QUINTESSENTIALLY | Insider | Travel

Yorkshire – not the most obvious choice for a luxury weekend away, it is perhaps more akin to waders, gun dogs and nature enthusiasts than blackberry (the non edible kind) toting city dwellers trying to keep their Hunter wellingtons out of the mud.

However T’Yorkshire I was going one sunny June afternoon, boarding my Grand Central train at the rather stylish new look Kings Cross Station.
I’d also brought the boy along with me to embark on our cross country trek, he’s an adventurous type you see, and a good man to have around in case there’s a tricky field or stream to negotiate on the way to the spa.

But why Yorkshire, I hear you ask? Well I’d heard a whisper, that a place so heavenly, so quintessentially luxurious, had popped up in a little village called Helmsley and was simply too good to miss.

When Emily Brontë wrote of ‘bright white clouds flitting rapidly above – the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but close by great swells of long grass undulating in waves to the breeze’ as the ‘perfect idea of heaven’s happiness’ she was telling the truth, and as we raced across the countryside, I was starting to see why we had made our journey in the first place.

The Feversham Arms was originally an 18th Century coaching inn that sits opposite a picturesque church, and as we pulled into the driveway I was struck by how modern yet still original the glass and Yorkshire stone building looked nestled in the heart of the village.

My inner sugar junkie rejoiced when we were told afternoon tea was waiting for us outside by the pool – yes that’s right – the pool, which at the Feversham lies in the centre courtyard, surrounded by the cottage style poolside suites, where other guests swaddled in white robes were relaxing in the afternoon sun.

As something of an afternoon tea connoisseur, the Feversham’s tea did not disappoint – Yorkshire ham with spicy apple chutney had been rolled into fingers of freshly baked bread, followed by the most wonderfully well risen scones topped with the homemade strawberry and passion fruit jam, and to my immense delight, lemon curd!

But the highlights were the chocolate and raspberry pots served in miniature terracotta flower pots and topped with marzipan mushrooms, followed closely by the strawberry jelly striped with elderflower pannacotta – childhood memories on a plate.

Now to the bedroom – our spa suite was aptly decorated in soft blue William Morris florals, with a wonderful lounge area complete with buttery leather couch and this month’s latest glossy titles. The bathroom was my own personal Elysium with the double-ended 6ft bath, l’Occitaine products, and vanilla scented candles acting as the perfect balm to my city sore limbs.

Sitting on our balcony, we opened one of the two bottles of champagne that had been waiting for us in the room bearing the cheeky missives ‘one for now’ and ‘one for later’, as the sun set over Helmsley Castle in the distance.

Dinner at ‘The Fev’ (as we had learned it was affectionately called amongst the staff and seasoned guests) is a relaxed affair in the hotel’s atrium style dining room surrounded by vintage jeroboams and charming paintings from local artists. The food was spectacular,  from the pan-fried scallops with chicken wings cooked in maple syrup, Thai mushroom puree and crispy chicken skin to start, to the tender fillet of beef that melted like honeycomb in my mouth for the main.

But the meal was dominated by the gargantuan cheese cart that worked its way tantalizingly around the room before finally coming to rest at our table. Being more of a cheese lover than an expert, we asked the Fev’s resident turophile to make some recommendations for us to sample, I went for a local smoked cheese and some superbly aged cheddar, whilst my date feeling a little more adventurous with his palate opted for the Stinking Bishop and the Epoisses de Bourgogne – a cheese so pungent it is banned from French public transport – lucky me!

And so satiated, relaxed and perhaps a little merry we went to bed, but not before the do not disturb mascot – in our case a sheep, had been firmly placed outside the door.

To be continued…

If you’ve ever seen films as eclectic as Eyes Wide Shut, Wilde, The World Is Not Enough and Quills, then you will be familiar with the grand stately home Luton Hoo, situated between Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire. Many will also remember the house from that memorable wedding scene in Four Weddings And A Funeral when a disconsolate Hugh Grant finds himself stuck in a cupboard while a couple celebrate their nuptials, a scene actually filmed within the house itself rather than on a studio soundstage. With stunning Capability Brown-designed grounds, a Robert Adam neoclassical exterior and exceptionally well appointed public rooms, it was a source of regret to many for years that it wasn’t open to the public.

Well, thankfully these regrets are now at an end, thanks to Luton Hoo being turned into a well-appointed and extremely lavish luxury hotel, by the respected group Elite Hotels. Much like Cliveden, the staff and management are clearly aware that they have a duty to maintain the fabric and integrity of the building, even as hordes of visitors on an even more lavish scale than the original owners must have imagined troop through, whether for weddings, receptions, spa weekends, golf breaks or just to experience, fleetingly, the sense of life on a grander plain.

As one might expect, there are various subsidiary buildings that offer all the facilities that you’d expect, such as a lavishly appointed spa, a very serious 18-hole golf course and the informal Adam’s Brasserie, which has stills of all the many films and TV shows that have been filmed over the years. There is luxurious accommodation in some of the other buildings, but for the full country mansion experience, you want to stay in the main house, which offers near-unbelievably lavish suites with panoramic views overlooking the grounds, named after famous guests past such as Lord Mountbatten. But even the ‘normal’ rooms offer gorgeous beds, marble bathrooms and the usual amenities such as flatscreen TVs and Molton Brown toiletries.

Breakfast and dinner are served in the lavishly appointed Wernher Restaurant, named after Sir Julius Wernher, a previous owner of Luton Hoo. It offers high-class British-influenced cuisine to notable effect. My guest’s starter of pigeon and foie gras was somewhat overcooked, but the rest of the meal – including veal served three ways, beef with oxtail and a tasting of rhubarb to end – was impeccable, giving full credence to head chef Kevin Clark’s belief that using local ingredients and working closely with respected suppliers is the best way to make for an enjoyable dining experience. A bottle of crisp Austrian Riesling was an extremely welcome accompaniment as well.

Saying to many people that you are going to head to one of Britain’s most iconic and grand stately homes outside the frankly unprepossessing environs of Luton might seem a surprising and incongruous juxtaposition. But the experience that you will have as a guest at Luton Hoo is likely to be a memorable and compelling one, and one that will make you feel every bit as welcome as the legions of film stars, aristocrats and royalty who have visited this grand place before.

Luton Hoo Hotel, Golf Club & Spa, LU1 3TQ. www.lutonhoo.co.uk

You may be the MD of a company that pretty much rewrote the way we think about modernist design.

You often wear a belted cashmere cardigan (probably Louis Vuitton) and a black polo neck (you have three by Marc Jacobs). You only ever wear Van Cleef & Arpels Cologne and many people comment on the beautiful coming together of this most ravishing scent and the all pervading mist of stale cigarette smoke that lingers about you. Whenever you deign to call someone into your office, they can’t help but remind you how splendid you are, and yet, still, how much more splendid you could be if your pearly blues just looked a little further into the distance – past the accolades on your desk, the whiskey, the scrolls of genius, the miniature model of a Mercedes Benz 190SL (the very blueprint of your existence) – and noted, even desultorily, how much great work they’ve been doing the past year.

But you remember last years, ‘team bonding session’. It was messy, and failed to achieve any of the said objectives outlined in the pretentious, even offensive mandate your young Squire Anthony drew up on a whim. That weekend, aforesaid Anthony almost drowned in the Thames, and after your own drunken shenanigans on the ‘dream yacht’, your Director of Sales can never quite look you dead in the eye anymore.

But you could do with some fine country port, and the splendour of changing winds as you cruised the Pacific coast in the Mercedes one long summer way back when gives you a rather grand idea.
Soon, you’re taking them all on an adrenaline-charged escape to postcard-perfect English countryside. The Thames will again mark the boundaries of your horizon, except this time the theatrics will start and end at Cliveden Mansion in Taplow. Infamous playground of American and Russian socialites in the 60’s, this opulent den of fine art and finer food is too respectable a haunt to allow for any of last year’s unabashed tomfoolery (even if you’re on your fifth glass and your new recruit – the one that likes older guys – happens to be wearing that ridiculous outfit you’ve recently warned her about).

But let us get to the point. That morning, 6 supercars will be awaiting you in front of the Romanesque pillars out front. One will be Ferrari (either the F430 or the California), one will be the Aston Martin DBS, and the other four will be handpicked to create the most beautiful on-road symphony known to man. A Bentley GTC, the arrow-like Porsche 911 Turbo, and perhaps, if you’re a major key kinda guy, the Lamborghini Gallardo (that one you see in Knightsbridge of a weekend, purring at 30 on a constant loop around Harrods that strangely has no effect on the women outside Cafe Rouge).

The almost-too-beautiful new-age beasts are there, together with the boys from dreamcarhire – aficionados of British, Italian and German engineering, and masters of the corporate everyone-gets-to-really-know-and-love-each other experience.

For the next few hours, you are going to have one hell of a ride, and your Director of Sales will be in the seat next to you, circumnavigating your now popular, slick gear-shifting ass around a spray of lakes and jackdaws and jaw-dropping sunsets in the rear view of a car you can both very quickly get used to.

Then, in the evening, you take off your aviators, slip off the cashmere and Ralph Lauren military jacket, and are treated to a gourmet dinner with the whole works in the pudding and in the service and on the walls. Later (much later), you play a game of poker with Neela (you finally learnt her name) and the boys and take her away for a sneaky smoke on the balcony with the stars lapping up gently against a silhouette of trees that sway in the South-Westerly breeze, heady with the scents of fleurs de parterre (Cliveden is infamous for romantic, highly inappropriate trysts, in case you’re wondering where this is going).

Now, let’s bring this to a close. That’s how you sir, will play it out. I’ve done it all before. Last month, it was me and a few other writer-types, all pretending to be corporate and szhmoozy for a day, just so you could read this, reflect a little, and then, encouraged at the excellence, elegance, and preposterous sensibility of what was written, make the fateful call.

Later this week, I’ll tell you all about the hotel itself. For now, just start rounding up the numbers.

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I touch down in Cologne to a fanfare of Deutschland welcomes that pass straight over my head – I’ve totally forgotten that the only German I can stumble through is a mismatched rendition of ‘My Heart Will Go On’, taught to me by a friend during a game of beach bat in Cornwall.

So I resign myself to being a mute for the weekend, playing at passing myself off as a local, at least until tight lipped ladies start babbling at me and I’m – quite literally – lost for words.

But it’s no matter. I’m swept from the airport so seamlessly by my driver – though Eduardo is so pint-sized that I’m concerned he’ll not see over the steering wheel of his perfectly polished Mercedes, let alone reach for the pedals – that I slip into Cologne life all too easily.

All B&O speakers and massage chairs with four different settings, the Excelsior Hotel Ernst is looking special – and I’m yet to step out from the car.

My suite is such that I have to take five to decide what to do first; there is the pillow menu to pick from – spelt, cherry pit or horse hair? – a marbled bath with Jacuzzi jets, complimentary mini-bar, a fairly extensive walk-in-wardrobe – clothes, meet hangers – and the most spectacular view of Cologne Cathedral and the Roncallipatz, with excellent people watching potential.

But I’m torn from my fourth floor residence to Hanse Stube, all antique silver tea urns and cream banquettes, for a veritable feast of white asparagus – German, and thicker than my thumbs – langoustine, homemade truffles and white wine. The balance of French flavours and local influences is perfectly weighted, and the service under Sonja Winkels so seamless that she sashays between tables like a prima ballerina.

Taku is all feng shui feelings and fish tanks set into walkways. The lunch-time menu is succinct yet wealthy with choice and my red curry thronging with fresh fish. As at Hanse Stube, a huge tray of chocolates appears just when I’m fit to burst – here all Oriental in flavour and a nod to the consistency running throughout the hotel.

The Excelsior is a dream of a city crash pad; unbelievably central yet peaceful behind heavy drapes, refined yet relaxed enough for big breakfasts, drawn out dinners and cosy nightcaps. I’d excuse you for coming here and hiding out, but you’d be mad to miss the city that’s grown up around the hotel since 1863 – one without the other would be like sauerkraut without the sausage, or a Deutschlander without his lederhosen.

Over three days, Cologne unravels itself in the sunshine like a dot-to-dot of culture – cathedral to concert hall to art gallery to perfume museum to brewery and back again – linked by streets teaming with performers and a man tickling a grand piano on wheels who pops up wherever I go.

So I bob along, squinting without my sunglasses, resisting the temptation of the boutique Belgian quarter and keeping cool with jugs of Kolsch. I pass fruit carts and schnitzel stalls and an oompah band serenading the Old Town, and catch couples padlocking their love on the Hohenzollern Bridge – at once locking Cologne onto the map of must-see Europe.

This is a city with verve and panache of the kind fuelled by 75,000 students in one place and a widespread appreciation for the good life – that is, if the magnificent moustaches and locals of all ages gathering to glug €1,50 Riesling on Sunday evening, are anything to go by.

www.excelsiorhotelernst.com

Like many English towns, Stratford upon Avon seems to have two separate identities. On a bright summer’s day, you can walk down the river, past Holy Trinity Church (where the town’s most famous son, Shakespeare, is buried) and the new Royal Shakespeare Theatre, and think it quite the most beautiful place in England. If, however, you find yourself scurrying down the medieval streets on a wet evening, then altogether darker thoughts come to mind, and one imagines oneself in a nest of villains something akin to one of the more bloody recesses of Shakespeare’s plays. As studies in contrasts go, it’s really quite impressive.

The most impressive thing to happen to the Shakespeare industry in recent years has been the much-heralded rebuilding and reopening of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. Occupying a prime position close to the river, it’s home to two different auditoria, the main one and the Swan Theatre. The purpose of the Swan is to show Elizabethan and new drama, whereas the main auditorium specialises in high-quality productions with seriously classy acting and directing. On our visit, Patrick Stewart was starring in Rupert Goold’s much-heralded Las Vegas-set staging of The Merchant Of Venice, which proves that Stratford can still stage some of the world’s best productions in the 21^st century.

A visit to the theatre itself, even if you’re not seeing a play, is pretty much obligatory. For starters (sic), the gorgeous new Rooftop Restaurant, situated at the top of the building, offers panoramic views over Stratford, something matched by the food. A sensibly priced and speedily served lunchtime and pre-theatre menu might offer such delights as old spot medallion or Somerset brie and tomato tart for mains, followed by a delicious ginger and pear parkin. You can rely on the wine being good as well; it’s supplied by Berry Bros and Rudd, meaning that even the house selections are head and shoulders above what you’d normally expect.

Of course, a new theatre needs a new upmarket hotel for visitors as a suitable base, and there are few places more fitting than The Arden, a stylish boutique establishment literally opposite the theatre. Even if I never quite managed to work out which was the most logical way in and out of the hotel, there’s no denying that it offers a gorgeously comfortable stay, with well-appointed rooms and luxuriously large beds, bathrooms that are a good deal larger than anyone can reasonably expect, friendly and accommodating staff and a relaxed, intimate feel that makes this a pleasure to spend time in. It also boasts a superb establishment called The Waterside Brasserie, which offers either excellent breakfasts with local produce or equally high-class dinners that give the Rooftop a run for their pre-theatre money, or a more leisurely a la carte.

Talking of dining, serious gourmands won’t want to miss out on a visit to the Arden’s sister establishment, Mallory Court. A dozen miles up the road, it’s a gorgeous Lutyens-styled manor house with extraordinarily beautiful gardens and spacious public rooms. It’s the oak-panelled main dining room that’s the real draw for many though, with Simon Haigh’s deservedly Michelin-starred cooking offering unusual and quirky twists on French-British cuisine. Thus lunch might consist of crab bisque and ravioli to start, followed by fillet of beef with oxtail, and a sublime apple and elderflower soufflé to finish, all of which is of the absolute highest calibre. As you’d expect, the wine list is stupendous and comprehensive, but there are several very accessible and reasonably priced options by the glass.

As Shakespeare wrote, ‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.’ A visit to Stratford, preferably in clement and seasonable weather, is an enormous pleasure, and whether your interests are historic, culinary or cultural, there’s going to be something beguiling and enjoyable for you to appreciate here.

Ah, Paris. City of romance, of the Eiffel tower, wide boulevards, world-class food and wine and mime artists. Well, maybe not so much the last part. But there’s no denying that France’s capital still exerts a powerful hold on artists, bohemians and lovers, meaning that for all its undoubted opulence and wealth, there’s still a lingering sense of vibrancy and excitement here. You’re going to get as much out of a cheap glass of wine and some charcuterie in a tiny, cosy cafe somewhere in St-Germain as you are the most opulent three Michelin-starred restaurant; it just depends where you go and what your expectations are.

A pretty good place to start off is the new Shangri-La hotel, located in what used to be Prince Roland Bonaparte’s palace. The highly respected Shangri-La group’s first European property, this is both grand and hugely welcoming, thanks to the warm and highly professional staff. The building itself is amazing, with vast public rooms that let visitors feel that they’ve headed back in time to the opulent Belle Epoque age. The bedrooms are fantastic as well; the grandest suites offer either unparalleled old-world luxury or, in the case of the penthouse suites, 360 degree views over Paris. Even the ‘lesser’ rooms and suites offer the highest levels in service and comfort, making this a perfect home from home in the city.

Obviously any trip to Paris has to revolve around food, to some extent, and the fine dining restaurant here, L’Abeille ( meaning ‘the bee’) has the quietly confident attitude of somewhere that knows it’s going to become a destination restaurant soon. The acclaimed chef Philippe Labbe serves up cuisine that blurs the boundaries between sweet and savoury, offering delicacies such as foie gras, rack of lamb and salmon with aplomb. What makes it an especially pleasant experience is Labbe appearing at the end of the meal to talk to every single guest about their food, which gives the evening a warmly human touch so often lacking in restaurants of this calibre.

Somewhere else that has returned to former levels of opulence and splendour after a lengthy refurbishment is Les Ambassadeurs, the Crillon’s jewel in the crown. Under the young chef Christopher Hache, the restaurant has regained its Michelin star, and pleasingly manages to strike just the right balance between the formality that the has-to-be-seen-to-be-believed room would seem to deserve and the welcoming and friendly attitude that the staff all exhibit. The food, likewise, is fine dining but without the stuffiness that this might suggest. A main course of rib of beef with samphire, carved at the table, made just about every other sirloin seem anaemic in comparison, and rack of baby lamb in angel-hair noodles showed what could be done to an apparently conventional dish with some wit and imagination. As ever, a flawless 2001 Haut-Medoc, chosen by the discerning sommelier, made the dinner that much more enjoyable.

Of course, one doesn’t just visit Paris to eat and drink, tempting though that would no doubt be. As one of the great cultural capitals of the world, there’s a never-ending variety of exhibitions on, and we managed to brave the queues and crowds at the Musee d’Orsay – probably the city’s finest art gallery – to see the much-hyped Manet exhibition. Juxtaposing his most famous pictures, such as Le Dejeuner sur l’Herbe, with his lesser-known paintings and contextual works by his contemporaries, the exhibition offers a rare insight into his working methods and ideology, bridging the gap between Romanticism and Impressionism. If you are planning on going – and it’s fairly unmissable – be quick; it finishes on July 17^th.

As one strolls down the Tuileries on a moonlit night, blessedly uninterrupted by the clichéd sound of accordion players (they ply their trade more or less exclusively on the Metro these days), it’s easy to over-romanticise the situation. But, like Venice and Rome, there’s no denying that the authentic atmosphere of beauty and oh-so-Gallic style means that Paris will continue to be an irresistible destination for lovers of all backgrounds and ages. Long may la vie Parisienne continue.

Quintessentially travelled to Paris on Eurostar from London St Pancras. Eurostar operates up to 18 daily services from London, with prices from £69 return. Tickets are available from eurostar.com.

The first impression that most people have when they approach the effortlessly elegant 18th century facade of Cannizaro House, located a short but extremely pleasant walk from the centre of Wimbledon over the common, is to gaze at it in admiration, and then saunter onwards, presumably to walk with the Wombles, or to take in the tennis. This is something of a pity, but it does at least mean that the manifold delights of this exquisite property remain somewhat exclusive, at least until the world and his wife descend on it for that short period in June and July each year when this small, upmarket borough becomes one of the most scrutinized places in the world.

Yet Cannizaro House offers so much more than just a base for sports fans once a year. The first thing that you note upon entering is that the style – country house chic meets designer cool – is sufficiently idiosyncratic to beguile both fashionistas and traditionalists alike. Plonk yourself down in the oh-so-sophisticated bar with an unmissable amaretto sour, or wander outside into the vast, scenic grounds, which apparently stretch to an impressive 34 acres and offer panoramic views, the perfect spot to enjoy a pre-prandial glass of champagne.

They’re justly proud of their restaurant here, especially the newly opened Loggia extension, which boasts fabulous views over the sunken garden. The chef Christian George is especially interested in supplying food that’s British and organic, and highlights of the menu include foie gras, ham hock and chicken terrine to start or pan-fried scallops with mushroom puree, followed by cutlet of Herdwick lamb with goat’s cheese soufflé or an envy-inducing galantine of free range duck with morel and pistachio mousse. It’s a fine line between high-falutin’ and delicious, but the talented Mr George more than pulls it off – and the ever-popular ‘simply’ menu offers equally excellent fare at a very reasonable prix fixe. The wine list is compendious, weighty both in appearance and size, and formidable. A quick dash in to sample a superb Marlborough 2008 Pinot Noir proved a wise decision.

Oscar Wilde, a former guest of Cannizaro House, wrote in The Importance Of Being Earnest ‘Indeed, when I am in really great trouble, as anyone who knows me intimately will tell you, I refuse everything except food and drink.’ Anyone coming to this fine establishment, whether or not they are in great trouble (and trying to acquire debenture seats for Wimbledon with anything other than the help of Quintessentially certainly qualifies), can rest assured that they are going to be in extremely good hands indeed.
Cannizaro House, West Side Common, Wimbledon SW19 4UD.

www.cannizarohouse.com

Kerstin Rodgers isn’t you average sort of chef.

For one, she’s the trendsetter, master cook and near-genius that made Supper Clubs the near phenomenon it surely is. For two, she transformed her front room into a food den serving restaurant-standard steak to London’s most eligible madmen (the gastro scene is full of them), and just a few self-congratulatory foodies from Hackney. For three, she is known as Ms Marmite Lover, a moniker that you either love or hate, or perhaps, are entirely indifferent to.

But next week, she’s venturing out of her Kilburn living room to serve her 18th century inspired ‘Compleat Menu’ in the same Georgian haunt that Tom Parker Bowles slipped into last week for Sunday Lunch (Rose Prince and Bill Knott were also seen there a few weeks back). That day, the London scribe was inspired by some wildly arrogant medioso with a stylish tweed jacket and tie combo, taking each impeccably mannered guest through the wine list before applauding chef Alberto Figueroa on the resplendent Sea bream ceviche.

This time its Rodger’s turn for the plaudits; devised in conjunction with renowned historian Lucy Inglis, you’ll soon find out that young Georgian gentleman were particularly fond of frying fritters by the dark-oak fireplace, and that vermicelli enjoyed its heyday in the 1700s.

There’ll be a choice of Meringue with Salted Caramel and Black Pepper Strawberries and Orange Flower Water Profiteroles in a Piece Montée. And probably some home-made barley water and ale, and the sort of citron pressée that you swig before passing out bone coloured business cards.

You better dig out your petticoats and powder your nose.

26th June. Lunch is served from 1pm to 5pm, with tickets priced at £35 (excluding wine). Payment must be made in advance to confirm reservation.

020 7734 5399

moira@blacksclub.com

Stepping out of the coolness of my air-conditioned car straight into a warm cocoon of peace at the Samahita Yoga Thailand, I feel my body instantly relax. The balmy evening air is laced with lingering spice and a hint of incense that lifts the weight of the world from my shoulders.

Emerging from the smoggy heat and chaos of Bangkok to the island escape of Koh Samui, destined for a week intriguingly entitled ‘Yoga & the Art of Healing’, I’m eager with the promise of shedding my winter skin.

Under the watchful eye of Claudia Jones, it doesn’t take long for me to surrender to a daily routine, all early rising, herbal tea, long breathing workshops and sandy beach Ashtanga yoga classes. Mouth-watering brunches give way to afternoons of slightly self-indulgent relaxation and contemplation, lounging in the salt-water pool to soothe away the yoga aches and, according to Claudia, refreshing my lymph system – a vital part of any detox regime.

I finish my days with some much needed pampering in the Wellness Centre, extra classes in shady indoor spots or tuition on all sorts of alternative therapies – think vibrational medicine, flower remedies, and chakra systems

Watching the sun set from the herbal steam room, and retiring to my suite after a divine evening buffet, I try to remember who I had even been before this most heavenly of routines had begun, twelve hours earlier.

I realise that my shy inner ‘yogi’ has finally surfaced from the recesses of my mind. It’s the end of the week and I’m entirely relaxed – and couldn’t feel further than the 14,000 miles I am from home. I’ve swapped my prized creature comforts for simple luxury, with a queen sized bed, air-conditioning and some seriously healthy meals for company, and let life go a little.

Though I know I can’t delay the inevitable, and will soon be making reluctant steps towards the long journey home, I know that I’ll travel soundly, safe in the knowledge that I’d be able to re-find my yogi back in London with more than a few simple tricks in my pocket.

I’ll be back next year.

www.wellness-thailand.com