Hotel Hit Squad: Inside Rosewood London – a peaceful refuge from the West End's Christmas scrum
During the festive season, London scintillates like a sparkly bauble. The windows of department stores pout like postmodern pageant theatre sets; fashionistas strut the high streets in their sequin skirts; and the dark, cold streets are bathed in the warm glow of fairy lights. But very quickly, it can get all too much: the hail-spattered rush-hour scrums, Fairy Tale of New York blaring from every public speaker until the opening chords slam in your head on a loop; and the joyless trudge from shop to shop, looking for an out-of-stock juicer, as per sister’s unforgivingly specific Christmas list.
The right choice of hotel is crucial. Ideally you want somewhere festive but not frenetic; tranquil but not drably corporate. A boutique feel, but enough rooms to fit in a last-minute whizz down to the capital at one of the busiest times. This year, in between sampling the candyfloss at Hyde Park’s Winter Wonderland and smelling every scented candle in Selfridges, I stayed at the Rosewood London, on High Holborn, housed in a Grade II explosion of Edwardian excess. The cobblestoned, wrought-iron-gated entrance is dramatic at any time of year, not least due to the hotel’s white fa?ade, mouldings plaited with the intricacy of an overdone wedding cake. But in winter it is breathtaking, decorated with gold-flecked pine trees, and garlanded with lights.
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The hotel porters, who drift up and down the lobby like the human answer to metal detectors, scanning the room for weary guests, will practically arm-wrestle your shopping bags out of your hands, so you can sit with a cup of tea served in a gold foiled teacup and soothe the stresses of the day by soaking up the whimsy: public rooms are decorated with curiosities such as butterfly sculptures made from broken records; and birdcages with parrots bashed out of recycled metal. I even spotted George Orwell’s Animal Farm displayed in a glass jar, decorated with pig figurines hoisted on sticks.
If this isn’t quite enough to distract you, happily there is a spa. Because the sauna and steam rooms are tucked away in the treatment-room changing areas, many guests don’t realise these are at their disposal, even without a massage appointment. Thus, there is a decent chance of having the facilities to yourself. I went for the three-in-one Sense of Luxury and Indulgence Journey, a sugar honey scrub followed by an omega oil-drenched massage (if you’ve been pounding the streets of Oxford Street, your therapist can spend more time working their magic on aching arches). It was rounded off with a triple-collagen facial that left my skin almost outglowing my shimmery dinner dress.
Every year, Rosewood erects a winter pop-up bar on its terrace, and this year, the chalet-style hut with woodland-carved feature walls has a Glenfiddich whisky theme. At one of the tables with sheepskin-lined benches, a wool blanket over our knees for warmth, my friend Charlotte and I sipped on wooden cups of hot toddy, and warm, luxuriant coffee cocktails with ginger-infused foam.
If whisky isn’t one’s poison, then head to the hotel’s gentleman’s club-inspired Scarfes bar, all fringed lampshades, roaring fireplace and hefty hardbacks hand-picked by a Portobello antiques dealer. Zany concoctions feature the likes of gin with burnt cauliflower Campari and pumpkin seed. There’s even a Boris Johnson-inspired drink with rhubarb, berry wine and cocoa nibs.
The pop-up made for a fun prequel to dinner in the Holborn Dining Room, a British brasserie with chrome fittings that gleam wickedly like a dentist’s toolbox, and letterbox-red leather booths. The speciality is pie (the chicken, girolle and tarragon on a bed of smashed garden peas is a bucolic bear hug of succulence); but, the inappropriately summery shrimp burger is the show-stealing wild card. Order it with chips served under an avalanche of truffle cheese, and sweet glazed baby carrots. Apple tart to share, with a glass of Hungarian sweet wine, is the merriest way to end.
It’s worth skipping the lift and penguin-plodding up the grand staircase to bed just to take in the veiny grey marble that coats the entire upper building, unadorned apart from the odd antique mirror. Suites have huge bathrooms with hexagonal his and hers sinks made from polished metal, art deco lampshades and bath tubs that have their own televisions. Ladies will feel like Marlene Dietrich, making themselves up at the light bulb-lit dressing tables, decorated with a white bouquet of flowers. Or if overdosing on Christmas-fuelled consumerism has made you ponder the meaning of life, Sartre’s Being and Nothingness is arranged next to guests’ bottle of water by the bed.
Rooms from ￡472 B&B. Access possible for guests with disabilities