I had been warned — in the way you’re warned about particularly smug schools or eco-retreats — that this was a place of six-pack mums and silent, whirring prams. I can confirm both exist. But so do white stone terraces kissed by the sun, a beach that practically whispers your name, and a level of service that gently erases any resistance you might have been clinging to.
This is food cooked entirely over fire — no safety nets, no shortcuts. Chef Lennox Hastie isn’t trying to impress with foams and nitrogen; he’s communicating something primal. And in this world, every flame speaks a different language.
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.
Ibiza does drama well. It’s in the beat of the bass, the flash of a camera, the whisper of a high-stakes guest list. But somewhere high above it all, past the yoga retreats and influencer outposts, is a hotel that redefines island escape.