Where tartan meets taxidermy, and every hallway smells faintly of whisky and pine.
There are few greater joys than arriving at a grand hotel on Christmas Eve, just as snow begins to fall. There are also few greater embarrassments than discovering the carpet in the lobby matches your tweed coat exactly. At the Fife Arms in Braemar, I became momentarily indistinguishable from the soft furnishings. But no one batted an eyelid.
That’s the charm of the place. Eccentric and wildly self-assured, the Fife Arms is the kind of hotel that’s been built with no small amount of flair, a dash of madness, and an art collection that would make Tate Modern blush. There’s a Picasso in the drawing room. There’s a taxidermied stag with a chandelier in its antlers above the bar. Somehow, miraculously, it all works.
We arrived just before tea time. A porter in a kilt welcomed us like family. The fire roared. Champagne appeared without request. By the time we reached the suite, our bags were unpacked and the children had disappeared into their sumptuous beds with their names embroidered on personally stuffed stockings.
Our room — if you can call something that grand a ‘room’ — was tartan-draped, wood-panelled, layered in antique throws, whisky tumblers and heavy books about salmon fishing. The bed could have slept a rugby team. The view stretched out toward the snow-dusted Cairngorms, like a postcard left open on the windowsill.
Christmas morning came with subtle joy: staff gliding around in velvet waistcoats delivering freshly baked pastries, the faint scent of pine and pastry in the air. Our children met Santa (flawlessly cast) in a room that smelt of fir and magic. And the adults found their way to the bar for an unapologetically boozy breakfast.
Lunch was as extravagant as you’d hope — roast duck with mulled plum glaze, roast potatoes that snapped just so, haggis that even the kids tried, and wine pairings that were generous in both quality and quantity. The team served it all with the sort of polish that’s become harder to find: warm, never fussy.
Post-lunch meant card games in the drawing room, a quiet walk through snowy woods, and finally, collapsing in front of a fireplace with a whisky and the firm belief that no one should ever host Christmas at home again.
The Fife Arms isn’t just a hotel. It’s an experience. A deeply theatrical one, yes, but also heartfelt and human. It’s a place where luxury doesn’t need to shout, and where detail is not an afterthought but the entire philosophy. The snow helped, of course. But even without it, the magic is very real.
