and restaurant is only one part of a larger programme to bring the estate as a whole into the 21st century and help secure its long-term future. This programme is being spearheaded by Patrick Colquhoun, son of the 33rd laird, Sir Malcolm Colquhoun. The idea is that the reinvigorated hotel will tempt travellers to slow down and spend days, rather than just hours, discovering Luss and its surroundings.

At about 45,000 acres, the estate is quite the backyard, and now there are all manner of appealing new ways to explore it from a base at the Loch Lomond Arms. Among them are guided walks and Land-Rover safaris through the glens and uplands, farm visits, island-hopping yacht charters and good old-fashioned whisky-assisted Scottish fireside storytelling.

If ringing the bell in Luss Parish Church (a site of worship for the past 1,500 years) with your own hands isn’t exciting enough for you, put on your waterproof racing gear and make like Lady Arran — a speedboat out to Wallaby Island is easily arranged.

Rooms from £450 on a bed-and-breakfast basis. Visit the Loch Lomond Arms Hotel website for more information and to book.

More than 4,000 miles away as the crow flies from where you’re probably reading this, one of Earth’s last mass wildlife movements is reaching its crescendo.

The Great Wildebeest Migration is an ever-moving, circular phenomenon, in which, from July, roughly two million of the prehistoric-looking animals — plus about 500,000 zebras — dare to cross the Mara River from the northern reaches of the Serengeti into Kenya.

Waiting for the wildebeest is their most formidable predator, the massive Nile crocodile, which can grow to 20ft long. To them, the migration is an all-you-can-eat buffet. Smaller herds of wildebeest and zebras choose to sit out this epic, 1,900-mile odyssey — and who can blame them when the mortality rate sits at 20%? These resident groups favour specific, food-rich areas, such as Singita Grumeti, a 350,000-acre open sliver of land bordering the Serengeti National Park.

This conservation success story is managed by Singita, Africa’s leading eco-tourism brand, and the Grumeti Fund, a not-for-profit organisation established by American billionaire Paul Tudor Jones II. The former manages seven very different properties inside the slender reserve, which, together, can host up to 136 guests — giving them about 2,500 acres or 23 Vatican Cities each.

Accommodation options include Explore, a light-on-the-ground, private-use space that’s as close to actual camping as you can get at this level of luxury; Sasakwa, an Edwardian-inspired manor house with shelves lined with first-edition books and Peter Beard artwork on the walls; and Serengeti House, a recently refurbished villa filled with contemporary African art and craft in a leading example of modern safari-lodge style.

There’s also Sabora, an ultra-luxury tented camp in which you can live out all your bush-explorer dreams in serious comfort. Here, everything is crafted out of canvas, leather and brushed metal, with outdoor showers and pots of salts next to the bath, meditation spots and smart, hanging organisers that look as if they’ve been made by Hermès.

Lions prowl through the unfenced encampment at night and sometimes stop to slumber pressed up against the hopefully tough textile walls. Getting up at 5am with the sun feels like a privilege rather than a chore, the sky stained in painterly strokes of peach and cornflower blue.

On twice-daily game drives from and to Sabora, our calm, confident and softly spoken guide, Mishi Mtili, tells us that Tanzania’s national animal, the Messiah giraffe, has the same number of vertebrae as a human being (seven) and psychedelic-looking lilac-breasted rollers get their name from the acrobatic dives the males perform in mating season. Movement is key to spotting wildlife, she keeps telling us; the weathered tree trunks we occasionally mistake for something more interesting are ‘ALTs’ or ‘animal looking things’.

‘For so long, it’s been assumed that African communities are not sophisticated,’ says Jo Bailes, Singita’s chief executive officer, ‘but then when you actually understand and you look, [you realise that] they’re the most sophisticated of all because they’ve learned to live with animals. They’ve learned to be completely integrated into Nature.’

In the villages bordering Grumeti, people often keep bees because elephants actively avoid them out of fear of being stung. If Goliath wakes up one day and fancies taking on David, his GPS-tracking collar — fitted with the help of plucky guests who want to get involved — will sound the alarm the moment he strays into the neighbouring village. When I jokingly ask if we can paddle in the Grumeti River, Mtili shepherds me straight in without a moment’s hesitation. The monitor lizards — or unofficial river watchers — are lounging on the banks undisturbed, which apparently means I won’t be snapped up by a crocodile.

One of Bailes’s ongoing concerns is the steady exodus of young people to the cities and the gradual loss of their indigenous practices and knowledge that follows. Highly skilled trackers are necessary for the guests’ game drives, but they’re also an imperative component of Singita’s conservation and anti-poaching efforts. In the past 15 years, Grumeti’s lion population has exploded and it now boasts the highest density of the animals in the country.

We come across them every day: grooming, stalking wildebeest, tearing apart a just-slain topi and napping upside down with their legs akimbo. On our last evening, we pause next to a puddle of nine cubs, their still-mottled coats a natural camouflage to help them blend into the shadows and tall grasses as their mothers hunt.

As well as year-round food and plenty of water, Grumeti offers them something else: safety, courtesy of one ranger for every three square kilometres of ground. One hundred and twenty scouts and an elite canine tracking team managed by Glen Steyn, a former British Royal Marine, make up the Grumeti Fund Anti-Poaching Unit. The dogs can detect ivory, bushmeat, snares and track human scent; AI cameras that can capture images of specific animals and detect unwanted human visitors have been installed along the concession’s border.

To maintain the manpower required to staff the unit and lodges, there are a number of training programmes running at any one time, including the Singita Guiding Academy, which admits six students every year, offering them excellent references or the option to stay another year if there are no available jobs when they graduate. The majority choose the latter option. ‘I’ve been here as long as some of the furniture,’ says Mtili as we outrun the rain from our high-altitude sundowner spot back to Sabora, its pinprick lights just visible on the horizon.

Later, she shows me photographs of her two beautiful daughters. Every year, an all-female team of runners signs up to traverse the Grumeti corridor in support of thousands of local high-school girls, as 83 annual scholarships and female empowerment sessions to counter cultural traditions sensitively help to keep more young women in secondary education.

Proper immersion in the African continent, at Grumeti — or any of Singita’s other lodges in four, soon to be five, sought-after wilderness destinations — ‘is so much richer than just coming on a safari experience and looking at the Big Five,’ says Bailes — although you’ll see all five and more. He is passionate about reconnecting guests with nature. ‘By coming to Africa, and learning from our guides and trackers and other indigenous people, you can learn to have that relationship and, in learning to have that relationship, you do start to learn to care.’

Rates at Singita Grumeti start from $2,210 (about £1,640) per person per night, on a full-board basis. The price includes game drives and return airstrip transfers.

Exclusive-use options (Singita Serengeti House, Singita Kilima and Singita Milele) start from $19,505 (about £14,480) per night for eight or more guests.

Visit the Singita website for more information and to book.

Burgundy considers itself the heart of France and, as someone whose favourite red wine is Chambolle-Musigny (Les Amoureuses; Comte Georges de Vogüé), which my Burgundian husband successfully wooed me with — it was more affordable 25 years ago — and whose favourite white is almost any Meursault or Chassagne-Montrachet, I feel that it is an entirely justified view.

As well as its remarkable wines — Burgundy's Climats, a mosaic of 1,200 vineyard plots, were inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage landscape in 2015 — the region has Dijon mustard, cheeses such as the pungent, unctuous Époisses de Bourgogne and an earthy, excellent cuisine. Think snails, frog’s legs and jambon persillé. Beyond these epicurean delights, there are the Romanesque masterpieces at Vézelay, Fontenay and Cluny to explore, and a myriad impressive châteaux.

However, until recently, it was hard to find somewhere to stay that was on par with the region's riches. That has, now, been put to rights, with a plethora of new openings — from restored châteaux to sleek, bijou townhouses in places whose names are woven into the dreams of oenophiles. A visit has never looked more inviting.

Where to stay

You should take your time travelling through Burgundy. If you want structure, you could follow France’s oldest wine route, the Route des Grands Crus — a scenic 37-mile drive that starts in Dijon and goes south to Santenay. Created in 1937, it runs through 37 wine villages and the famous vineyards of the Côte de Nuits and Côte de Beaune. There is also a dedicated bicycle path, the Voie des Vignes, that runs parallel — for those of you who prefer to drink and bike, instead of drink and drive.

Hostellerie de Levernois

The 18th-century Hostellerie de Levernois is warm and welcoming, with roaring fires, pristine flagstone floors and smiley staff. There are 39 rooms in total; some in the main house (they have exposed stone walls, wooden ceilings and are filled with antiques) and seven in the new contemporary villas, dotted around the hotel's 17-acre leafy park.

There is a Sisley spa with an indoor swimming pool, an impressive organic kitchen garden, an outdoor pool and two restaurants. One is a bistro that serves dishes such as jambon persillé with pickles and a cream of mustard. The other is a gastronomic restaurant with a Michelin star (see below). In either, or both, indulge in what I believe to be the most enticing cheese trolley in Burgundy (above).

Château de la Commaraine

After years of careful restoration work, Château de la Commaraine, which dates back to the 12th century, finally opened as a 37-room hotel in April. It is something of a game changer for the region, raising the benchmark for luxury accommodation and putting the town of Pommard on the map (it's long been a place of pilgrimage for wine-lovers in the know).

Its rare clos monople vineyards have been continuously harvested since the château was built. Thomas Jefferson, who visited in 1787, approved, described the wines as ‘of excellent quality’.

The elegant rooms — oenophiles should book the Cuverie Suite, whose internal window looks into the winery — come with pale-oak floors and beams; the silk pillowcases are a nod to the onsite spa's strong wellbeing ethos.

Wine tastings are, of course, among the experiences that can be organised, both onsite and in the surrounding area. You must take dinner underneath the vaulted ceilings of the former cellar in Le VIII, and try the exquisite Délice de Pommard cheese in Le Clos.

Hôtel Bellevigne

In the heart of Chambolle-Musigny, famous for its legendary terroir, Bellevigne sits beneath the village’s pretty clock tower. Behind its 18th-century manorial walls, there are 37 rooms. Renovated by Paris-based designer Jordane Arrivetz, the stone-walled rooms harbour books and artworks that draw on the region’s signature colours of deep red (burgundy), warm teal and olive green.

The restaurant is homely; well-executed dishes such as gratinated Burgundy snails with aged Comté cheese and Edmond Fallot mustard, and a traditional oeuf meurette — a poached egg with red-wine sauce.

Château de Cîteaux

The Fontenille Collection opened Château de Cîteaux this summer — its most historically rich hotel to date. The 19th-century château is built over 12th-century Cistercian cellars, some of the oldest in the region, merging monastic heritage and winemaking legacy.

The 18 rooms and suites will be joined, in early 2027, by another 17 in the restored Vieux-Clos. Local craftspeople have been employed to restore and renew the interiors — the style nods to the Second Empire, with torsade columns and stucco detailings, and to the surrounding vineyards, with a colour palette of ageing greens, stony greys and earthy browns.

The gilded restaurant has an ingredient-led menu, developed by chef Christophe Vauthier — ‘a Burgundian by origin and instinct’. From September, guests can book wine tastings in the 12th-century cellars.

Maison Le Chevreuil

The décor in this brand-new, ten-room Maison Le Chevreuil hotel is all about championing Burgundy wine, from its rounded showers, evoking the wine vats of local vintners, to its use throughout of a wine-coloured palette. Completely appropriate, given that it can be found facing the church in the charming village of Meursault, renowned for its deliciously buttery, full-bodied Chardonnay.

A swimming pool lies in the garden and there is a spacious terrace on which to sit over a glass or two. Dining options include TERRE, which, with its outdoor kitchen, is all about flame cooking — try the Charolais beef rib or wood-smoked trout.

Les Sources de Vougeot

Les Sources de Vougeot exists inside Château de Gilly, a stone’s throw from legendary Clos de Vougeot — the largest single grand cru vineyard in the Côte de Nuits (about 124 acres enclosed by an ancient stone wall).

Founded in the 6th century as a priory by the Abbots of Cîteaux, before becoming an impressive château in the 14th century during the Hundred Years’ War, this 49-room hotel has now joined sister properties in Bordeaux and the Loire. It melds wine with Caudalie wellness experiences. The spa, rather memorably, has been tucked away in the 14th century wine cellar (above).

Château de Sainte Sabine

As you approach the tiny village of the same name, the limestone, fairytale-like Château de Sainte-Sabine rises impressively on the horizon. Dating back to the 16th century — and expanded in the 18th one — the château has managed to hang on to its original interiors while still feeling wonderfully warm — much appreciated on the snowy day I visisted.

For a heavy dose of grandeur, book the wood-panelled Suite Salles de Gardes, complete with four-poster bed and magnificent neo-Gothic fireplace. Alternatively, opt for a room in the main château, with views across the park to what is considered, justifiably, one of the most beautiful villages in France — Châteauneuf-en-Auxois.

Dine on Charolais beef fillet with smoked potatoes and truffle.

Where to eat

There's no shortage of Michelin-starred restaurants in this region, where life revolves around what's on the kitchen table — or, on a sunny day, what's in the picnic basket. The latter is why I've included Fromagerie Alain Hess in Beaune, run by a fourth generation cheesemonger, here.

Choosing your cheese won't be easy, but do try their own-brand Délice de Pommard, a triple-cream cheese made from cow’s milk and rolled in mustard seeds. It is sensational.

You can buy your wine here, too — their cellar boasts an impressive choice of Burgundy whites and reds.

At the other end of the scale is the three-Michelin-starred Maison Lameloise, currently celebrating its centenary. I went there first when Jacques Lameloise was at the stove and much enjoyed throwing down the gauntlet by sending out three of the fattest snails, pierced with a silver toothpick, to ‘l’Anglaise’. Once I had passed that test, we got along, and his cooking remains up there in my culinary memory banks. Eric Pras, his sous-chef, was already in charge on my last visit and, again, delivered a superb meal highlighting the best of Burgundy’s terroir.

Further south, in the foothills of the Mâconnais, I was charmed by La Marande, located in a Burgundy stone house in the little hamlet of Montbellet. It has a Michelin star and serves food that is affordable and unpretentious. Trout steamed and served with shiso rice vinegar, smoked beetroot, red cabbage, black rice with cardamom and a Viré-Clessé sauce was spot on.

La Table de Levernois is as inviting as the hostellerie (Hostellerie de Levernois) it is housed in. Try the green carnaroli risotto with frog’s legs and snails, the Bresse chicken and the Grand Marnier soufflé with blood-orange sorbet. It is imperative, though, that you save room for the cheese trolley — a highlight of any trip to Burgundy.

In the village of Gevrey-Chambertin, on the Route des Grands Crus and famous for its powerful, robust reds, Bistrot Lucien delivers on every front. It is loud and buzzy, with flagstone floors, a lot of wine talk and, when I was there in November, a roaring fire. Dishes range from boudin noir maison to crispy pig’s trotters, snails with parsley butter and a rich venison stew with wild mushrooms and a memorable gratin dauphinois.

Similarly, the pretty, honey-coloured village of Puligny-Montrachet — often referred to alongside Chassagne-Montrachet and Meursault as the Holy Trinity of heavenly wines — is a good place to stop for a wine tasting or a bite to eat. Try Klima, a restaurant and hotel run by the Leflaive family — local winemakers since 1717. Here, you can dine on pigeon with cherries, enjoy a glass of their Pommard Premier Cru and drink to the words of Molière: ‘If Claret is the King of wines, Burgundy is the Queen’.

What to do

Obviously, many visitors to this wine region are here for the wine tastings and cellar tour. Make sure to book these in advance. My top recommendation is La Grande Cave de Vougeot.

Take time out, though, to get a good overview of the region’s wine heritage at Cité des Climats et vins de Bourgogne, a museum just outside Beaune. The eye-catching spirals on its exterior mimic the way the vines curl around the trellises. You will learn about the land's geological composition and the 33 grands crus. And, of course, it finishes with a wine tasting.

In Beaune itself, it is worth stopping at Edmond Fallot, nowadays the only Dijon mustard producer that uses local seeds to make its inimitable condiment. Apart from purchasing a good supply of its delicious mustard in those attractive earthenware pots, you should go on one of two tours available — one exploring the history of its mustard, which began in 1840, the other about its modern factory. There are free tastings at the end of both.

If you stop in Pommard, you must visit chocolatier Sébastien Hénon. His glossy barrels of chocolate filled with cassis, flavourful citronettes and square, almond and hazelnut praline chocolates, scattered in gold, are quite delicious.

To feed the soul, immerse yourself in the culture here. The Hôtel-Dieu, a former 15th-century hospice in Beaune, is a medieval jewel. Its geometric, multi-coloured Burgundian roof tiles are immediately recognisable. Don’t miss the Last Judgement polyptych, by Rogier van der Weyden, which hangs here.

Burgundy’s capital, Dijon, is full of architectural splendours and houses art treasures, many of them by Flemish masters, in the imposing Palais des Ducs. The city is also famous for its mustard and gingerbread — a reminder that it was once on the spice route.

It was pilgrims rather than traders who ascended the narrow streets of Vézelay to what was a Benedictine abbey church in the 12th century, now the Basilica of Saint Mary Magdalene. It houses relics of Mary Magdalene and is considered one of the great Burgundian masterpieces of Romanesque art and architecture.

Famed as the most powerful monastic foundation in Europe, the Benedictine Abbey of Cluny (above) was founded in 910 and today its ruins overshadow the little town around it. Make a day of your visit and stop for lunch in one of the little restaurants on the river's banks.

The Abbaye de Fontenay is Cistercian, rather than Benedictine, and is the oldest surviving Cistercian foundation in France, founded in 1118 by St Bernard. It represents the spirit of the order in the stark gravity of its Romanesque church, while its peaceful gardens and streams imbue any visit with a sense of tranquillity.

Good food, good wine and architecture to make the heart soar heavenwards can finally be enjoyed slowly, as there are now really lovely places to make a meander through Burgundy as much about the arrival as the journey.

St Moritz has never been short of five-star hotels — Kulm, Badrutt’s Palace, Suvretta… to name just a few — so when Grace La Margna marched into town in 2022 it wasn’t just determined to make a splash, it needed to.

A two minute walk from the station, it is wonderfully placed for arriving by train (and why, given the chance, wouldn’t you make the most of Switzerland’s gloriously efficient rail network?) and, more importantly, feels like a hotel designed for the St Moritz of today rather than its gilded past.

The first five-star offering to open in the Swiss resort for half a century, the Grace is a study in contemporary alpine design and art. Whereas St Moritz’s other grande dames embrace Gothic grandeur, the Grace is fresher and more obviously cool — it feels less like a palace and more like a stylish private members’ club.

Art doesn’t simply hang on the hotel’s walls — it is woven into its identity. Jurg Kaufmann’s Engadin alpine photography series is on permanent display, and a collaboration with Pietro Terzini saw his graffiti-inspired scrawls projected onto the building’s facade.

The newer Grace wing — home to Kaufmann’s creations — houses the hotel’s most modern and more compelling rooms (above). The view from the floor-to-ceiling windows is of Lake St Moritz — frozen in the winter and flecked with sailing boats in the summer — so that the room becomes a frame for the Engadin rather than a retreat from it.

And then there is La Margna wing — an Art Nouveau landmark with its distinctive cherry-red shutters. My Junior Suite was softer than its Grace Wing counterpart with a weighty faux-fur bedspread the colour of caramel, a long bathroom in tonal shades of more warm beige and flattering lighting (below). Frette bed linen and a complimentary mini bar are included as standard, and four-legged friends — and there are lots of them in St Moritz; you can see some pictures of our favourites here — are welcome in all room categories, except for La Margna Superior ones.

Back downstairs there’s a Beefbar outpost (joining siblings in Monte-Carlo and Saint-Tropez), which offers up something entirely different to the venison and fondue-heavy menus of some of the more traditional restaurants, and a fantastic bar. There are live DJ sets and a tarot-inspired cocktail list (although they make a mean gin gimlet; order alongside a plate of late-night fries) and it’s busy most evenings in a ‘I’m in the right place’ kind of way, as opposed to a ‘I cannot move, get me out of here’ one…

The tension between what people expect to find in St Moritz and what Grace has built has been a part of its appeal since the very beginning — and the old guard are starting to follow in its footsteps. Open year-round, other hotels are now starting to close later in the winter and open earlier in the summer. The Kulm and its friends still rule the mountain, but Grace La Margna is proof that St Moritz is ready for what comes next.

Rooms from £550 a night on a bed-and-breakfast basis. Visit the Grace La Margna website for more information and to book.

Click here to read our summertime guide to St Moritz.

Hero hotel

Updown Farmhouse

'There were cows grazing here until the 1960s,’ explains Ruth Leigh when I run into her in the garden of Updown Farmhouse, the country-house hotel she owns and runs with partner Oli Brown. ‘The restaurant was the old cattle shed and your room was a rat-infested garage!’

It’s fair to say the place has come on a bit since then. The couple opened Updown in 2022 having spent years painstakingly restoring the Grade-II listed farmhouse, assorted outbuildings and seven-acre grounds. During the work, they invited an assortment of the country’s best chefs to host supper clubs as the spaces came to life. Rowley Leigh, Anna Tobias and Will Bowlby were some of the names who drew hungry crowds to the work-in-progress estate and proved to Leigh and Brown that this could be a full-time success.

Today, the main house is where you arrive. It has drawing rooms and snugs to settle into, enlivened with pops of colour and vivid artworks curated by Brown’s mother and brother.

Upstairs, four good-sized bedrooms make use of the house’s original features, each styled differently to be bright and inviting. I stayed in the two-bedroom Fig Tree Cottage (now thankfully free of rats), which sports arresting artwork from El Salvador-born, Margate-based painter Jose Campos and has its own outdoor terrace.

The pool is a short walk through the shaded gardens that, when bathed in heatwave sunshine, felt positively Mediterranean (crucially, it’s heated for when it feels decidedly less so).

Talking of the Mediterranean, then comes the restaurant. It’s undoubtedly the heart of the hotel and serves a seasonally changing Italian-accented menu in a light-filled, conservatory-style space where vines line the ceiling. There’s a wood-fired grill in the kitchen and the farm’s old bread oven is back in operation, churning out some of the most perfectly pillowy focaccia I’ve ever had.

Next door, the small, but mighty Bar Vita opened earlier this year, an homage to the chic drinking dens of Milan and Rome — Italian amaro features heavily on a menu that also has a signature martini (chilled, very precisely, to -15˚C) that comes with a smoked eel and olive gilda. You’ll want to linger here: it’s sexy and cosy and cool.

Ultimately, Updown pulls off that often-attempted, but rarely achieved trick of feeling like the country home of a very generous epicurean friend: a genuinely relaxing place in which you’ll truly feel at home — and well fed.

Rooms at Updown Farmhouse, Deal, Kent, cost from £250 per night on a bed and breakfast basis.

Need to know

Updown Farmhouse is only a 15-minute drive from the centre of Deal, beyond Betteshanger Park and down a narrow leafy lane, but feels distinctly peaceful and private. Its grounds are detailed on in-room maps so you can stroll and sit among the trees and watch chefs pick from the kitchen garden.

Venture into Deal itself and you’ll find a charming beach town that has felt the effects of ‘DFL’ (down from London) gentrification — a vibrant dining scene, cool concept stores, new galleries, popular antiques markets — but still retains an authentic soul.

The pebbly seafront is perfect for paddles and picnics and the houses and pubs set back on Beach Street and Middle Street transport you back to the town’s maritime past.

Where to eat

• When The Rose (on the High Street) was transformed from a tired pub into a boutique hotel and restaurant in 2018, it helped put Deal on the map. Now, the team has opened The Blue Pelican, the town’s buzziest new spot, a seafood-heavy Japanese joint on the seafront that opens for dinner on Fridays, lunch and dinner on Saturdays and exclusively ramen lunches on Sunday

• Elsewhere, Climpson & Sons is the place for coffee, cocktails and countertop snacks, Popup Cafe serves meat-free breakfasts and sandwiches on its renowned sourdough bread and beloved wine shop-bar Le Pinardier has recently doubled in size and scope, now also serving local beers and cocktails, plus a fine selection of French-accented bar bites
• Charming old-timey pubs, the kind you can imagine pirates propping up the bar in, are Deal’s stock-in-trade. The Ship Inn, on Middle Street, is one of the most untouched by time, with its copper table tops, upright piano, brick fireplace and maritime ephemera. The Forester, on The Marina, has a warm, homely atmosphere and perfect sea views. The Deal Hoy, tucked away on Duke Street, has been more recently spruced up and has a suntrap beer garden. If you fancy a walk, it’s about an hour south along the shore until you reach The Zetland Arms in Kingsdown, a picture-perfect pub on the beach

What to do while you’re there

• Walk Naturally, a stroll along Deal seafront is a must. Take a turn onto the pier, past the parade of locals with their fishing rods and you’ll find Deal Pier Kitchen at the end, perfect for a scenic snack. Continue south and you can take in the area’s history by stopping at Deal Castle, built in the shape of a Tudor rose, and on to Walmer Castle, both commissioned by Henry VIII to guard against invaders from the Continent
• Learn If you particularly enjoy the meat on offer at Updown Farmhouse, pay a visit to its supplier, the award-winning Black Pig butcher. Its locally sourced free-range meat is so well regarded that there are stories of people driving down from London just to stock up
• Explore Ramsgate, Broadstairs, Botany Bay and Margate are all within easy reach for day trips or head inland to explore the ever-growing patchwork of Kentish wineries

This feature originally appeared in the August 26, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

On February 7, 1964, mass hysteria gripped New York. The Beatles had landed and their American fans couldn’t get enough of them. When the band arrived at their hotel, The Plaza, A Fairmont Hotel, on the south-eastern corner of Central Park, some 50 policemen had to be posted outside to keep the crowds in check. The following days brought more chaos and rumour has it that the exasperated hotel management banned The Beatles from ever staying there again.

If so, it was a greater loss for the band than The Plaza, which, as the grande dame of New York hotels, has never been short on distinguished guests. The very first was Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt, scion of the business dynasty, who came to stay when the turreted French château lookalike, gleaming in its marble livery, (re-)opened in 1907, the 1890 original having quickly been deemed too small.

As the tempo of the Jazz Age began beating, The Plaza became a favourite haunt of Francis Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. Some reports suggest that, one evening, dead drunk or, worse, dead sober, they jumped into the Pulitzer Fountain outside. Unsurprisingly, it was in a ‘large and stifling’ Plaza suite that Tom Buchanan shattered Jay Gatsby’s dreams — and, fittingly, the hotel now has a suite named after the book.

When the Fitzgeralds were up to their fountain antics, the hotel’s Grand Ballroom, a triumph of columns, cherubs and chandeliers, didn’t yet exist. Added in 1929, it became the venue for New York society. It’s there that Truman Capote held, in 1966, his Black and White masquerade ball, where everyone who was anyone, from Frank Sinatra to Andy Warhol, congregated. The men wore tuxedos, the women black or white dresses and both genders sported a mask — except Warhol, who, ever the publicity maven, turned up bare-faced.

I looked (in vain) for the ghosts of literary giants and Old Hollywood royalty in the plush suite where I stayed earlier this year. The size of a large London flat, it dazzled with Louis XV-style gilding and, in the master bathroom, 24-carat-gold-plated fixtures. That glittering abundance prompted the fanciful notion this could have been the room that portraitist Princess Elisabeth Lwoff-Parlaghy, who kept her title far longer than the husband to whom she owed it, rented in the early 20th century for her pet lion, Goldfleck (the hotel is still pet-friendly, although I wouldn’t recommend bringing along a lion).

I wonder what The Plaza fed Goldfleck for breakfast: slabs of raw prime beef, presumably? For guests of the human variety, I can testify that, no, having fresh fruit and creamy Greek yogurt after a gluttony of flaky pastries doesn’t make the whole thing ‘healthy’.

Hard as it is to tear oneself away from the breakfast table for the exertions of the day, the effort is well rewarded in the evening with a glass of Sancerre or a Boulevardier cocktail and truffle fries, at once crispy and succulent, under the stained-glass ceiling of the Palm Court. In 1907, this glorious ‘year-round garden’ was the backdrop for Hungarian count László Széchenyi’s marriage proposal to heiress Gladys Vanderbilt — a society engagement only second to that of her cousin Consuelo with the Duke of Marlborough.

Granted, not all the Plaza’s illustrious guests always paid their bills. Lwoff-Parlaghy stiffed the hotel to the tune of $12,000, albeit leaving behind some paintings. Cabaret performer and author Kay Thompson topped that, staying rent-free for seven years, but paying it all back in (even more) literary fame.

Thompson wrote the hugely successful children’s series Eloise, centred on an irrepressible six year old who lives at The Plaza with her English nanny, a dog and a turtle, and spends her days ‘helping’ everyone and causing jams in the lift. The hotel now has an Eloise ‘portrait’ in the lobby, an Eloise afternoon tea and an Eloise suite, a pink affair with sparkly headboard, zebra carpet and a flashy neon sign that says — what else — Eloise. Next time, that’s where I hope to stay.

Visit The Plaza's website for more information and to book.

Arguably the most hilarious anecdote in Amy Odell’s biography of Gwyneth Paltrow, published last summer, hails from the actress’s high-school yearbook. Gwyneth’s ‘worst fear’, according to classmates, was obesity: an answer that turned out to be prescient. ‘The day I tried on the fat suit,’ she said 11 years later of her role as the corpulent Rosemary, in 2001’s Shallow Hal, ‘I walked through the lobby of the Tribeca Grand… It was so sad… so disturbing. No one would even look at me.’

During the pandemic, Gwyneth started drinking ‘seven nights a week’, admitted to ‘making pasta’ and — worst of all — to ‘eating bread’. I hate to think what she would have made of the health retreat I attended earlier this summer, in which wine and focaccia were served with every meal and no one seemed to care much about calories.

Health-oriented hotels tend to be self-selecting when it comes to the clientele, yet at LEFAY Resort & Spa Dolomiti, things are quite different. It offers something of an antidote to the asceticism of today’s more ‘cutting-edge’ programmes: the atmosphere is warm and sociable; the feeling not of privation, but of growth. Our culture tends to view health pursuits as inherently monastic — a red herring contiguous with the switch from wellbeing to wellness. The change in suffix is important: it indicates an effort to theorise, to tame, to domesticate. A managerial approach to the body, rather than an explorative one.

The wellness industrial complex, currently valued at $6.8 trillion (about £5.06 trillion), has made a fortune of selling expensive and often dubious versions of health that subtract more than they add. Actual foods are swapped for supplements. Chemical peels remove layers of our skin with the aim of keeping us young — yet without, for such, stopping the sands of time. This wasn’t always the case. Wellbeing in the 1970s extolled the virtue of acid trips. The Ancient Romans believed nudity and occasional banqueting were conducive to vigor.

LEFAY attempts to find a middle-ground between the two: somewhere that pushes you out of your comfort zone while presenting you with health in every form — including the sort of meals that bring a smile to your face rather than a grimace (‘but it’s good for you… just tell it yourself it’s good for you’). The sheer size of the site — a whopping 27,280 square metres, plus 2,377 square metres of outside space — is the reason it can offer things in such abundance: aromatic saunas, sensory waterfalls, phytotherapy, ice pools, a tepidarium, a calidarium, salt pools, and yet more besides.

LEFAY sits in an unenviably competitive region of Italy. Yet it stands out, notably, for its commitment to the landscape. ‘The properties are designed to allow less dispersion of heat and energy outside,’ the receptionist explains. ‘Both the original property on Lake Garda and this one in the Dolomites face south, and the large glass windows that feature in both resorts allow natural light to flood the rooms and common areas while providing a high level of thermal insulation. The heating and cooling of rooms is achieved through low-temperature radiant systems installed within the floors and ceilings’ — a system which prevents both draughts and noise.

There are three swimming pools, one one of which is divided between indoor and outdoor areas, and all of which are heated. A small, cavernous sauna for stretching post-workout sits beside a large, Finnish sauna with views of the mountains. Some find it overwhelming. ‘I don’t think my parents would enjoy this,’ my travel companion notes. ‘It’s all a bit woo-woo for them. They prefer when things feel simple.’

To fully enjoy LEFAY, one ideally does need to commit. It demands a certain surrender to the spirit of the place: to float in saline water and appreciate how different smells impact how we think or meditate. Still, the creature comforts are far greater here — and the novelty factor more accessible — than in rival outlets like the Mayr Clinic. A garden bustling with insect life encircles the Finnish sauna and frames the Dolomites beyond. A gym occupies the lower ground floor and a spa offering myriad treatments the second.

One is permitted to dip in and out of the extracurriculars. Many guests are not here for the indicatively-named Active Balance programme, but simply to enjoy a week in the Alps — an increasingly popular destination in summer among travellers fleeing the canicular conditions of the seaside. For those unsure of committing to the max, the health programme can be tailored. The canonical version is five-days long, but occasionally is shortened to three.

At every stage, participants are joined by guides, be it a masseuse or the trekker in the mountains. Before the spa-based activities begin in the afternoon, mornings are usually spent outdoors: participants are shuttled to the Dolomites for hikes, cold plunges and various grounding exercises, and shown the rare and precious beauty of the region through its flora and fauna (even I, a notorious cynic, was convinced to hug a few trees). The guides hail from Mountain Friends, a local school of hiking and mountaineering. Ours was a 23-year-old firecracker named Andrea: a competitive skier who did not mince her words, pushed us out of our comfort zone and made sure we got as much out of the experience as we possibly could.

Still, overall, the Active Balance programme promotes a kinder and more accommodating approach to living well than health retreats usually allow. It is underpinned by the belief that asceticism is inimical to la dolce vita, and that relaxation is as vital to wellbeing as exercise. Our quest for health and happiness cannot have too much of one without the other. In other words: every Yin needs its Yang.

These Ancient Chinese concepts are not mentioned in a vacuum. The programme is structured around four pillars, each one rooted in Ancient Chinese medicine and one for each day you are here (an extra day is left aside for leisure and travel; the three-day programme prioritises tenets one and two). The Red Phoenix — one — is for pushing oneself; The Black Tortoise — two — for finding one’s zen; The White Tiger — three — for focus and meditation; and The Green Dragon — four — for the art of self-reflection. At the heart of this square is The Centre. ‘Each season,’ the programme notes, ‘folds for a while in the centre before on to the next’. It does, admittedly, all sound rather Goop-y.

But then you get to dinner. The main hotel restaurant is located on the third floor: an A La Carte menu rich in staples from the wider Trentino-Alto Adige region comes with wine, cocktails, and baskets of focaccia that are topped up ad infinitum. The pasta is unctuous, the sauces unrationed, and while the Active Balance programme suggests its own regimen (a four-course menu on a separate printout), the waiters give you permission to deviate from these strictures and mix and match both specialist and A La Carte meals however you see fit. A Michelin-starred restaurant occupies a smaller tranche of the third floor, which is well worth a visit on your last night here.

The service, in true Italian style, is uninvasive and unhurried: you never can forget that you are here to relax. LEFAY, in every sense, is somewhere that treats its guests like adults. You are free to be healthy just as you are free to indulge. Ashtrays adorn coffee tables on the balconies while an assortment of wine bottles make up the restaurant’s centrepiece. This understanding of wellness and hospitality as being natural bedfellows, rather than enemies, is perhaps best encapsulated in the hotel’s signature scent. Smell is the first thing you notice upon arriving at the resort: the warm, aristocratic whiff of Juniper courses through the corridors. Aromas have always been essential to wellness — the Romans, for one, exploited the healing properties of rosewater and myrrh. Alongside aromatic saunas enveloping punters in scents of frankincense and orange, the smells of the kitchen — of grilled meats and pasta sauces — are equally vital, wafting through the dining room akin to an embrace.

It is a tribute to its founders, Domenico Alcide and Liliana Leali, that LEFAY can operate at both such a scale and such a level of excellence. The hotel in the Dolomites counts 88 suites and 21 residences — all of which were built, remarkably, in under two years. Its maximum occupancy stands at 258, a number it has reached each winter since opening in 2019. The neighbouring village of Madonna di Campiglio has long been a favourite of the Italian ski set — yet in high summer, when out-of-season construction projects tend to blight the resort, punters flock instead to Pinzolo. With the Active Balance programme, the Lealis hope their hotel will become even more popular.

Deluxe suites start from €835 euros per night in high season, on a bed and breakfast basis. Visit the LEFAY website for more information and to book.

Cricket is being played leisurely on a nearby field while wild deer and sheep strut around with carefree abandon. All Dumbleton Hall needs is a scantily-clad MP embroiled in a TV-franchise war to make it a location right out of Dame Jilly Cooper’s Rivals.

Set within a 16-acre estate of ancient cedar trees in the North Cotswolds, this refurbished country house hotel is a star in the making. Dumbleton closed in December 2023 and re-opened this year after a two-year refurbishment. The interiors of the Grade II-listed building have been reimagined with all the glamour of the roaring 1920s: think leopard-print rugs, tasselled lamps and plush velvet armchairs in-front of crackling fireplaces.

Originally built in 1830, Dumbleton was the home of the Women’s Land Army during the Second World War. It has previously been visited by the likes of Charles Dickens, Elizabeth Gaskell, the Mitford sisters and Charles Darwin, and has an innate elegance that extends far beyond its recent rejuvenation.

The rooms

One of 34 individually designed suites, our room was originally two bedrooms, which the owner and his partner — who is an interior designer — had decided would be better as one. Because of this, it was enormous, with sweeping views out to the grounds and woodland beyond from our bay window.

The epitome of old-school elegance, our room was decorated with William Morris prints, stylish antique furniture and autumnal shades.

A chocolate brown four-poster bed was the most eye-catching feature, although the nearby freestanding bathtub did give it a run for its money.

Decorated in shades of deep green, soft brown and classy teal, it was the perfect place to unwind — with a complimentary glass of Chablis in hand.

Eating and drinking

Executive chef Dean Westcar certainly knows what he’s doing. The gluten-free lemon drizzle cake in our room was a thoughtful touch and just the start of a stay packed with delicious food. The royal blue dining room of the hotel’s restaurant, Cedar 1905, was a sophisticated setting for dinner. The service at the restaurant, which celebrates modern British cooking with locally sourced ingredients, was exceptional — and that’s before you even get to the food itself.

There were plenty of tasty-sounding options to choose from, but I opted for Isle of Wight tomatoes with basil, balsamic and ricotta as my starter. My dinner partner tucked into Cornish crab on top of a crumpet, garnished with cucumber and watercress. For our mains, I enjoyed more Cornish seafood, still reeling from my crab envy. Cod with charred leeks, sea vegetables and smoked pike roe was delicious, and the way my dining partner greedily tucked into his main – South West lamb with courgette, red pepper and basil — indicated that his was too.

The showstopper, however, was pudding: a summery take on an Eton mess with elderflower jelly, fresh slices of nectarine and a scoop of strawberry sorbet. I’d go back to Dumbleton for that alone, and to sample the fine-dining tasting menu in the hotel's Orangerie, which will be opening soon.

How they’ll keep you busy

Long walks through the countryside along the Winchcombe Way followed by cocktails next to the fire.

What else to do while you’re there

Visit the nearby lavender field and — if you’re a Jeremy Clarkson fan — tour Hawkstone Brewery. If you are staying longer, why not take a day trip to nearby Stratford-upon-Avon and brush up on your Shakespeare?

Who it’s for

City workers looking for a relaxing weekend close to home. And, because this is the Cotswolds, Americans inevitably.

What gives it the ‘wow’ factor?

The grounds, complete with scenic lake views, wild sheep and deer and woodland right on the doorstep.

The one thing we’d change

There were a few teething issues during our stay, but I put this down to Dumbleton’s recent reopening and relatively new staff.

The one thing I could not abide, however, was the lack of a phone in our room. Ordering room service over WhatsApp is not particularly dignified. I suggest a phone in each room. Maybe even two. And preferably rotary models.

Rooms at Dumbleton Hall start from £311. Visit their website for more information and to book.

Gazing across the River Thames from the balcony of The Savoy Hotel's Terrace Suite recently, I was reminded that Claude Monet checked in here for extended stays three times between 1898 and 1901 to paint those iconic fog-shrouded scenes of Waterloo Bridge from the very same vantage point.

Elsewhere, the hotel’s new collection of freshly refurbished Art Deco rooms leans on its history as a venue once synonymous with the most progressive designers of the time. ‘It’s not about recreating the past,’ says general manager Frank Arnold, ‘but about interpreting its spirit for the future.’

As recently as the early 2000s tales of hardscrabble artists, writers and designers seeking refuge in hotels, clubs and restaurants would abound. Indeed, much of The Groucho Club’s famed art collection is made up of works offered up by skint YBAs unable to pay their tab. But with nights in Savoy suites nudging £10,000 it’s fair to say you won't find any jobbing artists seeking board and inspiration there today.

It’s hardly a novel point to make that London hotel prices have become increasingly steep as operational costs have risen (what hasn’t?), but if the ever-expanding luxury market here remains fixated on chasing that most ungainly of acronyms, the UHNWI (ultra-high-net-worth individual), what happens to the creatives, the bohemians, the free-spirited flâneurs that, in lieu of spending power, have always given such places their place-to-be-seen allure?

It’s a hot topic during the soft-launch buzz of Savoy’s new north bank neighbour, St Clement, the brainchild of Soho House founder Nick Jones. Given its prime panoramic position and immediate star power (The Rolling Stones launched their new album here) they could really have charged what they like. ‘But we don't want to just take anyone,’ explained Jones on a recent showaround. ‘We want people who are kind, not flashy, who really respect what we're trying to do and so we really respect them.’

And so regular guests, locals and ‘friends’ will receive a preferential £600-a-night rate and a welcome into its semi-private bar, Bobbi’s. Plus the local cabbies got free coffee, breakfast and late-night burgers on certain dates this summer. Could it be taken as something of a vibe shift? A timely reminder that the best hotels have never belonged exclusively to their guests, but to their neighbourhoods too?

Oliver Milne-Watson hopes so: ‘The great London hotels earned their reputations because they weren't just buildings, they were meeting places.’ Milne-Watson is the general manager of The Newman which opened in Fitzrovia at the start of the year. Its storied but often overlooked central London neighbourhood has been at the heart of the hotel and portraits of local characters line its walls. ‘It has a remarkable creative history — we wanted The Newman to reflect that spirit rather than simply borrow its aesthetic. A neighbourhood hotel has to contribute to the life of its area, not just benefit from its postcode,’ says Milne-Watson.

Its Neighbourhood Club is one such initiative that gives local members discounts at the hotel restaurant, bar, and spa and at a growing network of independent businesses with all profits from membership donated to Fitzrovian charities. ‘The challenge for the industry is finding ways to maintain that openness while still running a sustainable business. But luxury and accessibility don't have to be opposites.’

On the horizon, strange trees danced, a mirage of slender trunks marking the distant Norfolk coast. All around was blue water, stippled with white horses whipped up by the brisk north-easterly, yet directly before us was clean, smooth sand, an East Anglian desert island.

Walking up a slight rise to where wind-blown ripples sheltered puddles of warm seawater, we glimpsed the oddest element of this otherworldly scene: fishing trawlers, bright red and green with tiny figures in oilskins scratching around their hulls. Unable to resist, we set off towards them, six girls in shorts and jumpers, giving the fishermen, no doubt, something of a turn.

They were cocklemen, out on the sandbank revealed by low tide in the middle of the Wash, that great sweep of bay between Lincolnshire and Norfolk where King John once lost his baggage train full of treasure. All summer long, they will beach their cockleboats here, raking around in a large circle and then shovelling up cockles into bags, just as their kin have done for thousands of years, bar the hydraulic lift to hoist the ton bags on board. They might get two or three tons in one trip, making enough to render working in wintertime unnecessary.

Tough and sturdy, they received our interest with some bemusement, refusing any payment when we asked if we could scoop up some cockles for lunch. Duly armed with a towel-full of shells, curved and fluted and mottled in sandy hues, we set off back to where we could see the mast of our vessel, eager to offer up our haul for lunch.

We had sailed to this desert island aboard Victorious, a 42-foot-long, gaff-rigged wooden cockleboat built in Kings Lynn in 1932, wide of beam and shallow of draught. Her captain, Henry Chamberlain, a former Royal Marine, had restored her to perfection and now, with a white-painted hull, red sails, long bowsprit and steeply raked stern, she is a beautiful boat. The hold once intended for the catch has two bunks and a tiny galley, where our foraged cockles sizzled.

After boarding at Fosdyke in Lincolnshire, where a huge boatshed sheltered vessels in various states of repair, we had motored up the River Welland to the Wash against the wind as bacon sizzled and enamel cups of tea and coffee were circulated.

As a group, we had bonded in the hunting field and were thus well used to wild weather and winds. Sarah Kate Byrne, stylist to the stars of ITV Racing and side-saddle doyenne; Rosie van Cutsem, whose clothing brand Troy London (now closed, sadly) was worn by The Princess of Wales; Anna Pope, artist and co-founder of Watatunga Wildlife Reserve; Rachael Hampton, world-class dentist; and Anna Sands of Bodney Hall Farm holiday rentals, made up our crew, guided by Henry and his mate, David (Tomo) Thompson.

We swiftly settled in for a day when phones were used only for taking (hundreds of) photographs, when the wind tangled hair and stirred the blood and when stories were shared of hair-raising adventures at sea, none of which, thankfully, concerned Victorious. She stoically crested each wave, before settling comfortably into her sandy berth on the sandbank and we set off on our cockle mission.

Lunch was thus served on a beach as private as any billionaire’s Caribbean island — and what a lunch it was. Henry had gathered an array of goodies, including tomato soup, Baron Bigod cheese, the lightest focaccia I have ever tasted from Bert Blaize at North Norfolk Cellars in Wells-next-the-Sea and Matt Gregory’s Coral 2024 natural wine, all complemented, of course, by our fresh-as-can-be cockles, dusted with North Norfolk Sea Salt from Brancaster.

On our return, we coasted before the north-easterly, sails hoisted, cheerfully plunging into the waves. I accepted the tiller with some trepidation, having not sailed for some years and then with a wheel, but Henry kept a close eye and it wasn’t long before I had the feel of her. She was heavy, but eager and responded well to the helm.

Succeeding buoys came up swiftly; it’s astonishing how fast one can sail with wind and tide together and it wasn’t long before we were approaching the mouth of the river, into which we shot like an arrow finding its mark. Mudbanks slipped by as seals popped up to say farewell and cormorants, so swift beneath the water and so ungainly out of it, flapped out of our way.

Fortunately, Henry took the helm for the last bit, under engine power, with a heart-stopping bit of manoeuvring that saw Victorious spun on her heel and urged alongside the jetty as the tide threatened to smash her into the boat moored behind.

Safely tied up, we breathed a sigh of relief and repaired to The Ship Inn nearby for a pint of Guinness. The proprietor, Fiona Carter, is a great champion of Fosdyke history, with black-and-white photographs of past ships (including one whose skipper had fallen foul of that tide and crashed into the bridge) arrayed in the restaurant. She and her husband, David, have long supported the shipyard and it is reassuring to find in this unassuming corner of Lincolnshire a place where traditional shipbuilding skills are flourishing.

Victorious is not Henry’s only boat. He has several others, all redolent of Norfolk’s maritime past, with two more for the open sea: My Girls, a 20-foot-long lug-rigged crab boat, and Salford, a 30-foot-long open lug-rigged whelker. They can both traverse the saltmarshes and creeks of Wells-next-the-Sea, too, together with two mussel flat boats and Mabel, a 16-foot-long beach boat based in Blakeney. Aboard these, guests can explore the tidal saltwater creeks of the coast as they wish, stopping to swim or feast or simply snooze in the sun. I will certainly be returning for more coastal explorations, but for now, I will sleep soundly with the taste of those cockles still salty on my tongue.

Coastal sails for six people start from £595; saltmash sails for four people from £395. A sail aboard Victorious for eight people is £895. Visit the Coastal Exploration Company website for more information.

There are few addresses in London more exposed to the city’s relentless pace than Hotel Café Royal in Piccadilly. Outside, tourists mill underneath flashing billboards. Inside, however, the caramel-hued marble walls of the original entranceway off Regent Street give the space a calm, decadent quality, totally removed from the urgency of the world beyond.

This tone continues seamlessly into the main lobby, designed by Piero Lissoni, with its double-height ceilings, dramatic chandelier and restrained palette punctuated by bold floral arrangements.

The building itself has lived many lives. Most famously, it was home to the Café Royal, which opened in 1865 when Daniel Nicols transformed a former oilcloth warehouse into something altogether more glamorous. London society’s answer to a Parisian salon, Café Royal became one of the capital’s great meeting places. Oscar Wilde dined here, Sir Winston Churchill entertained here, David Bowie celebrated here and figures as varied as Virginia Woolf and Muhammad Ali passed through its doors.

When the property reopened as a hotel in 2012 — after a renovation overseen by Sir David Chipperfield — the neighbouring buildings were absorbed into the development, expanding its footprint into the sweeping site it occupies today. Part contemporary luxury hotel, part custodian of a remarkable history, it balances old-world grandeur with modern expectations.

The rooms

My room followed the familiar neutral palette: tranquil and understated. Although, one element that was by no means understated was the freestanding marble bath.

I have a deep appreciation for a bath, and this marble masterpiece did not disappoint. Few things rival a piping-hot soak, a glass of Laurent-Perrier Champagne in hand, and the pleasure of feeding oneself grapes like a Roman empress. It is the kind of bath in which one could happily lose all sense of time. I very nearly did, forgetting for a moment that I was not, in fact, Roman nobility, but a Country Life employee rapidly running late for a drinks reservation.

The rooms broadly follow two design styles: Portland and Mansard. The former mimics the Portland stone of Regent Street, the latter favours fumed oak panelling. The signature suites, however, are the jewels in the hotel's crown, each with a distinct character — my favourite being the Dome Suite.

As its name might suggest, this suite sits beneath a vast domed ceiling, which, I am told, can transform into a star-filled night sky at the flick of a switch. Beneath it lies every conceivable comfort: an enormous bed, a double-sized bath, a colossal television and sound system, not to mention expansive terraces offering spectacular views across London. It is a room overflowing with sex appeal, equally suited to a romantic hideaway or a raucous party.

Eating and drinking

Guests at Hotel Café Royal are spoiled for choice when it comes to eating and drinking.

There's Alex Dilling which serves refined French cuisine in an intimate setting, and Café Royal Grill which offers classic British dishes and afternoon tea. While dining here beneath gilded ceilings, a pianist tinkling in the background as we sipped wine and polished off the last of our sticky toffee pudding, we felt as though we had stepped back into an era as golden as the room itself.

Other options include Cakes & Bubbles by Albert Adrià and The Gallery, for an informal breakfast.

The Green Bar was our watering hole of choice — moody and atmospheric, its name and colour scheme nod to former patron Oscar Wilde and his fondness for absinthe. It’s not the only bar to reference a former patron: Ziggy’s Bar was inspired by David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust farewell party.

How they’ll keep you busy

The Akasha spa is a destination in itself, spanning three floors and more than 1,200 square metres. Expect a full menu of treatments, alongside a pool, jacuzzi, sauna and steam room.

And then there’s the location. Right in the heart of the West End, the city is at your disposal: the energy of Soho, the elegance of Mayfair, and London’s best-known landmarks, theatres, restaurants and bars are all within easy reach. Deluxe Suite guests can even explore in style with a chauffeur service available for up to five hours a day, as well as a house car for local drop-offs.

Who it’s for

Hotel Café Royal positions itself as a modern grand hotel — one that genuinely tries to be all things to all people. The result is a broad, international mix of guests with an atmosphere and clientele that shifts with the seasons. Put simply, a businessman could feel as comfortable here as a family enjoying a holiday or a couple on a romantic city break.

What gives it the wow factor?

It’s the personal touches and precision that set it apart. From Champagne, fruit, chocolates and a welcome message on the mirror on arrival, to monogrammed pillowcases — every detail felt carefully considered.

Triple-glazed windows shut out the city entirely, while the turndown service included a soft mat beside the bed so your feet never met the floor — my own cold, harsh bedroom floorboards have felt jarring ever since.

Add to that the fact that the hotel welcomes dogs, and it's hard to find fault.

The one thing we’d change

If there's one question mark, it's whether the hotel tries to be too many things to too many people, both in its aesthetic and offering. With so many styles and identities woven together, its sense of cohesion occasionally feels diluted.

Rooms at Hotel Café Royal start from £600 a night; the Grand Regent Suite starts from £3,165. Visit the hotel's website for more information and to book.

The Spa at Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park

All too often, Londoners overlook the Mandarin Oriental which looms grandly over Hyde Park’s southern flank. However, the food I had at Dinner by Heston London, on the hotel’s ground floor, is one of the best meals I’ve had in my 15 years living here, and I adore the subtle leaf motifs scattered throughout the interiors whose shapes were directly inspired by the park’s trees.

The serene cream and dark wood spa marries old-school five-star service with Eastern influences to great effect. They currently partner with British brand OSKIA and the signature facial combines facial massage, acupressure work, LED therapy and hot compresses to erase any unnecessary contours. It’s a fantastic non-invasive, all-rounder treatment and while some visitors might not appreciate the warren of subterranean rooms, corridors and facilities, I think it’s an easy way to find some respite from the hectic city one floor above.

Pfeffer Sal

A hidden gem — quite literally, it's hidden at the bottom of a mews street — Pfeffer Sal, takes an individual approach to every client.

It's a particularly good option for facial newbies and brides who want great results without all of the postulating that's sadly part and parcel of the wellness world.

Start with the The Three Sixty complete with skin consultation and skin imaging technology — before advancing to a course of treatment.

The team take customer's health seriously, going as far to install a NASA-specification air purification and filtration system. London grime doesn't stand a chance.

Surrenne Belgravia

Surrenne connects The Emory and Berkley hotels, but operates more along the lines of a private members’ wellness club. Facilities include a 22-metre-long lap pool, sauna, steam room, snow shower, gym, hammams and treatment rooms.

Membership includes perks such as hyperbaric sessions and Tracy Anderson classes in the UK’s only dedicated Tracy Anderson studio. (Anderson innovated a dance-inspired fitness programme beloved by Gwyneth Paltrow and Victoria Beckham. When I attempted it, I thought I was going into cardiac arrest.)

The massages are my favourite part of their offering. If you don’t quite know what you want opt for the I NEED IT ALL and your therapist will curate an hour-long treatment made up of lots of different approaches, from deep tissue to Ayurveda. The RECOVERY RITUAL is fantastic if you’ve made it through a Tracy Anderson class intact because it incorporates magnesium which can ease delayed-onset muscle soreness and regulate sleep.

Dr Barbara Sturm

World-renowned skincare expert Barbara Sturm made her long-awaited UK debut five years ago with a boutique and spa on Mayfair’s Mount Street.

The ground floor is a sweet shop for grown-ups: row upon row of pristine white bottles lining the walls, a mirrored sink and a green marble ‘discovery’ table, stacked high with the brand’s popular Molecular Cosmetics range.

There are two express treatment rooms — perfect for a quick lunchtime pick-me-up — and four fully-fitted ones, spread across the aforementioned ground and lower ground floor.

As well as the signature Barbara Sturm glow facial, customers can book in for high-tech anti-ageing and body treatments. There’s little reason to deviate from the former, however: an hour of intense facial massage, cleansers, masks and serums that will leave your face feeling brighter and tighter for days afterwards.

There’s also the option to add microneedling or microdermabrasion.

Guerlain Spa at Raffles at The OWO

The Guerlain Spa at The OWO — which comprises a 20-metre indoor pool, vitality pool, nine treatment rooms, sauna, steam room, state-of-the-art gym and experience showers — is ecclesiastical in scale. There aren’t many hotels in this central of a location (Whitehall) that can boast enough space to give away 2,500 square metres to wellness. The pool has double-height ceilings. The plush treatment beds are so thick they verge on mattresses.

The impressive array of treatments includes reflexology with Andrea Hurst who has been practicing for more than 30 years. Extremely passionate about her craft, she maintains long-standing relationships with the majority of her clients, getting to know their lives, families and innermost thoughts. Sessions are part reflexology and part therapy — and part steep learning experience. During mine, I learned that in holistic therapies, the right side of the body and foot is traditionally associated with the masculine, and the left with the feminine.

Melanie Grant

There are facialists and then there is Melanie Grant, whose much-lauded expertise has arrived at her debut UK clinic on Mount Street in Mayfair.

Her reputation is built on treatments combining high-grade technology, innovative formulations and ‘old-school’ techniques, addressing issues from congested complexions and sun-damage to remodelling the skin’s layers from deep within.

I could talk you through the Ultimate Collagen Treatment + Exosome Infusion (stellar for rejuvenation), but no treatment is a set script. ‘Each is built around the skin in front of us on the day, taking into account lifestyle, hormones, seasons, travel and stress,' Grant tells me. 'We are never wedded to a single method or device, but we’re focused on a signature outcome — a healthy, resilient complexion.’

Biome by Corinthia London

Biome is perhaps London’s most surprising spa because its holistic focus and deeply nurturing atmosphere is so at odds with the very elegant and formal hotel that houses it.

They recently partnered with Wildsmith — a Hampshire-based brand from the brains behind biodynamic farm and hotel Heckfield Place (who, incidentally, have their own fantastic Bothy spa). Today, Heckfield is home to the UK’s only biodynamic tree nursery where pioneering horticulturist Wiliam Walker Wildsmith’s ancient trees are propagated for future generations.

There’s an entire facial menu to choose from, but go for the Radical Botany: magic medicine for skin dulled by urban pollution. My favourite bit is when the therapist applies light and sustained pressure to certain points on the head and spine (craniosacral holds to give the action its proper name).

The space itself is a masterclass in urban spa design: the textured walls, rounded treatment pods and brilliantly-thought-out lighting completely distract from the fact that there aren’t any windows. You could easily while away a day here (there’s a heat and water circuit, gym, hair salon and sauna).

Omorovicza

Omorovicza's Andrassy facial is a marvel for sad-looking skin. Therapists use vigorous massage techniques — borrowed from Hungarian wellness practices — alongside Omorovicza’s gorgeous products (my longstanding favourite is Queen Essence) to lift, sculpt and treat.

The setting surely helps, too. You’ll find its standalone Londonstore on Mayfair’s South Audley Street — think blush-pink brick flooring with matching daubed walls and gently vaulted treatment rooms that all act to cocoon you instantly.

The company has a BodySerum that uses sustainably sourced Icelandic microalgaeto target loss of elasticity and is brilliant for toning limbs — ready for those last-minute trips abroad.

It’s the time we look forward to all year: those precious summer weeks when we get to escape our routines and head off on holiday with loved ones. Our busy lives mean it’s rare to get quality time with those we care about, whether you’re enjoying an adventure-filled family holiday or a romantic retreat away from the crowds, the last thing you want is worries about home spoiling the fun.

Imagine it’s your first day away and you’re just getting settled on the beach when your phone pings with a delivery confirmation from a courier company. The photograph doesn’t look anything like your doorstep, and the courier is long gone. Or your neighbour messages to say they’ve seen suspicious characters going door-to-door in the area – when you’re far from home worries like these are enough to ruin a trip.

Indeed, recent research by smart home security experts Reolink found that peace of mind decreases in proportion to time spent away. They discovered that while 70% of individuals felt comfortable leaving their home for a weekend, that figure falls to 58% for a week-long trip, and to 44% for a two-week absence.

Millions of customers worldwide rely on Reolink, and Country Manager Ali Park is all too familiar with the concerns of those heading off on holiday: ‘We always tell people there is plenty they can do before they leave to keep their property secure, and the most important thing is creating the impression that your house is occupied,’ he explains.

‘You can make the house appear lived in with automatic switches to turn your lights on at night, and cancel any milk or newspaper deliveries, redirect parcels to a neighbour and ask a friend to collect your post for you. Always store valuable items in a safe, and make sure all other valuables are hidden from view. You must also be careful not to post anything online which suggests you’re away. And, finally, many people invest in a burglar alarm and/or video surveillance for their property,’ he concludes.

‘Of course alarms are a great layer of security, and a potential deterrent, but technology today allows for so much more,’ continues Ali. ‘Popular options this year include our Argus MagiCam, which provides a live video feed through its app. It is cable free, and can be mounted anywhere inside or outside the house instantly, making it an invaluable piece of kit for temporary security set-ups; meanwhile the Battery Video Doorbell 2nd Gen sends instant real-time video alerts and package notifications straight to your phone as soon as the bell is pressed.’

‘People find it easier to relax when they know they have live eyes and ears on the ground, wherever they are in the world, and we pride ourselves on providing exactly that.’

Going on holiday should be about enjoying every moment you’re there making memories, so taking the right precautions before you leave is worth the effort. And whether you’re the type of person who logs on three times a day to check what the cats have been up to, or just want to know who’s at the door when the bell rings, your future self is guaranteed to be thankful it’s taken care of as they paddleboard off into the sunset.

Visit the Reolink website to find out more about smart home security.

Turkey’s turquoise coast has long lured sailors with its spectacular waters, leafy landscapes and pristine coves. Ahãma’s setting on Günlüklü Bay delivers all of the above in the secluded embrace of a dense forest of native sığla trees, where red squirrels run and birds gather.

The hotel is rooted firmly in its environment and consists of a village-like sprinkling of rooms, restaurants and recreational extras that run the gamut from a DJ-soundtracked beach club to a specialised sound-healing temple, making for the most well-rounded of stays.

And with a sun-kissed season that begins in early May and extends well into October, it makes for the perfect pre- and post-school-holidays escape when fewer yachts crowd its enviable waters.

The rooms

There are blocks of adjoining guest houses set against rocky backdrops that look out over the pool, a series of standalone cabanas in various sizes are scattered where the treeline meets the beach, and one private villa that sleeps up to six is tucked discretely into the edge of the bay (which comes with its own infinity pool, private beach and butler service).

All are decorated to reflect the natural surroundings — lots of earthy tones, tactile fabrics, worn woods and stone fixtures — and have a seating area out front, ideal for reclining and listening to the lapping waves and the calls of the resident peacocks.

It might take you a minute to get your bearings on site, but staff provide a handy map and can be summoned by WhatsApp at any time (and will helpfully keep you posted on any upcoming activities should you wish to partake).

Eating and drinking

Ahãma’s menu of dining options is impressive and varied. Mezcla is the shoreside beach club where laidback Mexican lunches can be served straight to your sunbed. Ege, on the eastern side of the bay, is the signature restaurant where fresh fish and local ingredients take centre stage. Just behind it, the aptly named Glasshouse is where Turkish breakfasts and mezze lunches are served. Ay, a more modern take on a traditional ocakbaşı grill, occupies the western edge of the bay and is perhaps the most theatrical and convivial where the smell of charcoal is carried on the sea breeze and conversation flows well into the night.

If there’s a chance to join a communal lunch on the remote ‘Silent Beach’ while you’re there, take it — it’s best accessed by boat and allows you to look back over Ahãma while feasting among the forest.

How they’ll keep you busy

While nominally a ‘resort’, the word doesn’t quite do justice to Ahãma which feels more like it has organically evolved around the bay rather than being built upon it.

You can, of course, opt to do very little — lounge by the pool, sunbathe on the beach, indulge in soothing spa treatments. But there’s enough here to keep you occupied for a few days: pickleball courts, an indoor/outdoor gym, bikes to borrow, hiking trails, secluded beach lunches, morning yoga sessions in a clifftop shala, a sound-bath temple, a marble-hewn hammam (the best I’ve ever experienced, for what it’s worth), evening fire rituals, stargazing by night and, quite incongruously, a pair of rescued and rehabilitated emus to befriend as they roam around the grounds.

What else to do while you’re there

You absolutely must take to the water. Whether you’re a veteran sailor or a casual sea-splasher, the crystalline waters in every shade of blue imaginable have to be seen up close to be believed.

The hotel can arrange four-hour boat excursions past verdant islands with the opportunity to swim, paddleboard, snorkel and toast the pastel-pink sunset.

The harbour town of Göcek, 20 minutes drive to the west, is a buzzy yachtie hub and a gateway to a string of picturesque islands. Fethiye, 30 minutes east, is built upon the Lycian city of Telmessos and is suitably rich in history with a charming old town, ancient tombs and ruins, and a protected lagoon.

Who is it for?

The appeal to the yacht lot is evident — it couldn’t be easier to anchor in the bay and hop ashore for some on-land relaxation. But it holds equal appeal to those seeking a wellness retreat with a natural connection, or anyone craving some coastal seclusion without scrimping on potential activities.

What gives it the ‘wow’ factor?

Not only do you have an entire sweeping bay to yourself at Ahãma, but the way the secluded forest gives way to that sparkling shoreline is quite the natural spectacle. The ducks, swans, peacocks, emus and other abundant birdlife seem to agree too.

The one thing we’d change

Breakfast can occasionally happen at quite a languorous pace — fine if you’ve got a plan-free day but worth being mindful of if you’re on a tight schedule.

For more information and to book, visit the Ahãma website.

I am told, before I board my tiny, silver plane, that Nantucket looks like a pork chop from the air. In shape, at least.

The island, which lies 30 miles south of the Cape Cod peninsula, is where generations of East Coast Americans have come to summer. Before them, it was home, for more than 12,000 years, to the Wampanoag people, who used cobbles deposited by glacial ice to make tools, and then colonisers from England, who christened their first settlement Sherburne and turned this meat-shaped speck on the map into the whaling capital of the world.

Nantucket is often mentioned in the same breath as other affluent coastal enclaves: nearby Martha’s Vineyard and The Hamptons and ‘The Cape’ (shorthand for Cape Cod). Their British counterparts aren’t necessarily the places that parts of them were named after, but rather Rock in Cornwall, Burnham Market in Norfolk and Salcombe in Devon, all similar places of immense natural beauty, architectural arms races and strained relationships between locals and second-home owners.

Salcombe is my summer poison of choice and I’ve spent hours sitting stationary opposite Stonehenge, being diverted away from the A303 altogether, or on the well-intentioned, but always delayed train service from Paddington to Totnes with disastrously upright seats.

Thankfully, there are more sophisticated ways to get to Nantucket: Tradewind, of tiny silver-plane fame, which flies between, among others, New York and Boston and coastal holiday hotspots; Cape Air; and myriad ferries — some of which take cars, most of which allow dogs.

Occasionally, Nantucket is shrouded in that particular kind of salty sea mist that looks like fine gauze and reveals it to arrivals ever so slowly, like a phantom island. It feels as if, had you travelled on a perfectly clear day, you’d never come across land at all, the map scrubbed clean.

However you choose to arrive, it’s impossible not to notice the uniform houses clad in weathered grey cedar shingle. There have been planning restrictions in place since the 19th century and, when it comes to façades, house owners must choose from a palette of approved colours. There are no white and glass, harsh-angled monstrosities here.

The second thing you’ll probably notice is the fleet of Jeep Wranglers lining the uneven cobblestone streets that were laid in the first half of the 19th century. The descendant of the rugged Second World War Jeep is still a rare sight back in south Devon, where the Suzuki Jimny and ageing Land Rover Defender reign supreme.

White Elephant is Nantucket’s grande dame hotel. It is a 10-minute walk from the harbour and Main Street, with its cluster of shops (including an impressive array of vintage and antique furniture stores) and restaurants, and is where everyone in the know suggests visitors stay.

In 2023, the harbour-side hotel was refurbished to celebrate its centenary year, but it didn’t stray far from its New England roots. Think linen sofas, scalloped lampshades and grass cloth wall coverings in nautical hues, plus rattan cabinets and bobbin chairs. What sets it apart is the breadth of accommodation, from the rooms and suites in the main building to garden cottages, multi-bedroom residences arranged around a pool and more sprawling, contemporary downtown lofts. There is a configuration for almost every stage of life, which means guests return year after year knowing it will suit a growing brood or a different circle of friends.

Residents have access to very solid bicycles that I decided could hold their own in a stand-off with a Jeep and, on our first evening, we pedalled to Steps Beach, a long, unspoilt stretch of sand with little parking that’s famed for its sunset views. It’s accessed by, unsurprisingly, a lot of steps, which cut a line through the dunes, and grey mansions that stand sentry on the bluffside.

In August and September, the gentle waves glow with bioluminescence, but in spring, when we visited, there were only the empty shells of unfortunate horseshoe crabs to marvel at. The 250-million-year-old living fossils — the bright-blue blood of which is highly prized by the medical industry — are commonplace here in April through to June when they gather in shallow, protected waters to mate.

Beach-goers who come across horseshoes that have come a cropper due to strong tides or their own clumsy swimming are encouraged to flip them right-side up. It’s a very different spectacle to the one of children crabbing on Salcombe’s Victoria Quay, but, then again, horseshoe crabs aren’t crabs at all, but relations of spiders, scorpions, ticks and mites (and impossible to fit inside a plastic bucket).

When it comes to food, Nantucket decisively steals a march on Salcombe — and everywhere else on the British coastline. There’s The Proprietors, for elegant small plates and fantastic cocktails, The Nautilus (try the blue crab fried rice if you can get a table) and Topper’s, White Elephant’s sister property The Wauwinet’s restaurant, where, after a long lunch, you can drift into the sitting room for a game of backgammon. At cosy Brotherhood of Thieves, to which we retreated on an overcast day at the urging of Sam, a member of White Elephant’s concierge team, our server confidently claimed its lobster roll is the best on the island. Naturally, we ordered two: one was piping hot and swimming in a rockpool of molten butter; the second was cold, the lobster meat folded through a salad of celery, chives, lemon and mayonnaise. Had we been pushed to eat a third, I don’t think we would have complained.

This year marks the 175th anniversary of Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick, which D. H. Lawrence branded ‘the greatest book of the sea ever written’. Nantucket is inextricably linked to the great American novel because it serves as the home port of the doomed Pequod. Melville was further inspired by his own experiences as a common sailor and the 1820 sinking of a whaling boat that met its match in the form of an extremely angry, 85ft-long sperm whale.

The skeleton of a smaller specimen hangs from the ceiling of the Nantucket Whaling Museum, a well-curated space that documents four centuries of the island’s maritime and whaling history. The dangerous pursuit of these marine mammals — chiefly for their spermaceti, a semi-liquid substance located in the animal’s head cavities and used to create smokeless candles — peaked in mid 1700s; in 1790, the Nantucket Quakers famously reported that ‘there were no poor people on the island’.

We didn’t see any now-protected whales on our trip, although a particularly chunky seal kept close watch over us on Surfside Beach and plenty of people have reported sightings from the ferry from Hyannis.

I had always assumed great beaches required great drama to be, well, great. In Salcombe, many are bordered by dramatic, Paleozoic cliffs and, behind that, an undulating patchwork of fields. Further abroad, where it’s warmer, pristine sand is often juxtaposed against turquoise seas.

Although there is nothing theatrical about Nantucket’s topography, it quietly dismantled my prejudices. The land sits low against the horizon and is carpeted in sprawling expanses of globally rare sandplain grasslands and cranberry bogs that creep forward to blend seamlessly into the coastal dunes.

It’s a softer and subtler beauty that’s not shaped by spectacle — and it invites you to rest and unwind. I didn’t need to be asked twice.

Carrier can organise seven-night New England itineraries from £6,175 per person. The price includes four nights in a premier double room at Raffles Boston and three nights in a Harborview Room at White Elephant Hotel, Nantucket, plus return economy flights with Virgin Atlantic from London Heathrow (LHR), return domestic flights from Boston to Nantucket Airport with Tradewind, private transfers and airside departure service at LHR.

This feature originally appeared in the July 15, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

On a recent trip to Schloss Dyck in Germany’s Rhineland, south-west of Düsseldorf, I had been expecting Thomas Blaikie to be the main protagonist in a story that had piqued my interest. He didn’t disappoint — not in the least — but I was happy to discover that, like all good stories about fairy-tale castles, it helps if there is a princess involved.

The princess in question was one Constance de Salm who, through her second marriage in 1803, became first a countess and then a princess when her husband Count Joseph zu Salm-Reifferscheidt-Dyck was bumped up a notch by the Prussian king. De Salm, however, as a highly educated Frenchwoman, had many more strings to her bow than a mere title and, by the time of her marriage, was well established in Parisian literary circles as a published poet, essayist, composer, playwright and ardent advocate of women’s rights.

At a time of immense political upheaval in France, she was waging her own intellectual revolution. De Salm must have been quite a catch for Salm-Reifferscheidt-Dyck, six years her junior, but, as he was an academic in his own right, their union was a good one.

His specialism was botany and, during his long life, he wrote prolifically about plants and horticulture — cacti, in particular, were his thing — all the while developing a spectacular garden at Schloss Dyck. This is where Blaikie, Scottish landscape gardener, comes in, who was commissioned by the Count in 1819 to create a rolling, English parkland garden of winding paths, tantalising vistas, trees and harmonious planting to blend with the surroundings.

An unlikely scenario, if ever there was one, for a German schloss. For this, however, we have de Salm, in part, to thank. The princess, so the story goes, decided that if she was to divide her time between Paris and Germany and if she was to encourage the great and the good of her Paris salons to join her at Schloss Dyck, then she wanted the castle to have interesting garden views.

Salm-Reifferscheidt-Dyck liked the minutiae of planting and cultivating, she liked gardens with a broader vision, and Blaikie, established in pre-Revolution days as something of a Capability Brown to the French nobility, was almost certainly on her radar. His naturalistic English-garden style, which contrasted sharply with the formal geometric layouts traditionally favoured in France, was all the rage and, being a distinguished botanist, too, Blaikie’s skill set would have been right up Salm-Reifferscheidt-Dyck’s street.

Blaikie’s garden today, 200 years on, is as good as ever. Of the 2,000 trees in the park, only 30 or so date back to his planting scheme, but subsequent generations of Schloss Dyck’s owners have continued to plant and replace. Sweeping vistas of the moated, mustard-yellow castle with its four turrets remain largely unobscured; banks of rhododendrons burst into colour in spring; and, on lazy summer days, visitors to the garden can picnic on the grass or snooze in hammocks slung beneath the trees.

In 1999, Schloss Dyck passed from 900 years of private family ownership to a public, charitable foundation as a ‘centre for garden art and landscape culture’. The family, although non-resident, is still involved.

As part of the castle’s new, publicly accessible incarnation, a nine-bedroom hotel was opened in the former coach house, from which a few fortunate guests may roam the grounds after the gates have closed. Thus, I find myself on a hot midsummer’s evening alone in a deckchair beneath the giant tulip tree — perhaps Blaikie’s most magnificent survivor — imagining Schloss Dyck in the days of Constance and Joseph when this became one of Europe’s most cosmopolitan and cultured addresses. Reassuringly, the spirit of all three lives on.

Visit the Schloss Dyck for more information on how to visit.

The article originally appeared in the August 5, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Hero hotel

Rodel House, overlooking a natural harbour near the southernmost tip of the Isle of Harris, was built in 1781 for Capt Alexander MacLeod, who had recently returned from a profitable spell in India and the Far East.

Gazing out from certain windows on the first and second floors, you can, weather permitting, make out the distant silhouette of the Isle of Skye. There lies Dunvegan, seat of Clan MacLeod, to which the captain belonged, and the oldest continuously inhabited castle in Scotland.

For the best part of 700 years, the MacLeods’ territories included not only Skye, but also the islands of Raasay, Lewis, Harris and the archipelago of St Kilda. Dunvegan, on Skye, was always their political base and centre of gravity. Yet Rodel, on Harris, was also a place of particular significance to them — their spiritual home, you might say.

Rodel House had its ups and downs over the following centuries. It was in a sadly run-down state when it was purchased in 2016 by Anderson Bakewell, an American musicologist with a deep personal interest in Harris, having been a regular visitor to the island for more than 50 years.

Bakewell and his wife, Francine Stone, working closely with mostly local architects, designers and craftsmen, over-saw the meticulous restoration of the house. In its materials, textures, colours and countless small, but telling details, it had to remain respectful of its original identity, without becoming a pastiche or a simulacrum.

It also had to work in the present. If it’s modish Scandi-Scots chic you seek, you must seek it elsewhere. Rodel House is a hymn to the specifically and authentically Hebridean. Hence the abundance of larch and pine, for instance, the Georgian panelling and handmade shutters, the wool, the tweed, the sheepskin.

I remember chatting to Bakewell about the tone of the place, the note that he and his wife wished it to strike. He said he was toying with the idea of taking a motto from a song by the great 17th-century bardess Mary MacLeod, An Crònin or The Croon. The phrase he had in mind, ‘cosgail ri cuiart’, is difficult to translate. Scottish Gaelic is a living language — it’s still the first language of Harris and of the other Outer Hebridean islands — and the sense of the words has shifted over the centuries since the song was composed.

Essentially, it concerns a mode of hospitality in which heart-felt generosity, as much sentimental as material, is of the essence. ‘Lavish to visitors’ is perhaps as close an approximation to the sense of the phrase as we can get in present-day English. Not merely comfortable, that is, but good for the soul.

Today, Rodel House has four bedrooms, sleeping up to eight adults and two children, with additional rooms available on request in the adjacent East Range and nearby Pend Cottage.

Rodel House is available on an exclusive-use basis from £810 per night. A minimum three-night stay is recommended.

Need to know

The poet Louis MacNeice called the Isle of Harris ‘the end of everything’. He was exaggerating, slightly. There’s still the speck of St Kilda, some 45 nautical miles off to the west, although beyond that, if you keep heading in the same direction, it’s nothing but sea swell and fresh air all the way to Newfoundland.

The Isles of Harris and Lewis are separated by the narrowest of watery margins, but Harris has its own distinct magic, a particular look and feel. It’s a place of exceptional natural beauty, from the stark, mountainous north to the gently undulating south, where white-sand beaches stretch for miles and miles along the grassy machair coast, blooming with wildflowers in the summer.

Harris Tweed deserves special mention, not least because of the central position Rodel House occupies in its story.

Potato blight in the 1840s brought famine to many of the people of the Western Highlands and islands. At that time, the ‘estate’ of Harris belonged to the 6th Earl of Dunmore. His wife, Lady Catherine, alert to the suffering of the islanders and eager to find ways to alleviate it, saw commercial potential in the tweed that had been produced by the women of Harris for centuries.

She set up a grading room at Rodel House where local weavers could sell their homespun ‘webs’. These were, in turn, distributed in mainland Scotland and England, where they were highly prized, and eventually all over the world. A cottage industry became a global phenomenon.

Where to eat

Options are limited, particularly outside the summer months. The Harris Hotel and Hotel Hebrides, both in Tarbert, and the Talla na Mara Community Café, on the west coast, are open year round.

By far your best bet if you’re staying at Rodel House is to book on a fully catered basis. There’s a splendidly equipped kitchen in which a private chef performs minor miracles with impeccably fresh and hyper-local seafood, lamb and seasonal produce; hyper-local wines and spirits flow; picnic hampers are packed for days out.

What to do while you’re there

• Pray Pay a visit to the medieval St Clement’s Church, a few minutes’ walk from Rodel House, where the previously mentioned Mary MacLeod is buried beneath the flagstones — supposedly face down, at her own request
• Drink Raise a glass to socially enlightened business practices at the Isle of Harris Distillery, another venture of the proprietors of Rodel House, which opened in 2015 with a twofold mission of providing sustainable employment for local people and capturing something of the essence of the island in whisky form
• Walk Lose yourself in the loveliness of the coastal walk from Northton to Rubh’ an Teampaill, a ruined 15th-century chapel built on the site of a 9,000-year-old Iron Age broch

This feature originally appeared in the July 22, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Paul Ricard (1909-97) was a man who wore myriad hats. He loved to sail and to paint, and would’ve become an artist if his family had not intervened. He reportedly wanted to experience the challenges of building a race circuit — so he did. Circuit Paul Ricard — which in its heyday was hailed as one of the safest tracks in the world — hosted France’s Formula 1 race for two decades.

He also founded an Oceanographic Institute. Yet Ricard is probably best known as the inventor of the eponymous pastis brand which merged, in 1975, with its competitor Pernod, to create Pernod Ricard.

Now, his legacy includes Île de Bendor, one of two petite islands that he acquired off the coast of Bandol. Salvador Dalí, a friend, visited during Ricard’s lifetime, as did Joesphine Baker and Jean-Paul Belmondo. Following a five-year-long build, masterminded by Zannier Hotels, you can follow in their footsteps.

There are two, 1960s-era buildings, built by Ricard and situated at either end of the 700-metre-long island off the Côte d’Azur in the Var region. They are run as two very different hotels: Delos, which nods, more overtly, to the period it was built in with mid-century-inspired furniture, bespoke powder blue walls and cocktail making kits in the bedrooms, and Soukana, an Asian-inspired retreat with cocooning, earthy toned rooms and complimentary yoga mats and a sleek, 25-metre-long pool with panoramic views.

What they have in common is a timeless quality to their architecture that’s sadly lacking from most of our contemporary buildings — I assumed they’d been built more recently (in fact, only the insides were updated during the renovation). Furthermore, they look wonderfully austere against the cornflower blue sweep of summer sky.

In the middle are an adorable cluster of five, two-storey former fisherman’s cottages, or Madrague Houses, designed to accommodate couples, plus multiple restaurants, from a beachside brasserie, to a crêperie. In homage to Ricard’s artistic tendencies, there is a row of artist’s studios, immersive design workshops and galleries, that are home to a rotating roster of painters, sculptors and craftspeople. Their works, displayed across the island, are available for purchase.

A colossal statue of Neptune (above) watches over everything — including the 1,200-square-metre, monastic-looking spa — from his sentry spot in a high-up, tranquil garden studded with ancient olive trees. With everything you could ever want in easy reach, there’s no real reason to leave the island, but, unlike more traditional holiday resorts, there’s no sense of confinement. The experience is one of complete freedom and days unfurl at your own pace.

If a single stop off isn't really your bag, you can embark on a wider artistic pilgrimage with Original Travel’s Art and the Côte d’Azur road trip itinerary which traces the dazzling Mediterranean coastline and landscapes that inspired Matisse, Picasso, Renoir and Chagall. It's a stylish way to experience the Riviera through the eyes of its greatest painters and I imagine Ricard would've approved.

Île de Bendor is lapped by a glassy ocean, its floor sandy in places and carpeted in strands of dark, ribbon-like grasses, populated with pearly white fish, in others. There’s a shallow beach on the side of the island facing mainland France, a few swim strokes away, and ladders that plunge straight into deeper water from flattened rocky areas on the opposite side.

If there is a European hotel with more magical swim spots then I have yet to find it.

Original Travel’s seven-night Art and the Cote D’Azur costs from £4,360 per person. The price includes return flights, car hire, and accommodation, and can be customised to include a stay at Zannier Île de Bandor. Visit their website for more information and to book.

French Polynesia can now officially boast the world’s largest Marine Protected Area. The recent classification of Tainui Atea, which covers about two million square miles of ocean, means that there’s now a ban on seabed exploitation and drifting Fish Aggregating Devices (FADs), plus strengthened conservation objectives and the sustainable management of marine resources.

The archipelago is world renowned for its diving, surfing and marine wildlife, including rare endemic birds and migrating humpback whales. And despite increasing interest, there are still pockets where you can swim with them in relative privacy. (Elegant Resorts can put together bespoke itineraries and organise private yacht charter.)

French Polynesia is far from the only sanctuary where the sea still feels gloriously unexplored and thriving: from the deep blue to coral atolls , there are extraordinary conservation success stories across the globe that reward travellers willing to venture further afield.

The following round-up celebrates the world’s most thrilling marine encounters, but it is also a reminder to choose operators with strong conservation credentials, avoid overcrowded experiences and tread as lightly as possible in these fragile blue frontiers.

What? Participate in urgent shark conservation work

Where? Raja Ampat, Indonesia

The Lost Sharks of Raja Ampat is a first-of-its-kind, 10-day expedition from the brains at luxury yacht specialists Silolona Sojourns and adrenaline junkies Cookson Adventures.

Hosted by ReShark conservationists Dr Mark Erdmann and Nesha Ichida, guests — staying on board a traditional phinisi yacht — will help track and tag critically endangered leopard sharks using pioneering satellite technology, visit shark nurseries at Kri and Misool, and participate in pup releases.

ReShark's work was highlighted in Ocean Dreams, a giant-screen and IMAX documentary narrated by Shailene Woodley and released globally on World Oceans Day (June 8, 2026).

What? Swim with 18-metre giants

Where? Dominica, the Caribbean

On Dominica, one of the few places where sperm whales can be seen year-round, only three swimmers and a guide may enter the water with an animal at any time.

Conservationists say the whales help capture carbon by stimulating plankton blooms through their nutrient-rich waste.

From November to March, travel specialist 1953 offers Swimming with Giants itineraries, combining stays at Secret Bay, catamaran expeditions and guided whale swims with expert freedivers and local naturalists.

What? Dive into the deep

Where? Laamu Atoll, the Maldives

Six Senses Laamu is the only luxury resort in the remote Maldivian atoll of the same name and home to the Maldives Underwater Initiative (MUI) which brings together the Manta Trust, Olive Ridley Project and Blue Marine Foundation.

Spinner and bottlenose dolphins are commonly seen on the resort’s sunset cruises and guests can join turtle-monitoring and manta-research activities.

The PADI 5* Deep Blue Divers centre offers everything from introductory dives to Divemaster training. Just offshore lies Hithadhoo Corner, a renowned megafauna site and natural cleaning station for resident manta rays.

Between May and July and again from October to November, divers can watch the extraordinary manta chain dance, when a female leads a procession of males through looping, twisting movements until only the strongest remains.

Book with trusted Indian Ocean-experts, Turquoise Holidays.

What? Follow in the footsteps of early Norse explorers

Where? The Canadian Arctic

In the nutrient-rich waters of Hudson Bay, remarkably social beluga whales gather in large numbers.

Say hello while you sail the legendary Northwest Passage with Silversea— traversed successfully and very unsuccessfully by European explorers searching for a shortcut to Asia.

You'll also pass captivating islands, home to Inuit hamlets and rare species, and get the opportunity to marvel at spectacular sounds, massive cliffs and dramatic ice fields.

What? Meet Free Willy face to face

Where? Norway

Natural World Safaris’ Swim with Killer Whales expedition in northern Norway offers a rare opportunity to enter the water with orcas as they hunt herring in the Arctic fjords.

Based aboard a small expedition vessel, guests search for pods of killer whales before slipping quietly into the sea alongside expert guides and marine naturalists.

Encounters are carefully managed to minimise disturbance, allowing swimmers to observe the whales’ extraordinary intelligence, social behaviour and effortless movement at close range.

Humpback whales are often seen feeding nearby.

What? Swim with the world's-largest fish

Where? Ningaloo Reef, Western Australia

At Sal Salis on Western Australia’s Ningaloo Reef, off-grid-style accommodation meets one of the world’s great marine encounters. Guests stay in eco-luxury safari tents tucked among the dunes, just metres from the reef, with private decks, hammocks and uninterrupted ocean views.

From mid-March to August, optional guided whale-shark swims take visitors into Ningaloo’s clear waters to snorkel alongside the world’s largest fish in their natural habitat.

Book with Lightfoot Travel.

What? Get up close and personal with the Big Five

Where? Bazaruto Archipelago, Mozambique

The northern Mozambique Channel is widely cited by scientists as the second-most diverse coral reef in the world so, unsurprisingly, boasts the Western Indian Ocean's Big Five. Cetaceans (whales, dolphins and porpoises); elasmobranchs (sharks, rays, skates, and sawfish); bony fish; reptiles (sea turtles and sea snakes); sirenians (fully aquatic, herbivorous mammals such as dugongs).

The wildlife-spotting opportunities are so great that ultra-luxury Kisawa Sanctuary, on the southern tip of Benguerra Island, within the Bazaruto Archipelago, have developed a 'Dive Menu' comprised of 13 individual dive sites, for beginning and advance divers and everyone in between.

Book with Red Savannah.

According to Heesen, the lucky few who own or are in the market for a superyacht are increasingly prioritising outdoor living — which means requesting more deck space, larger beach clubs and expanded wellness areas or retrofitting an existing craft to include them. (A beach club, for the uninitiated, is the moniker given to the water-level space located at the stern.)

‘First World problems’, I hear you cry, and: ‘How much more outdoor living do you need on something that blurs the line between indoors and nature, and is therefore a literal embodiment of the ideal?’ However, when you’re done redecorating your fifth house, these are the kind of problems you face, and every problem — big, small or inbetween — is deserving of a solution.

Moreover, how all of us holiday has changed. ‘Years ago, life on board was much more formal,’ says Philippa Thorp of Thorp, an architecture and interior design practice. ‘We have one family who used to host black-tie dinners every evening when on board [their yacht]’ — much as dressing up for supper, in black or even white tie, used to be the norm.

These days, her clients want an area for barbecuing, yoga decks, large sunbeds for stargazing and adaptable seating that can cater to all manner of family meals and entertaining situations. ‘We help clients discover ways of living they may not have considered,’ adds Laetitia Evans, Thorp’s daughter and the design studio’s creative director.

Perhaps the prize for most imaginative reimagining of the beach club goes to Benetti Yachts whose 'Cabana' concept is less a formal deck than an adult’s playground at sea. The fold-down wings effectively dissolve the boundary between boat and water, creating a flexible and open-air living space that invites lucky guests to swim, sunbathe, socialise and drift seamlessly between the two.

Designer Katharine Pooley, who is about to start work on Ulyssia, a 323-metre residential superyacht, doesn't believe that practicality and usability has to trump style. 'The beach club is often one of the most-loved and frequently-used areas,' she says. 'Designing these spaces means understanding how people truly live on board, ensuring they are every bit as beautiful as they are functional.'

The British designer always integrates the most up-to-date technology into her nautical projects, but discreetly so as not to distract from the considered design and her client's valuable time with friends, family and with nature.

One of Thorp's favourite clients counts an 89-year-old grandmother among their ranks. She refuses to be confined to a temperature-controlled gym containing all of the best equipment, so wakes up before everyone else, plugs herself into a meditation podcast and hikes up and down and all around the three-storey yacht in order to get her steps in. ‘Whether on land or water, nature is grounding,’ says Thorp.

Sound the alphorn: the alpine summer is officially back. 2025 marked the third consecutive year that Switzerland broke tourism records between May and October, with the number of overnight stays topping 25 million for the first time according to figures released in December by the Swiss Federal Statistical Office. Now, with the winter’s snow a distant memory, all signs point to the sunshine months of 2026 being yet another record-breaker.

The boom has been attributed to a number of factors: the mountains offering clear-aired respite from the scorching heatwaves and wildfires that are ever more present at sea level; the appeal to both those seeking real rest and relaxation, and adventurous active types; and the simple fact that more and more hotels now open for a full summer season.

One such hotel is Grand Hotel Belvedere, a towering turn-of-the-century grande dame in two parts — revitalised in 2024 by French hotel group Beaumier — that straddles a prime panoramic slope in the town of Wengen, high in the Bernese Alps. And it might just offer the platonic ideal of the alpine summer.

First off, that thing they say about the journey being just as important as the destination? In Wengen it’s never been truer. The car-free town is only accessible via a cog-wheel train that cranks skywards from Lauterbrunnen, itself best reached by a spectacularly scenic lake-skirting train ride from Zurich. When you exit, you’re welcome to take the leisurely stroll ever higher through the postcard-pretty town centre on foot, but the awaiting Beaumier-branded Jumbolino (a sort of chic, electric milk float) makes the ascent with suitcases that much easier.

Inside, the lobby is rich in restored wooden detailing, its soft seating areas inviting you to sit and marvel at the valley views beyond. The bedrooms are spacious, stylish and, in my case, particularly panoramic. Lorenz Maurer, the tall, stylish and affable general manager shows me what keeps things ticking behind-the-scenes, including a series of high-tech wood-chip heaters to provide hotel-wide warmth. Outside, though, the sun is providing plenty of that, the Sonnenbad terrace’s yellow umbrellas standing tall like buttercups among the sweeping green expanse. ‘We’re lovers of the mountain all year round,’ Maurer says. ‘But summer is definitely becoming our biggest season.’

This is the first full one since the installation of Belvedere’s concrete spa and pool which juts out from the base of the higher building and blends into the surroundings ‘like a brutalist relic that nature has gradually reclaimed,’ to quote architect Valéry Clavien. After a sublime full-body massage with alpine-fresh Suzanne Kaufmann products, I take to the indoor-outdoor pool as the sun beats down and the roar of an unsighted jet plane echoes around the valley. I conclude there can be few better spots to gaze up at the iconic Jungfrau peak.

It’s said J. R. R. Tolkien based idyllic scenes of Middle Earth on hikes he took in these valleys, and about 100 years before that, German composer Felix Mendelssohn was moved enough to write symphonies inspired by them (‘Of all the countries I know, this is the most beautiful,’ he said). Today the most picturesque trail bears his name, but if you choose to head in any direction you’re unlikely to be disappointed, with routes that take you through forests, past grazing livestock and picturesque farms, around the town’s outskirts and into the valley’s basin. Hop back on the train and you can make your way back down to the invitingly turquoise lakes you passed on arrival. Part of what makes Wengen such a good base is that it can satisfy both the casual stroller and the hardened hiker (and, indeed, those who prefer such things were done on two wheels) — plus you don’t have to watch out for cars. The buzzy terrace at the rustic Da Sina steakhouse and the lowkey local pub vibes of the garishly signed Crystal Bar make for nice pit stops on your return leg, but an aperitivo at one of Belvedere’s bars or out on the terrace takes some beating, particularly at golden hour as the surrounding peaks are painted bright orange and pastel pink before the starry night sky takes over.

Dining here also takes its cues from what you can see around you. English chef Will Gordon relies on seasonal produce sourced within a 100-kilometre radius with plenty picked on the doorstep. Where in winter that might lean towards heavy, hearty, warming dishes to soothe weary skiers, the spring/summer menus are light, fresh and flavourful — alpine salmon, cured beetroot, charcuterie and house-made chutneys. The locally made Riesling is worth special mention too.

A steam, a sauna, a bask in the sun, another stroll, another Riesling — summer up here is just as uncomplicated as summer at sea level yet it feels so much more…cleansing. Imagining Wengen deep in snow, thronged by the crowds for its annual Lauberhorn downhill ski races, seems almost impossible. Besides, you’d miss too much going at those speeds… this is a place to slow down.

Rooms at Grand Hotel Belvedere start from £475 per night.

The writer’s transport was provided by Travel Switzerland who guarantee seamless connections by train, bus, boat or mountain railway. Click here to buy your Swiss Travel Pass, point-to-point tickets or plan the Grand Train Tour of Switzerland.

‘In a decade, our wildlife has gone from being present to being abundant,’ says Martin White, the head of rewilding at 42 Acres, a sweep of wooded countryside in east Somerset. Behind him, meadow brown butterflies tumble through oat-grass and blackcaps sing from tangled hawthorns. White is well placed to comment, having worked here for every one of the 10 years since this former family estate was taken over by the current owners.

The 42 Acres name is a misnomer. This rural getaway — which offers wellness retreats and self-catering accommodation — was originally 42 acres in size, but now covers 173, most of which are intentionally left to their own natural devices. The retreats themselves tie into this approach, ranging from one-day ‘Slow Sundays’ to longer stays, themed around the likes of nature guardianship and listening to the land. And there’s plenty of land to listen to. The wind whistles through ancient woodland studded with mossy, fallen trunks and pale fungi; birdsong fills the ears during a stroll down country lanes; in the lake, carp splash and water sloshes against hefty beaver dams.

Yes, beaver dams. The busy rodents have been reintroduced here and now live wild, with evidence of their lodges and waterlogging widespread. ‘They’re a keystone species,’ emphasises White, pointing out a muddy, beaver-made channel. ‘The benefits they bring to other creatures in the ecosystem are huge.’

The rewilding efforts take multiple forms. In one large area of native woodland, spruces planted for wartime timber are being thinned out to allow original species to flourish. Elsewhere, netted enclosures are home, separately, to white storks and wildcats, both of which — if breeding continues to be successful — will eventually be released. To look into the eyes of a wildcat, one of Britain’s most endangered mammals, is a rare thrill.

42 Acres describes itself as a ‘regenerative estate, nature reserve and wellbeing retreat centre’, and it’s the real deal on all three fronts. This do-it-right-or-not-at-all approach is also true of both its accommodation and its food.

There are two main clusters of buildings on site, one based around a refurbished 18th-century farmhouse, the other around a one-time hunting lodge. In and around them are a total of seven self-catering options, from cottages and renovated barns, to converted stables and a boat (it’s called Tiny Boat (above) and lets you gaze across the water from bed). If you’re staying in one of these properties, the wider grounds are yours to explore — and indeed swim in — at will, while meals such as breakfast baskets and vegetarian lasagne can be pre-ordered.

Eating is no afterthought. All food, which includes full catering for guests on scheduled retreats, is freshly prepared by the so-called ‘medicine kitchen’. Don’t be put off by the pharmaceutical-sounding description: the chefs are hugely experienced (there’s at least one Royal Academy of Culinary Arts graduate), passionate about organic ‘soil-to-gut’ dining, and have a bounty of hyper-local produce to work with.

Most of this comes courtesy of either the edible walled garden — a vibrant reimagining of a traditional English estate with everything from artichokes and sweet-tasting yacón to peaches and greengages, or the permaculture garden, which produces duck eggs, honey and some 50 (50!) varieties of vegetables.

There are guided tours of the gardens, as well as yoga, foraging, firecraft and wild sauna sessions. But all, in a sense, are sideshows to the main rewilding project, the green effervescence which is likely to be your abiding memory. ‘Rewilding,’ sums up White, as a woodpecker drops down into a canopy of maples, ‘really does work.’

Visit the 42 Acres website for more information and to book.

At this year’s Hay Festival, I was lucky enough to see two out of three of my favourite contemporary female authors — Elizabeth Strout and Maggie O’Farrell. As for the third, alas I was three years behind the curve. Margaret Atwood’s last appearance on stage at Hay was in 2023 and there is no knowing when the 86-year-old Canadian might be back.

Her name cropped up again a couple of weeks later, however, over coffee with a Norwegian travel colleague whose company, Up Norway, designs highly personalised, expertly delivered trips to Norway and the Nordic countries (take note should a holiday to that part of the world be on your agenda). She told me of an extraordinary literary art project in Oslo, now in its 12th year, and I was instantly hooked.

Future Library is the brainchild of Scottish conceptual artist Katie Paterson, who has been doing weird and wonderful things in the art world for several years — often in collaboration with scientists and scientific researchers.

Among her notable works are the broadcast sound of melting glaciers, a map of some 27,000 dead stars and a lightbulb designed to simulate the experience of moonlight. A library, by comparison, might seem somewhat mundane.

Paterson’s library, however, is not exactly as it might sound. This is a 100-year ‘living artwork’, commissioned as part of Oslo’s cultural Slow Space public art programme, with a distinct beginning, middle and end.

The project started in 2014 with the felling of an area of trees within the Nordmarka Forest on the edge of the city to make way for the planting of 1,000 spruce saplings. The felled trees were to be used in the construction of a special ‘Silent Room’ within the Deichman Bjørvika Public Library where Future Library would be housed; the new spruce trees would be used in 2114, 100 years on, as paper for the printing of the library’s contents.

The middle part is where the project takes a more intriguing turn. Each year, from 2014 onwards, a writer of global standing would be asked by the trustees of Future Library (an evolving group as time goes by) to contribute an original written work of any length and in any literary genre, with only one catch. Apart from its title, each work would remain unread and unpublished, sealed within a thin, illuminated glass drawer of the Silent Room’s walls, until 2114, when a limited-edition anthology of all the manuscripts would be printed.

First up to contribute to Future Library was Atwood, with a work titled Scribbler Moon. We know no more than that. Since then, nine further writers, including the brilliant Turkish-British author Elif Shafak, have submitted manuscripts and two more, American writers Tommy Orange and Amitav Ghosh, joined the fold on June 28. Their handing-over ceremony, as did those before them, took place amid the spruce-tree plantation in Nordmarka Forest, their works representing 2024 and 2025 respectively.

The big reveal of 2026’s writer is expected imminently. The Silent Room, therefore, its curvaceous interior fashioned from 100 concentric layers of wood like the growth rings of a tree, now has 12 full drawers with another 88 to go.

How many of these, one wonders, will be filled with manuscripts by people who are yet to be born and how many people alive today will ever get to read them? The City of Oslo and the Future Library Trust have signed a 100-year contract guaranteeing the protection of Nordmarka Forest, the Silent Room and the manuscripts, but who is to say how the world might have changed by 2114. Perhaps humans won’t be reading books anymore, perhaps libraries will be a thing of the past and perhaps, God forbid, no one will care a fig about Atwood.

This feature originally appeared in the July 1, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

In The Odyssey, we follow hero Odysseus’s gruelling 10-year journey home, through the unmappable lands of magic and monsters to Ithaca, following the Trojan War.

For centuries, scholars and amateur sleuths have argued over where Homer’s roiling seas, realm of the sirens and lands of the Lotus-Eaters might truly have been — if, indeed, they existed at all.

Now, courtesy of Christopher Nolan’s (The Dark Knight, Interstellar, Oppenheimer) highly anticipated, lauded film adaptation (out July 17), travellers have a concrete trail of real-world locations to visit, including the Peloponnese and Athens in Greece, Favignana in Sicily, Scotland’s Moray Coast (famous for its resident bottlenose dolphins) and Iceland.

In the Peloponnese, a large peninsula separated from the Greek mainland by the Corinth Canal and easily accessible from Athens, you’ll find a 1,000-mile-long network of scenic hiking routes, much of which uses mule paths that fell out of use in the 1970s.

The Messinia Trail’s eastern branch encompasses the Temple of Apollo Epicurius, ancient olive groves and Methoni Castle and Voidokilia Beach — both used by Nolan — and crosses an area home to legendary King Nestor, who appears in Homer’s seminal poem.

Villa Collective boasts six properties in the Peloponnese region, including Sir Patrick and Joan Leigh Fermor’s wonderfully tasteful former home.

In the last decade, Athens's grungy, graffiti-lined back streets have changed beyond recognition. Today, it’s a city of muses, somewhere that writers, artists and culinary talents congregate to help nurse the Athenian renaissance. Its ascendency — or re-ascendency — to southern Europe’s new capital of cool did not come as a surprise to Andria Mitsakos, a local PR entrepreneur and the owner of a popular concept store called Anthologist.

Athens’s ‘moment’ was born, she says, out of ‘crisis’. Grexit (Greece’s potential withdrawal from the EU) has been sowing its seeds of uncertainty since the mid 2010s, but it is precisely this turmoil, Andria explains, that has caused waves of creativity. ‘Athens is constantly evolving and when one realises that the city was the cradle of civilisation and the incubator of so much when it comes to design, architecture, poetry, politics, theatre, philosophy and sexuality, that feeling becomes infectious.’

And infectious it is. Everyone, from domestic Greek travellers to Continental weekenders and young creatives, is keen to get in on the action. There are whispers that this is the new Berlin — equally anarchic, but much more affordable, regardless of whether you’re staying for two nights or two years.

Earlier this year, Hilton Athens reopened following a monumental, four-year-long renovation. Now called Conrad Athens The Ilisian, whoever was in charge thankfully spared the iconic marble facade, a wonderful example of Greek post-war Modernism.

Although Nolan shot some scenes in the Greek capital, it doesn't feature in the source material. However, the hotel is situated on the southern slopes of Mount Lycabettus which, according to Ancient Greek myth, was created by Athena — a pivotal character — by accident.

Approximately 670 miles east as the crow flies you'll find Favignana, the largest of the Aegadian (or Egadi) Islands off Sicily's west coast. And while Homer never explicitly referred to 'Sicily' or 'Favignana' in his epic, scholars and historians tend to agree that both are the setting for some of the most famous stages of Odysseus's journey.

Nolan utilised the ruined castle of Castello di Santa Caterina on the latter — a location that required the cast and crew to clamber 900 feet uphill, every day, to reach it and helicopter equipment drops.

You won't have to suffer such indignities to reach Zu Nillu, an exceptional villa that's been built into a disused Roman tufo quarry — as you do. The four-bedroom property is available to rent through The Thinking Traveller which originated in Sicily in 2002.

Casa Bonavita is very much a family affair — a hotel that feels like a home, but that you wouldn’t dare to call ‘a home from home’ — unless you happen to live in an immaculately decorated, 18th century Maltese palazzo.

The owners are Suzanne and Christopher Sharp, founders of The Rug Company, and before Bonavita opened as a hotel, it operated as their occasional home. Their daughter Sophie's pottery and son Jamie's antiques fill the space.

There were a myriad things to consider when they set about turning a home into a hotel, including planning for everyone taking a shower simultaneously. However, the couple’s flair for interior design and decor has always been innate. ‘Suzanne has the ability to create interiors which are both inspiring and comfortable, and there were constant discussions about… how to get the balance between functionality and design,’ says Christopher. Even when Bonavita is fully booked, there are quiet corners to escape to — with an expertly mixed negroni.

A huge number of craftspeople and artists were involved in the six-year project, but a consistent vision and the couple’s collection of fabrics, furniture, paintings and lighting, collected over the years, helped pull everything together. ‘In many ways, Casa Bonavita is an accumulation of a lifetime of visual memories, brought together to create a place that feels familiar, lived-in and deeply personal,’ says Christopher.

Textiles and artisanal works sourced from throughout the Mediterranean are complemented by antique treasures including a Genoese cabinet, packed with ceramics. One of the dining room’s walls is hung with joyfully-hued art, while a botanical mural by Italian artists Alfonso Orombelli and Luna Aulehla Greppi covers the other.

The Valletta Bar’s walls have not been left behind and are enveloped in a bespoke, hand-painted vista of 17th-century Valletta, by de Gournay. The kitchen is tiled in Sicilian slabs and the grand entrance hall boasts a frescoed ceiling.

The seven bedrooms and suites in the original house (Suzanne and Christopher bought it 15 years ago before purchasing the neighbouring house and land) share high ceilings, but are all unique in design. Suite 5 is located in the former chapel and comes with a private terrace and a statement bathroom featuring a domed ceiling and marble bath. Suite 4’s bathroom is equally impressive with its floral fresco framing the bathtub.

There are five further bedrooms and suites in the Dower House, which can be booked on an exclusive-use basis. This newly built structure fits seamlessly with the existing buildings, accessed via the verdant garden. The building's courtyard centrepiece is a swimming pool atop a subterranean spa. There are more rooms in the former stables and a soon-to-open, stand-alone suite (The Folly) whose lucky guests will be able to brag about their private garden, plunge pool and one-of-kind oval-shaped bedroom.

The ceramics — from monogrammed red dinnerware to statement lamps and urns bursting with fresh flowers — are all painstakingly made, 500 metres away at Villa Bologna, a historic estate that has been home to a pottery studio since 1920.

Back in 2020, Sophie took over the running of the studio and reinstated archival designs. Each piece has a charming story behind it, but few can beat her own tale of growing up with Villa Bologna ceramics filling her home and one day not only owning the business, but supplying her parent’s hotel in the same village.

Art bleeds into the outdoor spaces of Casa Bonavita, too. Between the honey-hued buildings and the palm-and-bougainvillea-framed pool, a vast garden unfurls, studded with ancient columns, statues and fountains.

Christopher nurtured the garden himself: ‘The vision was to create a series of secluded spaces through generous, layered planting, allowing the garden to remain on the edge of wildness while still having structure.’

Plants were chosen with the climate and seasons in mind so that there is something beautiful to look at year round. Once again, this acute sense of care lends itself to a family home; Christopher was dead-heading geraniums when I spoke to him — not your typical proprietor.

Red Savannah can organise four night stays at Casa Bonavita from £2,195 per person, on a bed and breakfast basis. The price includes private airport transfers from and to Malta airport, and return economy flights from London Heathrow to Malta (including a checked bag).

According to Waitrose, the ‘rosé tipping point’ — the outdoor temperature at which Britain’s middle classes start glugging the salmon-pink lady petrol with the same enthusiasm of a water-starved castaway — is 20˚C. Given that the Isle of Wight averages 37 hours of sunshine a week, you’d be forgiven for thinking islanders are popping the cork all year round and in truth, you’re probably right.

The pretty Victorian seaside resort of Ventnor, on the south-east coast of the island, enjoys both above-average sunshine hours and its own microclimate with air, according to The Times in 1841 ‘assimilated to the mild climate of the island of Madeira’ and, to paraphrase Sir John Betjeman, areas of garden so full of exotics, you almost expect a bird of paradise to flit from bloom to bloom. Others have drawn comparison with the Amalfi coast, with Ventnor’s breakneck precipices, zig-zag roads and steep steps echoing those of Positano.

Along the esplanade, directly behind where Ventnor’s 478 foot New Victoria Pier once jutted proudly out to sea, stands The Terrace Rooms & Wine, an immaculately restored Italianate-style villa — with turrets that are said to have inspired Prince Albert’s designs for Osborne House — that offers a more indulgent restorative for those that need a tad more than sea air and sub-tropical climes: wine.

Owned and run by Tom and Ashley Fahey, the six-bedroom boutique bolthole oozes relaxed epicurean indulgence. The rooms are light and airy, conceived in muted tones of putty, peach and artichoke; a pleasing blend of period features complemented by mid-century furniture, sumptuous super-king Hypnos beds and soothing sea views. The dusky scent of rose geranium and cloves gently wafts from the sensorial La-Eva products found in the bathrooms. We stayed in Room Five, an expansive split-level option that also offered views of the beautiful Cascade Gardens (designed at the turn of the 20th century by then town surveyor Edgar James Harvey) that tumble down towards the lapping sea. For those that insist on travelling with their two-or-four-legged shadow(s), sizeable Room Six (The Annexe) is both child (aged 12 or older) and dog friendly. 

Downstairs, the residents’ drawing room yawns out onto a sunlit glass pergola overlooking the coppery shingle and golden sand beach. If the view alone isn’t enough to feast on, prepare yourself for the exquisite four-course breakfast served in this room. I’ve eaten many hotel breakfasts and I can say, hand on heart, this was one of the best. Highlights include — but were not limited to — homemade Irish soda bread and bite-sized sausage rolls, a deconstructed full English (including Isle of Wight tomatoes — yes, please), Oxfordshire’s finest Ue coffee and local Briddlesford Farm milk, fresh from their Guernsey herd.

Now, back to the main event — the bottled poetry. Tom is ranked a Top 12 UK Sommelier (2025) and the hotel holds both the UK’s best rosé wine list and best New Zealand wine list (Star Wine List Awards 2025). In essence, you’re in excellent hands. Each evening, residents are invited to a wine tasting in the magnificent wine library, home to about 1,200 bottles which line the walls and almost every available surface. The tastings are gloriously unpretentious and, as Tom assures a fellow guest, ‘there are no rules here.’

As he pulls out three bottles — two rosés (one pale, one dark) and a red — all produced by Château du Cros in Bordeaux, we discuss the UK’s preference for the palest of the pale. He explains that in 1985, Château Barbeyrolles created the style we all now know as pale Provence rosé using a winemaking method called ‘direct press’. Meanwhile, Californian White Zinfandel was swiftly becoming the gateway wine of an entire generation, embedding the idea that dark rosé is sweet and estates such as Miraval, Domaines Ott and Chateau D’Esclans were turning pale rosé into a yachties lifestyle brand.

‘This is now a crisis for many wine regions,’ Tom sighs. ‘It is now almost impossible to put quality dark rosé on a shelf and expect anyone to look twice at it. The standard order for “your palest” or “the one most like Provence” rosé has negatively impacted traditional — and ironically bone dry — styles from Navarra, Tavel, Bordeaux and Montepulciano. Producers in these areas must palewash or die.’

Feeling a little ashamed of my own misconceptions, we taste the three Bordeaux on the table. The 2022 endangered dark rosé is lusciously dry with notes of dried peel, pink grapefruit and baking spice — the perfect Christmassy winter wine or in fact, is it a year-round rosé? It’s a revelation.

As we mull over what we might like to sup in front of the roaring residents room fire that evening, I dare to raise the question of ice — is it an oenophile’s faux pas? Tom reveals that at the low soaking temperatures during the winemaking process, the skins lend colour and flavour, but none of the astringent tannin that often leads consumers to shun ‘too dry’ red wines. ‘They are not simply winter rosés, but a superb red alternative all year round,’ he confirms. ‘And — whisper it! — they often take an ice cube far, far better than their under-flavoured pale cousins, creating an almost Campari or negroni like feel to a slightly longer and — unlike vermouth — bone dry drink.’

Rooms at The Terrace Rooms & Wine start from £250 a night including four-course breakfast and nightly wine tastings. Visit the hotel website for more information and to book.

Pity the man who never got to fly on Concorde. Your correspondent was but four when the aircraft was discontinued and, akin to many, has been awaiting the return of supersonic flight with glee. Let us rejoice, for a successor has finally landed: the European Space Agency is currently developing a jet called Invictus that aims to travel at five times the speed of sound. This, we are told, will deliver passengers from London to Sydney in only three hours.

Against these soaring ambitions stand our airports: once-proud institutions that have, in recent years, become pandemonium. Practically no one enjoys them anymore. Two-thirds of the British public believe they are overcrowded and, according to Sail Croatia, three of our main hubs — Stansted, Gatwick and Heathrow — rank among the five most stressful airports on Earth.

The EU’s new Entry-Exit-System, reliant on biometric data, has been blamed for a recent hike in delays and missed flights. During the US government shutdown at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta earlier this year, paid entertainers were hired to alleviate tensions among those facing superqueues — a strategy akin to putting out a fire with a comedy skit.

If aerospace engineers are capable of building a jet that reaches Mach 5, you’d think that those in charge of our airports would manage to improve things here and there. As David Mitchell says: It's not rocket science. Yet the decline appears terminal. There is perhaps no better metonym for it than the screens that appear after security with four smiley faces, ranging from happy (green) to irate (red): a lazy substitute for adequate staff training. Indeed, a 2025 report from the device’s parent company showed that, even on the best of days, more than one in ten travellers said they’d had a bad time.

With a fall in service comes a fall in glamour — not for lack of trying from some. Designer Anya Hindmarch now has a shop, Air Anya, selling luggage tags and passport holders reminiscent of the 1970s. If only the people at the airport check-in counter were even half as fun. Instead, I have been forced to watch as British Airways asks Gold members to check in hand-luggage small enough to serve as Playmobil.

Isolated attempts at progress are often futile. Where London has done away with the 100ml limit on carry-on liquids, others have not: a fact worth remembering as people plan to bring home large bottles of Factor-50 for the next heatwave. These will be confiscated, unless one remembers to put this in the suitcase that BA has made them surrender as cargo. A more capacious overhaul is needed. I’d put the engineers in charge.

This feature originally appeared in the July 1, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

The clue’s in the name: Palm Beach. There are palm trees and a long strip of beach. There’s also bright-pink bougainvillea on every house, jasmine in the air, singing mockingbirds competing with the gentle purr of the odd Rolls-Royce and roads with names such as Hibiscus Avenue and Coral Lane (Gulfstream Road, too, which is appropriately Palm Beach because almost everyone here owns one). Right at the centre of it all is the new, gleaming, bright-white hotel on the block, The Vineta.

It’s boom time in Palm Beach, but not necessarily for the reason you think. Sure, Donald Trump is often in town and holds court at Mar-a-Lago, his Florida home and country club (the joining fee, cannily hiked shortly before his second presidential term began, is now $1 million).

However, the frenetic activity and influx into this surprisingly small, moneyed patch of America — which boasts the highest density of billionaires in the country, I’m told on my second night there — isn’t all due to him.

Think of it like the gold-rush to the Cotswolds. It’s a slightly glib comparison, but not entirely dissimilar. Californians and New Yorkers have flocked south to Palm Beach for more space, sunnier climes (at least, the ones from New York) and, crucially, more favourable taxes. This means that what has long been a wealthy area is now even more so.

It’s not possible, alas, to do a bus tour of the stars’ homes as you can in Hollywood, but take a walk up the lake trail and you’ll pass $50-million-plus house after $50-million-plus house. Drive around Palm Beach with a local and they’ll point out the Lauder house or Tom Ford’s house or the Peltz house, setting for the, ahem, controversial Brooklyn-Peltz wedding in 2022. Every other car is a Cullinan; a jar of jam in the new Bilboquet deli, a casual offshoot of the famous restaurant, will set you back $19.

This sunny spot has long been well served by swanky restaurants and members’ clubs that cost a cool half million or so to join. The likes of The Everglades Club, and Palm Beach Bath and Tennis have been here since Palm Beach started attracting the rich towards the beginning of the 20th century (on which more in a moment).

The famous pink Colony Hotel flung open its doors in 1947. However, other splashy openings are racing to keep up with demand. Polo kingpin Nacho Figueras opened The Polo Room restaurant last year. Über-exclusive members’ club the Carriage House, which opened in 2022 and is supposedly heavily influenced by 5 Hertford Street in London, has more recently jacked its joining fee to $400,000. Robin Birley has reportedly signed paperwork for a new club near Worth Avenue, which will be to Palm Beach what Maxime’s has become to Manhattan.

Then there’s the new jewel, The Vineta, a hotel bought by the Reuben brothers, David and Simon, in 2022 and managed by the Oetker Collection, the group’s first foray into the USA. Not bad for an island that is pretty small: just under four square miles or, if you prefer, the size of Richmond Park.

However, it’s technically incorrect to call The Vineta new. The building has almost always been a hotel (save for a brief transformation into a condominium block), ever since it opened to tourists in 1926. It was briefly called The Vineta back in the day, then it moved through various hands until it became The Chesterfield in 1989 and attracted Margaret Thatcher, Catherine Deneuve and Sir Rod Stewart.

After a three-year building project, the aesthetic now is classic Palm Beach: creams and blues, the odd splash of pink, with rattan detailing, shell sconces on the walls, orchids and ferns beside thick Assouline coffee-table books and wall-to-wall marble bathrooms (I should note here that the presidential suite is the only room with a bathtub; Florida is shower territory).

The interiors were handed over to the Paris-based designer Tino Zervudachi, who has looked after other hotels in the group, including the Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc in Antibes, France, and Eden Rock St Barths in the Caribbean. I have never before stayed in such a serene hotel room — more creams, more blues, rattan lampshades, fluted bedside tables — or a hotel room that has a menu that includes a page of injectables, should I need some. How about Nefertiti Neck, to smooth out those pesky lines? Or Trapezius Tox to relax my shoulders after the long flight?

The swimming pool is sensational — destined to launch a million Instagram posts. Tino spent some time in Palm Beach doing his homework and it shows. The spiral pool handrails, for instance, are designed to match the swirl on the town’s famous Clock Tower, overlooking the beach. Coco’s, the hotel’s restaurant, features old-timers steak Diane and crêpes Suzette, which regulars from the Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc may recognise. It all adds up to create a serene sense of continuity; the hotel may only just have opened, but it feels like a grande dame.

There’s also an in-room pet menu — including a ‘buddy burger’ beef patty with broccoli and rice for $18 or an ‘amuse pooch’ oatmeal cookie for $9. Every room (there are 41) is dog friendly. Palm Beach itself is extremely dog friendly. One morning, strolling the lake trail, I passed a chap in his eighties walking a Yorkshire terrier in a red MAGA cap. Moments later, I passed another with his poodle, in a navy MANA cap, worn by the other side; it apparently means ‘make America normal again’.

Walking is a good way to take in this place, because it’s small enough to explore on foot. Take a stroll down Worth Avenue and you’ll pass Chanel, Ferragamo and Palm Beach favourites Stubbs & Wootton (for slippers) and Lily Pulitzer (for tropical clothing). You’ll see plenty of Tesla Cybertrucks and perhaps even Mona Lisa. Not, I hasten to add, the painting, but a pig. One of the financiers has a pet pig, called Mona Lisa, whose walker takes her up and down the main drag every morning.

After that, I’d continue strolling to the Flagler Museum to brush up on Palm Beach history. Henry Flagler was the oil magnate and generous being who built the grand house that’s now a museum between 1900–02 for his third wife. He has been dubbed the ‘inventor’ of modern Florida for also constructing the railway that stretched the length of the state and allowed 19th-century travellers to discover this balmy patch of the USA. This was the Gilded Age, when it became fashionable for those who summered in Newport to winter down here.

Flagler constructed Palm Beach’s earliest glitzy hotels — the Royal Poinciana, The Breakers — and guests soon flocked. The architect Addison Mizner then rolled up his sleeves and started designing buildings in the style he’d become famous for, still evident across Palm Beach today: ‘Bastard-Spanish-Moorish-Romanesque-Bull-Market-Damn-The-Expense’, someone subsequently dubbed it. Houses and clubs that wouldn’t look out of place in Madrid, in other words, albeit with more tropical gardens. Palm trees, naturally, but also hibiscus, gardenias and plumbago. Colour is everywhere. Nothing is terribly subtle here.

‘The Palm Beach season, then as now, was a time of parties, concerts and entertainment as visitors arrived for a respite from the cold winter weather in Northern states,’ notes a plaque in the museum, beneath a grainy photograph of the Flaglers hosting a tea party on their lawn, alongside their friends visiting from Britain, the Duke and Duchess of Manchester.

That was as correct then as it is now, as the season still exists in these parts and runs roughly from Thanksgiving, when everyone descends from the north, until Easter, when they return to the east coast. ‘It basically empties, it’s a ghost town,’ says a friend, of the summer months, when it’s too hot and humid to do much outside.

However, during the season, oof, remember your vitamins — because it is busy. Supper after supper, charity event after charity event. Are we talking endless charity parties for blind and impoverished dolphins, I ask my friend, assuming there are a good number of rich people here looking for a cause — any cause — to distract them from pilates ($68 a class) and all that golf? ‘Not all,’ she says, contemplatively, ‘although we did go to a charity event for dolphins the other day.’

I stop by one drinks party at a private home (with the usual army of uniformed staff) with martinis the size of fish bowls and a woman tells me she’s drinking as many as she can before speaking to her lawyer about her divorce that evening. That party was to raise money for local beaches. The next night, at another charity do, in aid of the mangroves, former model and heiress Amanda Hearst makes a speech about the importance of the ocean and I talk to a Norwegian who only mentions half an hour into our conversation that he’s a director. Quite a major director. He’s Amanda's husband, Joachim Rønning, and he’s directed a ‘Tron’ film as well as the last in the ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ series.

Then it’s off to dinner at the Everglades; the next night, a supper at another private home by the pool. At least American dinner parties finish early, all wrapped up by 11pm. I developed a chest infection after several days here, despite the tropical warmth. London socialising is nowhere near as frenetic as Palm Beach in season.

In 1995, when property tycoon Frank Lahainer died in Palm Beach, the story goes, his widow Gianna had his body embalmed and kept at a funeral home for more than a month, so she didn’t have to skip any parties. ‘Why would I wait?’ Gianna reportedly said, ‘I would miss the season.’ Quite right.

This is a party town — and the fun must go on.

Rooms at The Vineta start from £735 per night on a B&B basis, excluding taxes. Click here for more information and to book.

Loch Fyne is Scotland’s longest sea loch, reaching 40 miles inland from the Sound of Bute. Kabn, a pair of private, off-grid cabins, is close to its head. From Glasgow, it only takes an hour to reach them, driving along Loch Lomond and down a bumpy track that cuts through the Ardkinglas Estate.

Our cabin — sleek and black, all charred timber topped with solar panels, and floor-to-ceiling windows — stands sentry between a woodland stream and the shoreline. Inside, there’s a cloud-like bed, a hot rain shower, a well-equipped kitchen (with 15 herbs and spices) and a wood-burning stove. Everything is considered and sustainably sourced, including the recycled plastic duvet.

For now, though, our focus is on the outside: swimming in the icy water; barbecuing on the Big Green Egg; sitting by the fire pit; watching the light on the loch. We’re absorbed by the flicker of flames, thinking about everything and nothing. And then a seal pops its whiskery head out of the water and looks at us, and we could hardly be happier.

Cabins are having a moment. Not all of them are strictly off-grid (meaning that they function independently of public utility networks), however, they are often remote enough to feel like it. The majority featured below are only connected to the mains for water.

Of the luxury 'glamping' accommodation represented by Canopy & Stars, cabins account for 352 of 855 places and 50% of bookings. They mostly appeal to urban couples, aged 25-44, according to the specialist, especially 25-34 year olds who live in London, Manchester and Bristol and want to mark a special occasion. Solo travellers also like them. ‘They’re one of the fastest growing parts of our collection,’ agrees Sarah de Vere-Drummond of Kip Hideaways, ‘especially those that have something special, like an outdoor bath, or a wild swimming spot or re-wilding landscape on their doorstep.’

The rising popularity of cabins reflects a wider shift in hospitality, say the founders of Koto, who make place-specific cabins for private homes and, increasingly, members’ clubs, luxury wellness and international hotel groups. ‘Guests are moving away from traditional hotel formats towards something more personal and immersive, closer to a private retreat than a standard room.’ Architects Holiday are more direct: ‘We offer an alternative hotel solution for a new world demanding change, with health, wellbeing and environmentalism at the forefront.’

This need for change is often informed by disillusionment or burnout — including among the cabin owners themselves. Kabn founders Amber and Charlie Teale both had ‘risk-averse corporate careers’ before they realised their passions lay elsewhere. Jimmy Roupell ran a toy company (it went down a storm on Dragon’s Den), but dreamt up Rest + Wild because the ‘pace felt unsustainable and the purpose no longer felt right’. Hector Hughes worked for a tech startup, ‘flying around the world, spending all day on my phone’ and launched Unplugged following a 10-day stint in a Buddhist temple on top of a mountain. He wants to plug a gap in the market between high-end and spiritual retreats. ‘The big reflection for me is that we have ended up, for better or worse, with an environment, lifestyle and society that’s unsuited to how we’re biologically designed,’ he says.

Unplugged suggests that you lock away your phone, but even if you cannot quite do it, a cabin is a great way to disconnect, says cabin-goer and Country Life’s Digital Commissioning Editor, James Fisher. ‘It’s a bit of a cliché to say it, but the real break these days is from your emails. When you go to a cabin where you’re left alone and you open the curtains in the morning and the whole natural world is revealed to you, your brain switches off in a way it doesn’t necessarily when you’re staying in the nicest suite at Claridge’s. It’s a different kind of luxury that only the natural world and a true sense of escape can provide.’

When nature is at the heart of something, design that prioritises low-impact construction, locally-sourced materials and energy-efficient operation is part and parcel. Japanese and Scandi influences run rife; clever storage is key. They rarely feel too pared back though, because cabin owners are experts at ‘finessing the wild luxury experience,’ according to Sarah. At the time of writing, 155 of Canopy & Stars’ cabins come with hot tubs, while 58 have a sauna. However, cabin goers do not expect, or even want, too much luxury, and to be waited on hand and foot. ‘It’s that feeling of being fully independent and away from it all,’ says James. ‘I think we are starting to realise, especially with the advent of AI, that we’re slowly losing the ability to even think for ourselves, and that is really what we need a holiday from — that sense of being swaddled.’

For some guests, taking time out has proved a profound experience, even a life-changing one. ‘People write letters to us saying, “This has helped our marriage”, “This has helped us have a baby”, “This has helped me grieve”,’ says Jimmy of Rest + Wild. The visitor’s book at Kabn is further proof. The comments — ‘We watched the weather change, spotted otters and spent time reading and sketching; I leave feeling restored and hopeful.’ — are heartfelt, ecstatic even, waxing lyrical about the scenery and the wildlife.

During our two-day stay, my twin sister and I spend a lot of time tracing the water’s edge, watching the oyster catchers and the seals, reuniting a tiny lamb that found itself on the wrong side of a fence with its mother and enjoying the sense of joy that comes with being a part of something bigger.

Cabins make it easier for city dwellers to dip their toes into the ‘simple life’ — with minimal fuss and footprint. We get to stay on farms and the grounds of stately homes; in return, landowners get to better balance their books. They reinforce the beauty and value of nature and the need to protect it. Sometimes, they even encourage us to make changes to our lives. And they offer the same restorative effects as a good spa break in a shorter space of time and at a lower cost. They really are a win-win.

Kabn, Loch Fyne, Scotland

Amber and Charlie Teale were inspired to set up Kabn following holidays in Africa and Japan. They loved ‘staying in a really lovely property in the middle of nowhere,’ and the ‘feeling that the minimalist aesthetic of Japan creates.’

Food is a priority. Guests can eat or buy fresh seafood from the brilliant Loch Fyne Restaurant & Oyster Bar and Inveraray Seafood Shack.

Cabins in the Cairngorms and Sutherland are on the horizon (in September 2026 and 2027 respectively).

Two nights in a Kabn cabin start from £510.

Elsa, Unplugged, Bodmin Moor, Cornwall

The focus at Unplugged is on digital detoxing, with guests invited to lock away their phones for three nights. An instant camera is provided for photographs, and a Nokia for emergencies.

The startup now has more than 50 cabins spread across the UK and Spain; Elsa is one of 10 with a hot tub and sits in a dark-sky preserve on farmland grazed by wild ponies and Highland cows. There are more Unplugged cabins to come, says co-founder Hector Hughes. ‘We want to get as many people as possible doing this. The challenge for us is, can we make it socially acceptable and cool and aspirational to spend three days offline in a cabin?’

Three nights in Elsa start from £575.

The Red Cabin, Oare, Kent

The Red Cabin was always going to be in good hands with Tally Rix, who used to edit Architect’s Journal Specification and still publishes Open Air Business Magazine (a trade publication for diversifying landowners) alongside husband Steve.

There are now five locally-hosted Red Cabins in Kent, Norfolk, the Somerset Levels and the Cotswolds — the latter on the regenerative farm of Andy Cato (of Groove Armada and Wildfarmed fame). All sleep up to three or four, and have integrated wood-fired saunas, hot tubs or plunge pools and Passivhaus insulation; at Red Cabin Oare, outside Faversham, guests can swim or paddle board on twin lakes and walk through the Oare Marshes bird reserve to the Three Mariners pub. A firm favourite.

Two nights in a Red Cabin for four people start from £450.

Architects Holiday, Great Park Farm, near Battle, East Sussex

This growing cluster of cabins is a passion project of Built Works’ architects Will Gowland and Harry Kay — and sits on Will’s family farm outside Battle. Rituals are the big thing here: new Yogis Cabin comes with a yoga studio, spring-fed natural swimming pool, engawa wraparound deck and woodland views. There is also Bather’s Cabin, Cabin X and Hill Cabin, plus a farm shop and a wood-fired sauna that guests can book for private three-hour sessions.

Yogis Cabin starts from £320 a night; sauna sessions from £45.

Rest + Wild, Shropshire

Rest + Wild is all about taking time out, sinking into an outdoor copper bath and immersing yourself in ‘pockets of the country where you don’t hear anything but birdsong.’ Jimmy and wife Sarah now have four collections of three cabins in Exmoor, Yorkshire and Shropshire. The latter are buried in 5,000 acres of ancient woodland and rolling hills on the Downton Hall Estate, outside Ludlow, and are being refreshed for the summer holidays.

Two nights in a Rest + Wild cabin start from £400.

Denton Reserve, near Ilkley, North Yorkshire

Denton Reserve turned to Koto when it came to installing cabins on their 2,500-acre estate, plumping for their Haku off-grid suites on wheels model, which can be moved to make the most of viewing points and wildlife.

The three cabins join a Grade I-listed Georgian hall, The Penny Bun gastropub, wild swimming site and walled kitchen garden. You’ll fall asleep to the soundtrack of hooting tawny, little and barn owns.

Denton Reserve’s cabins start from £220 a night.

Some hotels spend an awful lot of time, energy and money trying to convince guests that they're cool. Ace Hotel in Brooklyn is not one of them.

This outpost of the growing group — they have a habit of opening in locations on the verge of being gentrified (in this case Boerum Hill on the fringes of Downton Brooklyn) — feels embedded in the neighbourhood around it.

It's a hotel but also: a community hub, workspace, music venue and, occasionally, what feels like Brooklyn's most attractive living room.

The rooms

The rooms are exactly what you'd hope for from a Brooklyn hotel — but executed better than most. There are concrete ceilings and ginormous factory casement windows, inspired by the building's industrial architecture. The latter allow light to flood in throughout the day; some look onto neighbouring residential buildings, others, on the upper floors, provide sweeping views across the city that are tricky to tear your eyes away from.

The decor — bespoke, mid-century-style furniture, locally-made artwork, accents of forest green and navy blue — helps to soften the industrial bones of the building.

My room came equipped with a vintage turntable, which immediately made me feel cooler than I actually am.

Eating and drinking

The Lobby (above) — open all day for coffee and food, and late into the evening when it transforms into a lively bar — is the hotel's beating heart.

A huge number of the local work-from-home crowd use it as a substitute office and, far from negatively affecting the atmosphere, they give the place purpose. Too many hotels try to cultivate a sense of exclusivity by restricting access to their communal spaces — and end up feeling soulless.

There's nothing soulless about Lele's Roman, a restaurant inspired by the lively Roman neighbourhood of Trastevere. You'd never know it, but it isn't operated by the Ace group itself, despite occupying the same building. Order a big bowl of rustic pasta — the world's greatest food group and I won't entertain alternative opinions — and a baby negroni (or three, which just about equals a normal serving).

There's also Koju, a 14-course omakase experience, for something a little bit more formal.

How they'll keep you busy

There is a gym outfitted by the heavyweights at Yeah, I Work Out, which looked excellent.

I had every intention of using it.

I did not.

Thankfully, there are plenty of other ways to occupy your time.

Ace's artist-in-residence programme means there's always something interesting to marvel at as you wander through the lobby. The hotel also maintains an impressively curated calendar of live music, parties, talks and community gatherings.

Failing that, simply retreat to your room and indulge in my favourite sport: people-watching.

What else to do while you're here

Ace describes its location as being 'at the ever-evolving intersection of everything'.

I approached such a claim with some scepticism. This is New York, after all. Every neighbourhood could make a convincing argument for being at the centre of culture, food, music, The Arts and whatever else happens to be fashionable that week. But the hotel sits just two blocks from Atlantic Avenue, the 10.5-mile thoroughfare stretching from Brooklyn's waterfront all the way to Jamaica, Queens. It's dotted with independent boutiques, homeware shops, vintage stores, upscale coffee shops and enviably well-stocked global grocers.

The area is also one of Brooklyn's major transport hubs, making it remarkably easy to hop into Manhattan whenever the mood strikes.

Who's it for?

Everyone.

That may sound like a cop-out, but Ace is fundamentally about community — and making guests feel like they're part of one. Whether you're travelling alone, as a couple or with a group of friends, there's a sense of belonging here that's surprisingly rare.

What gives it the 'wow' factor?

The attention to detail. The subtle kind.

The Smeg fridges tucked into the rooms. The wonderfully easy-to-use Tivoli radios. The quirky typography on the in-room dining menus and information packs. Every element feels considered without ever feeling precious.

The staff also deserve special mention — and not just because someone complimented my jacket minutes after arriving. Even at my pre-dawn departure they were warm and helpful.

The one thing we'd change

Activity from The Lobby and the rumble of nearby subway lines might disturb light sleepers. For most guests, however, it's simply part of the soundtrack of staying in one of New York's most characterful neighbourhoods.

Rooms at Ace Hotel in Brooklyn start from $349. For more information and to book, visit their website.

There are hotels that shout about their luxury and then there are those that simply assume you'll notice it. Hotel Metropole Monte-Carlo belongs firmly in the latter camp. Hidden behind its Belle Époque façade, just moments from the glittering heart of Monaco, it manages to feel both grand and unexpectedly intimate.

The rooms

The recently renovated suites and bedrooms, redesigned by Jacques Garcia, are a lesson in restrained indulgence — including my favourite, the Deluxe Premium Junior Suite. Decorated in the prettiest shade of yellow with delicate floral detailing, they mimic the Mediterranean light pouring in through the windows.

Clever televisions rotate 180℃, meaning they can face either the bed or the sitting room sofa, and gleaming silver, roll-top baths will have you thinking about cancelling your supper reservations in favour of another soak.

Then there's the Carré d'Or Suite which, as well as it’s own library, stocked with more than 100 books, has a sprawling terrace with envy-inducing views across the Principality. At present, it's furnished with rich plum upholstery and polished mahogany wood furniture, but rumour has it that Jacques Garcia is about to work his magic. If that's true, it will almost certainly become one of the most desirable suites in Monaco.

Eating and drinking

Les Ambassadeurs, the hotel's two-Michelin-starred restaurant, is a reminder that fine dining needn't take itself too seriously. I was looked after by the indomitable Marco, who I later discovered had received the Michelin Service Award 2026, ‘for his meticulous and elegant service’.

The meal is bookended by two trolleys — a chariot of bread, piled precariously high with sourdoughs and other inventive doughy creations, and a pudding trolley. In between, a page of the menu is dedicated to half-size dishes, should you want to try a little bit of everything.

Elsewhere, there’s Yoshi, the only Japanese restaurant in the region to hold a Michelin star, and a further two informal, al fresco options.

How they'll keep you busy

The Guerlain Spa is a calming sanctuary dressed in shiny marble, vanilla-coloured wood and discreet gold accents. With ten treatment rooms, a generous gym, hammam, sauna and sensory shower among its facilities, it's the sort of place where an hour somehow stretches into an entire afternoon.

Outside, you’ll find the hotel’s secret (at least to me) masterpiece: the Odyssey swimming pool. It is one of only two pools that CHANEL's Karl Lagerfeld designed and its monochromatic colour scheme is reminiscent of his own black and white ‘uniform’ consisting of a tailored black jacket, a high-collared, white starched shirt, a black tie, black jeans or trousers, and fingerless leather gloves. You’re protected from prying eyes by the elegant topiary surrounding it.

What else to do while you're here

Monaco's greatest hits are all within easy reach. Try your luck beneath the chandeliers of the iconic Casino de Monte-Carlo, watch the Changing of the Guard at the Prince's Palace or admire the parade of superyachts in Port Hercule.

The hotel is connected to the Metropole Shopping Monte-Carlo centre, and guests enjoy selected discounts across a wide range of boutiques. Before leaving, make a beeline for HeathStore, a French pharmacy-style emporium devoted entirely to health and wellbeing. It's the sort of place that inspires entirely unnecessary purchases — and puts Boots to shame.

The Monaco Royal Family's car collection is extensive (if you've thought of it, chances are the Grimaldis own it) and available to marvel at. You can read Country Life correspondent Zachary Weiss's feature on it, here.

Who's it for?

Couples and small groups of friends. Families are well accommodated, but the refined interiors and sophisticated swimming pool lend themselves to an older clientele looking for a glamorous escape rather than organised entertainment.

What gives it the ‘wow’ factor?

The swimming pool. I had no idea about its Karl Lagerfeld pedigree until a member of staff mentioned it, but even before then its striking design had completely drawn me in.

The one thing we'd change

The lobby. Despite the beautiful seasonal floral arrangement at its heart, the space feels very dark and a bit too cosy for a place that is blessed with year-round sunshine.

The new Jacques Garcia rooms start from €1,250 per night on a bed and breakfast basis. For more information and to book, visit the Metropole website.

What we think of when we picture luxury travel has changed over the years. Now it’s less private jets and piña coladas and more yoga retreats and home-made kombucha. We are, it seems, looking for meaningful experiences that enrich our lives instead of flashy status-symbols. As usual, throughout this process, people have been reminded that nature is priceless — particularly when it comes to the British countryside.

Although scrambling through the hedgerow in search of rosehips may not instantly scream ‘five star getaway’, foraging courses are now on the docket for many a luxury hotel guest in the UK.

At Bovey Castle, set amongst Dartmoor National Park in Devon, navelwort and nettle beer are on the menu just as much as caviar and Champagne are. It is just one of the Pride of Britain (PoB) Hotels — a curated collection of British hotels is annually reviewed — that are putting on foraging days.

‘A lot of people come to the hotel and they'll look at the view, but they won't actually explore the grounds. When you go out into these grounds today, you'll think: “Why are people not exploring this?” It's heaven down there, it's fantastic,’ says Thomas Radford, who is leading our foraging walk.

On the allure of foraging he adds: ‘I think people like to be guided and feel safe and, as opposed to just another boring drudge around the woods, it is something that brings it to life.’ In this country foraging is legal, as long as it’s not done on private land (for this you must have specific permission).

If we look back 300 years, knowledge about the plants you could and couldn’t eat was absolutely essential to survival. Some women possessed such a startling botanical arsenal that they were accused of witchcraft — something which many of them paid for with their lives. Sadly, with the rise of farming, when we started domesticating crops, and more recently supermarkets, this communal knowledge has since been mostly lost, with the exception of a few individuals.

As he leads us on a two hour walk around the grounds of Bovey Castle, a Grade II-listed early 20th-century mansion, Thomas points out the various plants we can gather and tells us about some of their uses. Elderflower is in season at the moment, and can be used to make cordial, flavoured gin or even elderflower wine. ‘But best use plastic bottles, as it does have a propensity to explode,’ Thomas says, detailing a particularly gory incident when a friend of his used glass bottles which, when one exploded, took his eye out.

Wild garlic is another useful ingredient in the foragers pantry, as is pink purslane, mint, navelwort, Jack-by-the-hedge and cleavers (otherwise known, amusingly, as ‘sticky willy’ — they make a brilliant diuretic that tastes of cucumber when left to soak in water overnight, apparently). Nettles, as long as they are pulled out with a glove to avoid stinging, make excellent nettle soup or beer.

The main thing that puts people off foraging, says Thomas, are ‘lookalikes’. Mushrooms are a prime example. We all, I’m sure, love the idea of cheffing up some self-foraged chanterelles on toast for supper as much as the next person, but many of us remember all too well reading a news story detailing someone’s death after accidentally eating a poisonous mushroom.

When it comes to lookalikes, Thomas never tastes the risk. As he puts it: ‘If you're going to die for something, don’t let it be salad.’ In Dartmoor, hemlock is the most common dangerous plant and can easily be confused with the totally benign cow parsley. Well known as the poison that killed Socrates, the innocuously-delicate white flowers of the plant bloom in clusters by bodies of water. If ingested, the alkaloids in the plant slowly poison the nerve-muscle junctions and cause the failure of the breathing muscles. Thomas aptly, but awfully, describes this as ‘a meat coffin that lasts hours’. We see plenty of it on our walk and I make sure to keep a healthy distance.

Despite the less than appetising description above, the trip did stoke my appetite for foraging. As long as you steer clear of those deadly lookalikes, it’s a healthy and interesting way to reconnect with nature and snaffle up some free grub while you’re at it. Plus the two-hour walk made sure I was ravenous for anything (but hemlock) once we were back in the hotel restaurant.

Booking for The Wild Larder: A Foraging Walk & Lunch with Thomas Radford is open now. Upcoming sessions at PoB Hotels include Thurlestone Hotel, Devon, on June 26 and Calcot & Spa, the Cotswolds, on June 30.

A copious quantity of apple strudel became the unintended consequence of a winter walking holiday in the Austrian Tyrol. We breakfasted and dined at our hotel each day, but lunch would see us at one mountain restaurant or another with a cold beer and a plate of apple pie. Sometimes the strudel would come with custard, sometimes with ice cream; sometimes it would be flaky and light, sometimes rich and dense. We were connoisseurs by the end of the week and quite happy to relinquish furthering our authority on the subject for many months to come.

Most afternoons, in walking off the strudel, our route back to base in Mösern would take us past an enormous bell erected on a high, circular platform with far-reaching views over the Inn Valley below. The bell, it transpired, is a peace bell, installed in 1997 to mark friendship, good neighbourliness and harmony in a region of historically contested borders. For a few minutes each day at 5pm, the 10-ton bell booms out across the valley — a sonorous reminder of a contract for peace.

Having never encountered a peace bell before, down the rabbit hole I went in pursuit of others, only to discover there are numerous peace bells the whole world over. Who knew, for example, of the Maria Dolens bell in the northern Italian town of Rovereto, perhaps the most solemn and ritualised of all bells, which tolls 100 times every evening to honour the fallen in all wars and to promote peace? Originally cast in 1924 from melted bronze of cannons used in the First World War, this bell has been recast twice in the past century, but still weighs in at more than 22 tons as one of the largest ringing bells in the world.

There’s a jostling for first place, however, when it comes to famous peace bells. Some would say Japan’s 1964 bell in the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park takes top spot, partly for its direct link to a pivotal moment in history and thus widely recognised as the most potent symbol of peace in the nuclear age and partly because visitors get to ring it themselves — an active expression of the individual within a collective commitment to global unity. Many voices, one sound is how the theory goes. The Japanese, with bells deep-rooted in their culture, are particularly good bellmakers.

Indeed, perhaps the most famous peace bell, located in the garden of the UN Headquarters in New York, US, was crafted by the Japanese and presented by them to the UN in 1954. A pipsqueak in terms of weight, coming in at only a fraction of a ton, this bell is heavy on post-Second World War symbolism, cast from coins collected from more than 60 countries and inscribed with the Japanese rendering of ‘Long live absolute world peace’. Alas, it is rung very rarely — on the spring equinox in March and on September 21, the International Day of Peace.

In our current turbulent and troubled times, the bell to which I find myself most readily drawn is Germany’s Freedom Bell, located in the tower of the Rathaus Schöneberg in Berlin. This 10-ton bell, which rings daily at 12 noon in the spirit of freedom and harmony, was funded by 16 million American donors and given to the city in 1950 as a symbol of solidarity between the US and West Germany during the Cold War. Quite an act of fellowship, I should say.

How prescient it seems, therefore, that our King recently gave the US President a big brass bell from a British Second World War submarine as a token of our allied friendship. Perhaps Donald Trump would like to sit down with a slice of apple strudel and start ringing his bell. Who knows what might happen?

This feature originally appeared in the June 3, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Behind a fortress of wild white roses, I spy, from the comfort of my own bed, perhaps, the most magnificent view in all of Italy laid out beneath me: the city of Florence. Where is this bed, I hear you ask? In Villa San Michele, a Belmond hotel.

I have been coming to this part of the world since I was a child. My English aunt, Maureen, married an Italian, Gino, and, with their three daughters, lived a 25-minute or so drive away from this lavish villa in the dinky town of Montelupo Fiorentino — a place I remember fondly for its brilliantly creamy gelato and sleepy pizzerias.

I’m spending two days in the stately villa, which serves as a reminder of why the cradle of the Renaissance continues to fascinate and intrigue. Since the 15^th century, San Michele has led countless lives, firstly as a humble Franciscan monastery and later as a wartime base for the French republic’s rebel, Napoleon.

It became a hotel in the 1950s and has been visited by a dizzying array of stars and nobility from The King (then the Prince of Wales), to Julia Roberts, Robert De Niro, George Clooney, and Gwyneth Paltrow.

A few weeks ago it emerged from an 18-month-long renovation, overseen by Florence-based interior design studio Luigi Fragola Architects, with 39 rooms and suites, three restaurants and Italy’s first Guerlain spa. The question is, was the refurb worth the wait? The devil really is in all of its fantastical details.

The 27 suites and 12 bedrooms pay homage to local Tuscan craft and to the country’s botanical heritage. Think ornate, floral tapestries and frescoes (the latter were restored by Florentine artists), scagliola furniture and restored Baroque fireplaces. Impruneta terracotta has been used with wild abandon in the floors and all of the bathrooms have been clad in green-veined cipollino marble. The bathroom in the Signature Garden Suite is a particular showstopper.

The best room in the house is the Limonaia Suite — a two-storey, Fiesolan-style villa that’s full of curios, antiques and collectibles. To my delight, the minibar was stuffed full of Ginori teacups. The gloriously plump bed sits beneath a beautifully ornate mural of woodland and fluttering birds. And there’s a private garden and plunge pool with 180-degree-views and a sightline to the Duomo.

The main gardens are extensive — and one of San Michele’s most impressive assets — tended to, during the renovation, by Luca Ghezzi Garden Design. The terraced sprawl — paved avenues, immaculate flowerbeds and borders , a 200-year-old wisteria — currently covers an immense 10,000sq m. Blooms include lavender, rosemary, agapanthus, hydrangea, pomegranate, iris and boxwoods, plus bountiful citrus trees (lots of lemons) and a stately 42m-long avenue of roses.

The driving design force is geometry, not just for aesthetics, but to evoke the Roman ideal of otium (Latin for ‘leisure’). The garden is a space for contemplative leisure, relaxation and the pursuit of tranquility, conversation and appreciation. Essentially, garden gossip.

Food? Hit and miss. Executive chef’s Alessandro Cozzolino’s menu reinterprets (a word I often shudder at on Italian menus) Tuscan classics, and while bold in presentation and setting (on the terrace) the dishes at the San Michele Restaurant often miss the mark by falling victim to the chef’s ‘twists’ and attempts at experimentation. That said, the Neapolitan’s talent shines when it comes to pizza — the margarita, for example, is a total triumph. No easy feat.

Despite the new money crowd who like to show off at golden hour on the veranda it’s all very relaxing. The new Villa San Michele has been designed with Belmond’s ‘slow living’ philosophy in mind, and, as such, there are ‘Energy Raising’ programmes and yoga decks available on demand. Yes, the Guerlain spa is pretty, and yes, the treatments are indulgent, but reading your book on your own, rose-scented balcony will put you in a similarly transcendent state. Is there a greater pleasure in life? I think not.

While the Florence of my youth has changed beyond recognition — thank you overtourism – Villa San Michele serves as a reminder of the city that once was. A peaceful sanctuary of beauty and inspiration.

Rooms at Villa San Michele, a Belmond Hotel, start from £1,400 on a bed and breakfast basis.

In Monaco, someone’s always got a bigger boat. This is especially true on Grand Prix weekend. Some 200 vessels turned up for Formula One’s (F1) most famous street race this year, blaring their horns at the end of the 78 laps in honour of Mercedes driver Kimi Antonelli’s flawless drive to victory. The biggest yacht in Port Hercule was the 122-metre-long Kismet, available for charter for £2.6 million a week. That’s not including a trackside mooring (£130,000), or a tip for the crew (normally 10% of the charter fee).

However, I discovered a way of doing the Monaco Grand Prix in similar style, with a much bigger boat, and an even louder horn. It boasts staff, service and facilities that I doubt any billionaire’s berth could surpass. Welcome aboard the Silver Ray.

The Silver Ray is the newest cruise ship by Silversea, a pioneer of the all-inclusive cruise and one of the undisputed industry leaders in what’s becoming a luxury arms race. At 244 metres, it dwarfs Kismet. You can peer down your nose at the Lürssen-built bateau from your 11^th floor rooftop pool, which is far more accommodating. It doesn’t have a big H on the bow deck like its navy-hulled neighbour, but Monaco’s heliport is five minutes by tender. And while I hear you complain that you can’t compare a private yacht to a bloody great ship, it’s a rather sleek-looking thing as cruisers go. Painted in elegant white and silver, there’s no Disneyfied gaudiness about this vessel. It hides its 55,000-tonne girth well, and its interior spaces are all handsomely designed.

Silversea keeps passenger numbers down. There are a maximum of 728 guests and a very VIP 1.3:1 ratio of guests to crew. With many guests off on shore activities each day, and others preferring to relax in their cabins, I often found I had an entire deck to myself. Never did I struggle to find a free sunbed.

My trip to the Grand Prix started ten days earlier, in Civitavecchia near Rome. Having checked into my very smart suite, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows and a vast terrace from which to watch the world drift by, I witnessed the arrival of a USA Secret Service motorcade and the decanting of Donald Trump Jr and his new bride. They were also heading to the Monaco Grand Prix. Not on the Silver Ray, you’ll be relieved to hear. They stepped onto the piddling 76-metre yacht Boardwalk V which belongs to the American ambassador to Italy. I imagine the UK’s man in Rome makes do with a canoe. The Boardwalk V has two helicopter pads but, again, I feel it was outclassed by my monumental transport. At this point I want to say the race was on, but while I tracked the Boardwalk V on MarineTraffic, the Silver Ray and I would take a more circuitous and leisurely route; F1 may be measured in thousandths of a second, but why not take your time getting there?

We headed south to Salerno, where I visited the ancient ruins of Pompeii; cruised back along the Amalfi coast and up to Livorno, in Tuscany, where I went truffling with three adorable lagotto romagnolo dogs, and toured medieval Lucca. From there we sailed north to Portofino, and then back through the Ligurian and Tyrrhenian seas to Porto Santo Stefano, where I tried hitting some golf balls at Italy’s only PGA course, Argentario. Then we set course west to Ajaccio, the capital of Corsica and birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte. I explored all these places, and at sea I would stand on my port-facing terrace with the powerful binoculars that came with the room and imagine I was on the bridge; like Oscar-nominee Barkhad Abdi, I was the captain now. When I wasn’t writing on my terrace, or pretending to be a pirate, I would read by the pool under a cloudless sky. And when I wasn’t doing that, I was eating and drinking like a king. There are eight restaurants on board covering everything from fine dining to casual, Italian, French and Japanese. Three of the restaurants involve a small additional cost, and I never felt the need because the all-inclusive ones and house wines were so good.

There was also entertainment and talks, including from Top Gear’s first Stig, racing driver Perry McCarthy, who’s proven far more successful on the after-dinner circuit than he did on the F1 circuit, he won’t mind me saying.

Due north to Monaco we sailed for our two-day penultimate destination, and here’s where a cruise ship really comes into its own. It affords a spectacular view of the Principality. We anchored just outside Port Hercule, and there’s an advantage to this; unlike those staying in the cramped, overpriced berths within the harbour walls we weren’t kept awake by dreadful Dutch electronic dance music (EDM), nor were we awoken by the wail of racing engines first thing in the morning.

What you can’t quite do, even with my big binoculars and the ship’s 11^th floor elevation, is see the cars going around. Silversea has thought of that, so they’ll sell you access to one of the best views money can buy. Silversea took a large top floor apartment in Le Beau Rivage, just beyond Turn 1 and with overhead views of the cars as they screamed towards Casino Square. You could also see down to Tabac corner and across to the Swimming Pool section and the pits. This life-affirming vista inspired a young American lady with whom I was sharing a bit of balcony to seize the moment by sprinkling ashes over the track. I’m afraid that some of her father went in my drink. Still, waste not want not.

The price of this once-in-a-lifetime experience, minus the cremation, is from £8,000 for the whole 11-day itinerary, including all food and drink, and even the staff tip. That’s exceptional value, given the service exceeded the levels I’ve experienced in any five-star hotel, and that a tiny cabin on a nice, but modest yacht for Grand Prix weekend will run you about £28,000, with none of the Silver Ray’s facilities. The Beau Rivage terrace, with food and drink for Saturday and Sunday is priced at £3,967 per person.

From Monaco, we sailed day and night to Barcelona, where we disembarked. It felt liberating to have visited so many places without having to pack and unpack each time, or battle traffic and crowded airports, or really make any plans beyond which activities to tick. It’s like a hotel where the view changes every day, and which arrives directly into one of the hardest-to-access events in the world. For F1 fans, it’s a floating Paddock pass.

Mark Rothko was too busy gazing into the abyss to engage in small talk and throwaway lines. Yet every now and then he came up with a zinger. ‘A painting is not an image of an experience,’ he once declared. ‘It is an experience.’ Well said, sir. Though I suppose, if you were to split hairs, you might reasonably counter that there’s no reason why a painting can’t be both an experience and an image of an experience.

The perception is particularly pertinent to the magnificent new retrospective of the artist’s work, Rothko in Florence, on display at three venues in the city until August 23. The show raises all manner of interesting questions, one or two of which follow directly from that rare zinger of his. Does it matter where the art experience is experienced? And if so, why?

Most of the 70 or so paintings included in Rothko in Florence are on display at Palazzo Strozzi. They span the artist’s entire career and are presented chronologically: the figurative works of the 1930s; the ‘mythomorphic’ and ‘multiform’ works of the 1940s; the signature-style colour-field works of the 1950s and 60s.

The vast, grand and gloomy palazzo makes for a splendid showcase for Rothko’s vast, grand and gloomy paintings — though one of the most striking features of the exhibition is the manner in which it reveals the variation in Rothko’s emotional and chromatic palette.

The strange radiance of the late black-and-grey paintings, for example, is as irresistible as it is unlikely — trumped only, perhaps, by the final works, created shortly before the artist took his own life in 1970, in pale blue, tan and terracotta. These are beautifully hung in a smaller room that has been configured to recall the Rothko Chapel in Houston. Hats off to the curators — the artist’s son Christopher Rothko and Elena Geuna — for orchestrating this ravishing, uplifting finale to the exhibition.

Even if that were — so to speak — all, Rothko in Florence would be a remarkable exhibition, one that allows you to see the work of a familiar master in the round and from a fresh perspective. An experience, certainly — and one that is further enriched by the smaller displays at the two other satellite locations.

Rothko himself had little interest in travel. ‘His paintings travel much better than he ever did,’ as his son put it to me. Nevertheless, it would be difficult to overstate the importance to the artist of his three visits to Italy, in 1950, 1959 and 1966, or, having seen the new exhibition, to deny the bearing they had on his work.

The vestibule of the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, or Laurentian Library, was conceived by Michelangelo in the decade or so before he quit Florence for Rome in 1534. It was, and remains, a uniquely disconcerting space: claustrophobic, despite its high ceilings; locked-in and seemingly without issue, despite its fine staircase; disorienting, despite its simplicity. There’s something almost occult about its oddity. Rothko loved it. ‘He achieved just the kind of feeling I’m after. He makes viewers feel they’re trapped in a room where all the doors and windows are bricked up, so that all they can do is butt their heads forever against the walls.’

For Rothko in Florence, two preliminary studies for the Seagram Murals project have been hung at the foot of the library stairs. Though relatively small by Rothko’s standards, they reverberate in this setting with the force of a double thunderclap.

I happened to be standing alongside Christopher when I stepped into the vestibule and, after casting my eyes about for a minute or two, caught sight and took stock of the paintings. Like finding a loose pair of eyeballs on the back seat of a taxi. I turned to him and remarked on their disproportionate impact in this setting. Did he, I asked, have a Plan B, in case for any reason these particular paintings didn’t quite work in situ? ‘This is Plan B,’ he laughed. ‘Plan A was to use different paintings in different positions. But when I got here to hang them yesterday, I realised that wasn’t going to work, because of the angle of the light from the windows in the west wall. Luckily I’d packed some spares, and it turns out they work pretty well here.’

A gentler, but no less arresting, effect is achieved in what is now the Museo Nazionale di San Marco, formerly the monastery where, roughly 100 years before Michelangelo, the Renaissance master and Dominican friar Fra Angelico worked (though didn’t, as is often supposed, live full-time; he bunked down at San Domenico, in the nearby hill town of Fiesole).

Rothko came to San Marco twice in two days in 1950 and once again in 1966. Five of his works have been installed alongside Angelico’s frescoes in five of the now vacated monks’ cells — tiny, with irregularly shaped whitewashed stone walls, some with small windows, others illuminated only by Angelico’s exquisitely rendered scenes from the gospels.

‘Think of it as if you were overhearing a respectful conversation between two masters,’ Elena Guena suggested. Simply to set the Rothkos alongside them in this fashion invites the viewer to look for similarities between the two artists, not only in terms of colour and tone, though these can be readily observed, but also in terms of attitude and intention.

The differences between the two artists surely outnumber their similarities by a gigantic margin. Yet the comparative exercise is not without value. Later I spoke to Carl Streckhle, an art historian, curator and authority on Fra Angelico, who agreed with Elena's notion of dialogue, only adding — with a poetic flourish — that this is a dialogue which occurs ‘not so much across time but in a world without time’.

I was in Florence as a guest of the Hotel Savoy — a marvellous hotel in hotel terms and an active participant in the city’s cultural conversation. I’ve stayed at the Savoy often over the years and can attest to the seriousness of its commitment to the Arts — a commitment expressed not only in its partnerships with high-profile institutions such as the Fondazione Palazzo Strozzi, but also through its own programme of talks, workshops and events.

Thanks to the relationships the hotel has fostered in the artistic community, the access it can provide to guests is fantastic (you have only to ask and arrangements will be made and doors will creak open on their ancient hinges).

Moreover, its Artists’ Suites are among the finest hotel rooms in Florence (my own favourite is number 403, from one of the several balconies of which you can see Palazzo Strozzi across the Piazza della Repubblica) — and its impeccable, whimsical little Bar Artemisia (named and decorated in honour of the immortal Artemisia Gentileschi) is likewise one of the city’s best.

After a full day’s worth of Rothko in Florence, it was to Bar Artemisia that I repaired for a glass of something chilled and interesting. ‘What have you got for a weary art-pilgrim with sore feet and a head full of Abstract Expressionism?’ I asked the genial head barman, Federico Galli. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘perhaps I could interest you in one of the cocktails on our new Maestro of Colours menu…’ Of course — I should’ve known they’d come up with a special menu of half a dozen cocktails ingeniously mixed to mimic paintings in the Rothko show.

I went for the Nocturne Vermillion, a blackberry-enhanced variation on the classic Negroni, which, in its meticulously suspended blocks of moody colour, did indeed bear an uncanny resemblance to Rothko’s Untitled: Red and Black 1953.

At dinner in the Savoy that evening I sat next to Arturo Galansino, director general of the Fondazione Palazzo Strozzi. This was a couple of days ahead of the opening of Rothko in Florence, but already the talk of the town was of little else and it was perfectly clear that the show would be a smash hit. I congratulated Arturo on his string of successes at Palazzo Strozzi over the past few years — Tracey Emin, Angelico, now Rothko. The sequence, he insisted, was important: something challenging, something safe, something challenging. He said his intention was to ‘wake Florence up gently, one jolt at a time’.

After dinner, despite the lateness of the hour and the soreness of my feet, I took a long stroll. For me, there are few cities more agreeable by night than Florence. Emptied of tour groups, its stony streets throng instead with friendly ghosts. In Florence, you don’t have to be a Rothko-sized genius to commune with the shades of Michelangelo and Angelico — whether you like it or not, there’s simply no avoiding them. Was there ever a city so densely populated by brilliant minds, so tightly packed with bright ideas as quattrocento Florence? Or one where the gap between present and past is so narrow and so apt to vanish altogether?

I can think of one, though only one: Cambridge, another small, beautiful, compressed city on a river that flourished spectacularly in the 14th century as both a transmitter, incubator and a repository of art and ideas.

Vladimir Nabokov devotes a few droll chapters of his memoir Speak, Memory to his time at Trinity College, Cambridge, in the early 1920s. Though distracted by girls and football and his own sense of émigré dislocation, he was far from oblivious to his surroundings. ‘I thought of Milton, and Marvell, and Marlowe, with more than a tourist’s thrill as I passed beside the revered walls,’ he writes. ‘Nothing one looked at was shut off in terms of time, everything was a natural opening into it, so that one’s mind grew accustomed to work in a particularly pure and ample environment, and because, in terms of space, the narrow lane, the cloistered lawn, the dark archway hampered one physically, that yielding diaphanous texture of time was, by contrast, especially welcome to the mind, just as a sea view from a window exhilarates one hugely, even though one does not care for sailing.’

Sail on to Florence, then, and take in the stupendous sea view of Rothko’s work that is presently on offer there, in the company of Michelangelo, Angelico and that astonishing city’s whole heavenly host.

'Rothko in Florence' is at the Fondazione Palazzo Strozzi, Museo di San Marco and Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana until August 23, 2026.

Rooms at at the Hotel Savoy Florence start from about £600.

It was at Tigh na Coille, a secluded cottage on a Highland hillside overlooking Loch Ness, that I idly flipped open a well-placed copy of A Place In Scotland, a 2024 interiors volume by designer Banjo Beale and photographer Alexander Baxter, and spied its opening statement. ‘Something is happening,’ claimed Beale. ‘A new confidence — and inspiring new voices — are redefining what Scottish style really is.’ ‘Well, quite,’ I thought, surveying the elevated Scandi-chic stylings around me courtesy of WildLand, the pioneering conservation-meets-hospitality group whose sprawling Aldourie estate we were at the edge of. If not quite new, WildLand can most definitely lay claim to being one of Scotland’s most inspiring voices.

I’ve been a regular visitor to the Highlands since 2012. Glance up at my byline above and you’ll spot an unmistakably Scottish surname; its roots are up here and I suppose the clan lands spoke to me. In fact, they quickly became my favourite place on Earth. Yet the idea that ‘something is happening’ was one that had been percolating only on recent visits and here Beale had laid it bare in print.

Natural beauty apart, the allure of the Highlands is its unhurried pace. It’s a place where things unfold rather than arrive. Photographer Robbie Lawrence spent five years photographing Highland gatherings for a book called Long Walk Home, recruiting decorated Scottish poet John Burnside to write its introduction. ‘Scottishness itself is as much myth as it is history,’ said Burnside. ‘Myths let us roam, they make space for the imagination, for reinvention…’ It might not be the imagined backdrop to the modern notion of relentless ‘creativity’, but innovation trickles like spring water here if you look closely enough.

Benjamin Morgan agrees. Morgan is a creative producer at Wild Gorse, a Belladrum-based fine art floristry studio that has styled everything from fashion events to Vogue-splashed weddings. ‘The Highlands is steeped in craftsmanship,’ he says. ‘We’re surrounded by an abundance of inspiration. There is space to be creative.’

Whisky, of course, has long been the most well-known canvas for creativity in the Highlands — its fans making pilgrimages to sample it at source; its bottles exported to every corner of the globe. Recent years, however, have seen a palpable acceleration among the big luxury-backed players. The theatrical Russell Sage makeover of Ardbeg House on Islay, the tasteful grassy Teletubbies domes installed at The Macallan’s unconventional Craigellachie headquarters, the Harrison Ford-fronted reboot of Glenmorangie are all cases in point.

Then there is WildLand. The brainchild of Danish billionaire Anders Holch Povlsen and his wife, Anne, it began as a conservation project in 2006, acquiring swathes of land with a bold 200-year vision to restore them ‘to their former magnificent natural state and repair the harm that man has inflicted on them’. The hospitality arm exists to help both fund that vision and educate guests on the reasons behind it. For instance, Povlsen had spent much of his childhood exploring the Glenfeshie estate in the Cairngorms and it had made a lasting impression. It was the first piece of land they purchased (the Povlsens, with 1%, are now Scotland’s biggest private landowners) and, aptly, where I began my WildLand tour.

Head naturalist Steve Liddle led the charge, first through the fords of the Feshie river in a Land Rover and then on foot, past the backdrop of rolling Munros that inspired Edwin Landseer to paint The Monarch of the Glen here in 1851. The quickly rattled-off stats caused jaws to drop: more than 6.5 million trees have been hand planted since 2014, the treeline rejuvenated to a level not seen in more than a century. A zero-tolerance policy on sapling-hungry deer has seen an average of 25 per square kilometre reduced to only two. Young deerstalker Finlay Davidson jokes about the notorious summer midges putting him off his aim, but insists on ‘taking every precaution to get a clean shot’. (In a newly agreed scheme, the resulting venison gets delivered to local schools.)

As old fencing has been torn down around the estate, Liddle’s conservation team has grown; 40 of them — Davidson included — now work on deer management, peatland preservation, mapping an extensive biodiversity index and conducting wildlife-impact assessments. (‘First, there’s habitat restoration, then there’s species return,’ explains Liddle, referring to the likes of raptors, beavers and wildcats — lynx are mooted to follow.) At one point, we stopped at a stream and were encouraged to drink the straight-from-the-mountain water. If these lands have inspired creativity in others, here the simple creativity of the land itself is given centre stage.

The next WildLand estate lay three hours north in Sutherland, proudly known as Scotland’s least-explored region, where the Highlands relax into an even more widescreen aspect ratio. Here, the seven-bedroom Kinloch Lodge and Kyle-of-Tongue-view Lundies House take up prime positions at the very tip of our isles, bathed, as I arrived, in late-evening, near-Arctic-Circle sun. That redefined Scottish style heralded by Beale is particularly present here owing to the work of Ruth Kramer, WildLand’s director of concept and design, who cites the stories and exhibits of the Highland Folk Museum and the ‘unhurried nature’ of the local area as inspiration for her relaxed, textural take on Scandi-Scottish fusion. A dreamscape wallpaper in its dining room and artist Claire Basler’s floral mural in my room, Isla, add a sense of flair to Lundies in particular. Nearby, WildLand has had a hand in resurrecting a local bakehouse and store, Burr’s of Tongue, a gathering spot for locals between trips down to the beach.

Further east, at the tip of Loch Hope, sits WildLand’s most ambitious project yet, Hope, a decade in the making and now, finally, open. Part hotel, part activity centre, part Scottish safari lodge — it’s so impressive in scope it almost defies description.

Even seeing it in its unfinished, undressed state, it was clear that this will be an opening to truly test Sutherland’s ‘least-explored’ claim. As the gateway to 114,000 acres of beach, hills, loch and woodland, not to mention its pole position on the fabled NC500 route, its crowd-pulling potential warranted some extraordinary attention to detail. Each of its external and internal wooden planks, for example, was chosen personally by Povlsen and nailed into place. Every stone-carved shower tray took 150 hours to fashion by hand. Some 225 miles of drystone wall have been erected in the area.

Before flitting back to the shores of Loch Ness for a final night in the comfort of Aldourie Castle, WildLand’s most overtly opulent stay, I stared out at Ben Hope as work on the lodge continued around me. ‘Something really is happening,’ I thought.

WildLand’s self-catering cottages start from £275 per night; hotels from £525 per night, on a full-board basis; and exclusive-use properties from £3,000 per night, on a full-board basis with an in-house chef and conservation-led experiences.

Rooms at Hope start from £1,100 per night, on a full-board basis, and include guided daily experiences and access to outdoor equipment.

Visit the website for more information and to book.

This feature originally appeared in the May 13, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

It’s been said that the United States of America is not a country, it’s an idea. In that case, so is the tiny principality of Monaco; a visionary sovereign nation conjured from the imagination of a Victorian prince that’s been polished and perfumed for the better part of two centuries.

Its story as a playground for the rich and infamous begins in 1865 with the opening of its Beaux-Arts Casino de Monte-Carlo. His Serene Highness Charles III commissioned it to stave off bankruptcy and, by Jove, it worked.

It was an ingenious move and not his last. Income tax for residents was abolished four years later. Charles III’s successors kept up the momentum, leading Monaco to build some exceptionally luxurious hotels, become a banking Mecca and home to one of the world’s finest oceanographic museums, have its own football team and, since 1929, host the annual Formula 1 Monaco Grand Prix.

Aristocrats, industrialists, film stars and, eventually, oligarchs with a fondness for improbable wristwatches followed. The Port Hercule attracted increasingly large and splendid motor yachts and, throughout, the state provided Fort Knox levels of safety and security, fostered a glamourous social, cultural and sporting scene, and promised discretion.

Three-quarters of a square mile of concrete spilling onto the Mediterranean in the shadow of the Alpes-Maritimes, Monaco is, as much as anything, a triumph of branding, a high-rise ghetto fantasy of unapologetic ostentation, where the Dom Pérignon is chilled, the supercars are loud, the blondes are pneumatic and the taxman is nowhere to be found. That’s the old stereotype of Monaco, however. Changes are afoot — and it’s time for a rebrand.

When I started visiting more than 25 years ago, it was nearly impossible to find anyone living in Monaco between the ages of 18 and 60. The young would leave for university and jobs in Paris, London, Frankfurt and New York. They wouldn’t return until they’d retired.

Now, families with small children are rolling in. Many come from the fintech world. Young professionals and entrepreneurs are drawn to the increasingly dynamic energy of the place, as well its stability, safety and the quality of life: there are amazing sporting facilities and La Turbie, which rises behind the principality, is a popular cycling challenge.

Milan, Geneva and the Alps are an easy drive and Nice airport is only seven minutes away (by helicopter). Such is the demand for international schooling that the British School of Monaco opened in 2022.

Monaco has long attracted wealth, but what it’s beginning to draw now is activity. Instead of simply storing money (and some very fine wine, if the cellars of the Hotel de Paris are anything to go by), people are coming to Monaco to build companies, to network, to innovate and to use it as their European hub.

As well as the 24-hour ballet of Bugattis and Rolls-Royces in the Place du Casino, you’re likely to see prams, school-run traffic and coffee meetings at the Café de Paris where people are huddled over PowerPoints, not merely watching the world go by.

The most visible manifestation of Monaco’s changes is physical. It is no longer constrained by geography. Where once it built upwards, now, it’s building outwards having reclaimed land from the sea and built projects such as Mareterra, a new district of about 15 acres extending from Portier into the Mediterranean.

Residences have been built by ‘starchitects’ such as Renzo Piano, Lord Foster and Tadao Ando. It’s a contemporary antidote to the rather ugly apricot-coloured tower blocks that sprung up in the Larvotto, Monte-Carlo and La Condamine districts in the 1970s and 80s. One residence that has gone very much up, rather than out, is the 49-storey Odeon Tower that was inaugurated in 2015; the first high-rise to be sanctioned since the 1980s and which stands out thanks to its reflective blue glass.

The new architectural direction for Monaco isn’t only about space, it’s about tone. Design is softer around the edges, less Baroque. Glass and greenery has replaced marble severity. It’s an attempt to make it feel calming, rather than ostentatious.

The same impulse is visible in its bars and restaurants. The food and nightlife scene is being reshaped to appeal to a younger, more international crowd; less baccarat and tuxedos, more DJs, rooftop terraces, beach bars and casual dining. The maximalist Amazónico has been imported from Mayfair, together with its Peruvian and Japanese food, and, hidden beneath the restaurant, you’ll find the jungle-themed Selva Monte-Carlo, with deep house and electronic music of the kind more normally found in Berlin and Ibiza (the Monaco clubbing scene has, until now, been as cheesy as it is pretentious).

Maona Monte-Carlo has transplanted Mykonos energy, where dancing on tables is encouraged. The Instagram-friendly Maison FonFon combines Riviera kitsch with yacht-club chic and a Saint-Tropez buzz. Stamping its hipster credentials for the first time, Monaco also has its own craft brewery — the Brasserie de Monaco — which pours €10 pints (half price during happy hour).

There’s strategy in all this. Monaco’s old money has largely ascended to the gates of St Peter to explain their assets. To remain relevant, Monaco must court the next wave: founders, financiers, creative types and digital nomads who can live anywhere and, therefore, choose carefully.

Here’s the pivot: Monaco is no longer selling haute luxury, it’s selling lifestyle infrastructure: safety, connectivity, climate and efficiency. It’s a place where you can swim before breakfast, run a hedge fund in the morning, play some padel with your friends after a fresh seafood lunch, board a plane in Nice at 6pm and be in London in time for dinner with a client. The tax benefits remain neon lit, but they are now part of a broader package rather than the sole attraction.

Of course, Monaco is only accessible to those with the funds. Residency requires a minimum €500,000 deposit in a Monegasque bank. Property costs €50,000 per square metre and there are restaurants that’ll charge you €150 for a starter — although the Tip Top pizzeria, established in 1938, will do you a decent margherita for €19 and McDonald’s charges the same as it does in Paris, with the bonus of a Mediterranean view.

The old stereotype — this static, glittering enclave filled with diamond-laden Chanel-suited grannies with huge sunglasses — is coming to an end. It left no room for growth, only repetition. The world has moved on and Monaco is catching up. It’s experimenting and recalibrating. You see it in small moments; the technology entrepreneur discussing funding rounds in rooms that were reserved for gossip. Children on scooters in their school uniforms, navigating streets that are normally the preserve of Lamborghinis. Restaurants without white tablecloths, serving craft beer and loud hip-hop.

Monaco remains a spectator sport. Nowhere else is wealth so conspicuous and so concentrated. The casino still encourages black tie (although it’s no longer mandatory), and the yachts get bigger and bigger. The mythology remains for those who want it. Yet the cast is changing, as is the stage set. The roulette wheel still spins, but it’s no longer the only game in town.

This feature originally appeared in the June 3, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.