Need to unwind? So spa, so good

Getting steamed up in Böglerhof, Alpbach

By Charlotte Mendelson

I loathe skiing. I shun “self-care”. I am too ticklish for massages, too hot-blooded for saunas. I find Disney-style faux-tradition enraging, am not a fan of Christmas and, as for Austria itself… Let’s just say that, from the first Achtung over the Innsbruck airport speakers, it had its work cut out.

I arrived at the Alpine village of Alpbach, an hour east of Innsbruck, for a spa weekend, already unimpressed. Alpbach is far more beautiful than its neighbours, but only thanks to the mayor’s enforcement of traditional architecture: every building is fir-fronted, filigree-edged. The staff of the Hotel Böglerhof wear dirndls and lederhosen. The halls are decked with photographs of ice-blonde multi-plaited maidens, cone-wreaths, wrought-iron reindeer. By the time we were shown to our admittedly spectacular bouclé-and-wood room, I had definitely seen enough.

Until: oh my God. Behold: the Alps.

Every room contains a vast picture-window, framing not only those gorgeous gingerbread chalets but sunny meadows, wooded slopes, glinting mountains. And so I discovered the first great joy of the Böglerhof: not skiing. From one’s duvet, one can watch tiny ant-people labouring up distant ski-lifts, fall down slopes and then, freshly bruised, begin again.

Poor fools. The spas must be for them. But what of those whose sport is reading? Packing Marlen Haushofer’s dystopian Alpine masterpiece, The Wall, in my complimentary tote-bag, I stumped off to try the outdoor pool.

For non-gym-goers, the first sight of a five-star hotel spa is surreal. Hanging chairs, a vat of ice, an enormous relaxation room in which bathrobed couples silently recline on daybeds: a combination of mammography waiting-room, swingers’ lounge and hi-spec orphanage. But I was due at the Event Sauna, for something called an Infusion, and there was my next surprise.

This early in the season, the other guests were Austrians: fit, serious, tattooed, nude. Schlongs akimbo, they reclined unembarrassedly in every relaxing sauna space, as if we wouldn’t meet again, clothed, at meals. Modestly towel-wrapped, I took my seat in the Event Sauna, nervous, but ready for anything. Or so I thought.

Gabor, the sauna master, entered to a soft rock soundtrack. Coloured lights swirled. I was expecting herbal steam, but he began to perform acrobatic towel-tricks before, like a moisturised matador, approaching us individually to fan even hotter air our way, while maintaining intense eye contact. The more I embarrassedly looked away, trying not to laugh, the harder he wafted. By the time it was over, I’d almost forgotten the nudity.

Dinner, thankfully, was clothed. While most guests visit Böglerhof for the spa treatments, Gua Sha, Cryo Sticks, ultrasound and scented oils, and fine dining, it was the professional yet adorably friendly staff, and the outrageous lavishness of the buffet, which won my heart. At every meal, fresh delights appeared: five types of butter, several simultaneous strudels, dozens of breadstuffs and pork goods, a chocolate fountain, bowls of blueberries, 10 honeys, delicious salads, a yoghurt bar, a tisane station, 27 cheeses. This luxurious family-hotel thoughtfulness is everywhere: spectacles-holders in the spa, extra-strength hairspray and tampons, vegan menus, accessible lifts. If I could afford it, I’d come for an Alpine rest once a year, even if I had to be rolled off the mountain like a pig-in-a-blanket afterwards. So much for my pre-Alpbach antipathy. I’ve taken to the five-star spa lifestyle worryingly quickly. Give me another day and I’ll even get my clothes off.

Breathe your stress away at Thyme in the Cotswolds

By Francisco Garcia

Thyme embraces some of the old Cotswolds tropes – discreet wealth and picture-postcard visions of affluent Englishness – and subverts others. My partner and I arrived on a crisp morning in late November. It had been an exhausting month of work and we were looking for collapse in style. On approach, it seemed we’d made the right choice. Located in the almost comically chocolate-boxy village of Southrop – located at a merciful half-hour south of Chipping Norton – the apparently endless driveway is ringed by grazing sheep and lush farmland, while the River Leach winds its way gently through the 150-acre estate. Owners Caryn, a former obstetrician, and Jerry Hibbert moved up from London in the early 2000s. Back then, the property was little more than a plot of derelict stables. It was, in short, a mess that required considerable capital and even more formidable reserves of energy to disentangle.

The initial plan had been to run a small cookery school, along with a few rooms, but as the years passed, the Hibbert family set about buying up more and more of the village. Old barns, 17th-century stone cottages, a rectory. The Swan, a thrillingly quaint pub with a modern, high-quality menu where we go out for steaks on our first night. There are 31 bedrooms. We spent two nights in English Rose, a blend of carefully curated furniture, tasteful decor and a delightful free-standing bath. There’s a shop, too, and buzzy Ox Barn restaurant, overseen by the Hibberts’ son, Charlie, formerly of Quo Vadis. If “sustainability” and “wellness” are oft-invoked buzzwords, Thyme justifies their usage. The menu is ever-changing, with much of the produce gleaned from their vast gardens.

The Meadow Spa is tucked discreetly behind the main farmhouse. The vibe is pared back simplicity. Visitors expecting showiness may be disappointed (the pool is outdoors, for one). And the experience is all the better for it. There are all the offerings one might expect, including massages, hot-stone body rituals and skin-brightening facials, manicures and even several bespoke pregnancy treatments. All make use of the Bertioli range of products, designed by Caryn Hibbert and her daughter, Milly.

But it’s the Botanical Bothy that sets Thyme apart. The standalone space is set just a few yards from the main spa. Donning their swimsuit, the visitor is led into the polished plaster main room. The Bothy’s signature ritual is centred on breathwork. If that sounds distressingly woo, it isn’t. After a few minutes, it’s striking how the stresses of the world have melted away, however temporarily.

The treatment unfolds over a leisurely 45 minutes and includes pressure-point massage and lymphatic body brushing. Though it’s difficult to keep track of small matters like space and time after having your senses so thoroughly dialled down.

Before returning to a more heightened reality, there’s the chance to further decompress in the Bothy’s private garden, where a hot bath is laid on with a pot of thyme and honey tea. It’s the sort of experience that gives even the grimiest British winter day an undeserved dignity. Refreshingly simple and well-executed, it feels like a spa for adults by adults. On leaving, it’s difficult not to resent the idea of reintegration into daily life.

Treatments worth staying awake for at Mar Hall

By Kirsty Wark

I have the ridiculously Presbyterian idea that I have to earn time at a spa, compounded by a guarantee that, whatever the treatment, there is a danger I’ll be oblivious to it, as I fall asleep practically as soon as I am flat. This is further compounded by the fear that if I do conk out on my back, I will snore as, according to my family, I am a championship-level snorer.

But the idea of massages, wraps and organic tinctures that will invigorate both my body and my face, ready for the year ahead, during which I am going to get myself into tip-top shape (OK, that’s a pipe-dream) is almost transcendent. A whole day at a spa is a rare and exciting treat. My daughter, Caitlin, and I did spend five fabulous days at the Euphoria Retreat in the Peloponnese ahead of her wedding in 2022, but I’m staying closer to home this time. Just 25 minutes from Glasgow sits Mar Hall, a beautiful early 19th-century estate overlooking the River Clyde with the Kilpatrick Hills beyond, golden red in the low winter sun. The hotel and spa have just undergone a £20m refurbishment, including what appears to be a hefty budget for art, and signature jewel-coloured fabrics and wall coverings of the talented Timorous Beasties add to the opulence. It has also earned a great reputation for afternoon tea (more on that later).

Traditionally Mar Hall is where rock and roll stars hang out when they are playing in Glasgow, and the last time I was there – exactly 20 years ago – I interviewed the charismatic Rufus Wainwright as he played at a grand piano, his voice soaring, but in a gloomy, dark wood-panelled room, the walls encrusted with heavy embossed wallpaper, and a carpet so swirly it was headache-inducing.

As I walked through the doors of the spa, I was greeted by the scent of rose geranium and lemongrass, among the array of natural ingredients that suffuse the real hero of Ishga’s organic products – humble seaweed. The small but mighty company, whose name means “water” in Gaelic, was born on the Hebridean Isle of Lewis, and regularly harvests four types of seaweed full of potent natural antioxidants and minerals, so I dived right in, with a detox body wrap.

After an aromatic, tingly sea salt scrub, I was swathed in algae gel and then, showered and cocooned once more, my first therapist’s healing hands untied every knot on my back and shoulders so that I swear I’m an inch taller. I promised myself that I would never let a toxin enter my body again and floated on to another room. There, another amazing young therapist delivered the tour de force of facials, with a rotation of cleansing and serums, an incredible nourishing face oil, and at least three different treatment masks. My heroic effort to stay awake really paid off.

But, merde! I was so blissed out, I completely forgot to have the aforementioned, famed, afternoon tea, in the Long Gallery, courtesy of Mar Hall’s legendary pastry chef. Perhaps that’s just as well. For at least one week, my body will be a temple.

Photographs by Michael Huber; Finn Beales; Katherine Anne Rose