Round Hill, Jamaica.
“We’re homophobic,” says the handsome Jamaican man eating opposite me with a grin. “But not as homophobic as everyone says. Isn’t that right?” and he turns to his husband for confirmation. The husband agrees. “They like to exaerate about Jamaica,” he says. “Jamaicans are the fastest, the most violent, the sexiest... and the most homophobic. As much as we’d like some of that to be true – and some of it is! – it’s all part of the myth of Jamaica.”
And you might think that sitting in the smartest resort on the whole of the island, the homophobia out there wouldn’t matter, but these are the general manager and the spa manager talking and they use their clout in the world of Jamaican tourism to personally lobby the government to work towards making those myths a thing of the past. They’re famous for it.
In his own domain, Josef, the big boss, has established a culture of total respect – “for gay guests, for women, for everyone” – and if people wanting to work in Round Hill can’t, literally, get with the programme, then it’s clearly not the job for them.
And it must be said, the friendliness and the humour of the staff, who obviously love being part of the team at this paradise right on the ocean, is one of the place’s big selling points. They all joke with you and each other in a way that really does add to the atmosphere. When we come to lunch following a two-hour tour of the immense property with the cheeky Miss Jamaica runner up who takes people on tours that aren’t strictly speaking supposed to last that long but she’s so obsessed with the place, she can’t help herself, the elderly waiter commiserates with us. “Two hours with her?” he goes, rolling his eyes. “Oh, lucky you!” But we were more than happy to do that tour, starting with the entry-level suites overlooking the infinity pool and the ocean, all blue-and-white nautical-flavoured loveliness with shutters, brass fittings and muslin mosquito nets as designed by Ralph Lauren, who just happens to have his own villa on the property (take a wrong turn out of your suite and you’ll run into his security guards who’ll put you back on track).
They don’t like to talk about their celebrities here at Round Hill but we do find out from someone out there in the real world that Harry and Meghan stayed here when they were in Montego Bay for a friend’s wedding. We suspect it was in our open-to-the-elements villa, done out like one of the low-key family rooms in Buckingham Palace only with no walls, an outside shower and a swimming pool right there! It comes with two maids, which was a bit like having your mum around to make teas and entice you with tasty treats even though they’d just cleared up from breakfast.
And then there are the black and white pictures of high society and other assorted famouses down in the cocktail bar, which is half inside and half out so that when it pours with rain out of nowhere, everyone rushes in to clear guests inside.
Princess Grace at the running buffet, Princess Margaret ‘aving a fag, Pierce Brosnan pre-Bond (pre-anything!) and that might be Noel Coward looking shifty with a martini. Most definitely Noel Coward. Who actually owned one of the cottages here, now you mention it. More pictures of Princess Margaret looking snooty (she actually learned to water-ski just on the beach over there), Audrey Hepburn, who had some very famous pictures taken on the jetty that you pass on the way to the gym, Charlton Heston... It was also one of Jackie O’s favourite hotels, but don’t let that put you off.
Anyway, as well as the oceanfront suites – 30-odd of them – there are villas, some privately owned and rented out. Those range from total SaudiArabian-Prince-and-family privacy and luxury to smaller, quirkier spots, where the families leave their dog-eared paperbacks for you to flip through and their photos on the walls. One even has a room with a porthole looking into the water of the pool overhead.
Maybe the famouses and the Saudi Princes (we’re just assuming that bit, by the way: we didn’t see any) stick to their huge villas but everyone else walks down the windy paths, through little flourishes of British – manicured lawns, herbaceous borders - to the main building and the little ‘village square’ in front of it, where you can have a cocktail around the piano – cocktail reae! - enjoy the really rather decent entertainment that’s laid on or just tuck into your dinner under the strings and strings of lights to the soundtrack of chirruping frogs.
Before that, for sunset, people gather at the bar built around a tree, looking out onto the netted off bay the hotel has all to itself with its in-water trampoline and floating day beds. And then there are the GM’s cocktails once a week, where they lay out drinks and nibbles by the infinity pool so everyone can meet ‘n’ greet. And you really don’t need to leave if you don’t want to. There’s a stateof-the-art Elemis spa in the old white Colonial house just around the sea walk, past what is in fact the oldest wharf in the whole of Jamaica. And the gym, also in that direction in a stand-alone building all its own looking out to sea, perhaps the most impressive you’re ever likely to see. Or just do some yoga on the lawn looking at the ocean.
It’s a funny old place that can be called the most homophobic country on earth by Time Magazine (that was back in 2006 and things have changed a lot since then, largely thanks to Jamaican campaigners J-Flag) but has still attracted thousands of travelers up to and including Noel Coward and Boy George over the years. A place where someone like Josef, who has lived as an openly gay man in Jamaica since 1979 and says he has never encountered any homophobic attitudes. And it’s good to know that progress is being made.
But that all seems a million miles away when your toes are in the sand, the sun is slipping behind Ralph Lauren’s villa and that nice man at the bar around the tree is shaking up another rum punch.
Au revoir corner shop Prosecco, austerity and Brexit - we’re in Champagne! Not like Dita Von Teese of course, rolling around in an outsize glass of it in her bra and panties, but the French region just outside Paris responsible for the good stuff. And the plan is to spend the weekend sinking some serious bubbles in the luxurious Royal Champagne Hotel & Spa.
This sprawling cutting edge hotel is nestled in a UNESCO-protected area in the hills of Epernay, overlooking the town and vineyards that stretch out in front of you. Designed with this view in mind and using floor-to-ceiling glass, the scenery is right there in every guest room and balcony, the restaurant, the bar, the library, the indoor and outdoor pools and the vast terrace. This gives an amazing sense of space, balanced with a sleek modern take on traditional French furniture for cosiness.
The owners of the hotel, fortuitously enough, also own a vineyard and biodynamic winery for their own Leclerc Briant champagne house, so the tour was a must. The production of champagne is a fascinating and painstaking process, using years of experimentation and not a SodaStream in sight (note to self: find out if we can turn plonk into fizz in a SodaStream). We were particularly taken with the rare Cuvée Abyss Brut Zero. Aged on the seabed of the Atlantic off the coast of Brittany – why not! – you can imagine how much the stuff costs, complete with barnacles and sea debris attached.
Of course there was a tasting thrown in and being far too British to use the crachoir (spittoon to you) we ended up getting pleasantly squiffy that morning.
Apparently it’s perfectly acceptable to drink champagne at any time of day here. Taking a casual Sunday morning hot air balloon flight for an aerial view of Epernay? Here’s a flute of Leclerc Briant to line your sans-breakfast empty stomach at high altitude. Not that a gourmet breakfast wasn’t on offer - it was a veritable spread - but the previous night’s six-, seven- or was it nine-course Michelin-starred chef’s menu with wine pairings (straight after a champagne tasting complete with cheese board) had some of us beaten.
Michelin-starred dining and fine wines can take their toll, so spa treatments interspersed with lazing around the pools, steam rooms and hot tubs seemed to be striking the right balance. You can cycle around the vineyards if you really must, and yes there are gym classes available for the self-flagellating, but we plumped for the indulgent approach. It was the weekend after all.
However should you get itchy feet and feel the need to explore, Epernay is super cute and home to the iconic L’Avenue de Champagne, lined with grand buildings owned by all the big champagne houses, including Leclerc Briant’s cute little B&B. I use that term loosely as it’s a bit gorgeous and naturally, they’ll offer you a glass or two.
And, added bonus, all this historic luxury is an easy couple of train rides away from London’s very own St. Pancras. A perfect luxe weekend break for the romantic or gastronomic and back in time for Monday’s rush hour, with newly acquired expert knowledge, a few bottles of something delicious clinking in your carry on, and a luxury hangover.
It’s a greige day as we emerge from Waverley Station to that familiar whiff of yeast in the air, a result of the local brewing scene, pumped up by down-winds, and as much a part of Auld Reekie’s fabric as the Scott Monument and that massive castle lording it over the whole place. It’s hard to see where the sky ends and the ancient sandstone of the Old Town begins, that stupidly gorgeous medieval enclave that huddles the crag and tail of an extinct volcano, just there to your left as you leave the city’s main transport hub. Edinburgh Castle tops, Holyrood Palace tails, and a warren of centuries-old buildings, a whole bunch of them built during the Renaissance, cram the bits in-between making for one of the most glorious, charming, wiledy-woledy old towns on earth. No wonder J.K. Rowling’s obsessed.
But up until now, Edinburgh’s hotel scene was pretty one-sided. The heritage side. Grand or twee. The Witchery is staeringly beautiful, The Balmoral your default grand-dame, and you’ll totally want to move into Rock House on Calton Hill – with most of the rest a bit Nana’s front parlour. But modern they’re not. But the gear started shifting a year or so ago, when Eden Locke opened their slick, stylish, Insta-ready serviced apartments on George Street in the New Town, its sexy-as coffee house, 127, fast becoming one of the city’s hippest. And Kimpton took over The Principal last year, weaving its very welcome kind of swish over another heritage building, just down the road from Eden Locke in Charlotte Square. But the city was lacking something.
Enter Market Street, Edinburgh’s first design-led hotel and, remarkably, one of only a handful of new-builds in the Old Town. Remarkable, and the temerity of it! But this is no postmodern pastiche, instead it’s an almost-brutalist tribute to the crags and romantic turrets that rise behind it. It’s strikingly modern but it doesn’t jar one jot. And inside the style revolution continues, from the playful lobby right up top on the 7th floor which segues into Nor’ Loft, a very dishy champagne lounge with floor-to-ceiling glass windows at every opportunity to suck up those views over Princes Street Gardens towards the glorious New Town and, just beyond that, the chilly North Sea.
Your breakfast is in here too, unless you want it delivered, goodie-bag style to your room. It comes with champagne because it would be silly not to, and kicky little dishes like grilled grapefruit with whipped coconut and mint oil sit alongside good ol’ fry-ups and Scottish-as-they-come tattie scones. Oh, and they do the best avocado on toast this side of breakfast cliché; creamy, smothered in chilli oil, on a grainy brown you don’t need a saw to slice through. All against a soundtrack of bossa nova, maybe a bit of dinner jazz. Nice, huh?
Dinner here’s a casual affair, of sharing plates (butternut squash Wellington, Arbroath Smokie and goat’s cheese, Queenie scallops and Ayrshire pork belly, smoked chicken rillettes, Pernod braised wild mushrooms – how long have you got?) and more champagne (there are 20 to choose from!), but if you’re after a few recommendations the Hawksmoor’s just over there, in a crazy-beautiful building on the other side of Princes Street right by St Andrew Square, The Lookout is a glass box of a restaurant plonked on top of Calton Hill serving incredible tasting menus and even better views, and everyone’s been wetting themselves over Timberyard since it opened back in 2014.
Then it’s down to the rooms, which are stylish cocoons carved out of wood and marble. Clever carpentry reveals hidden windows that gaze over the city, and your in-room bits ‘n’ bobs include an ‘indulgence’ cabinet with complimentary plonk and snacks, GHDs for your barnet, a clothes steamer which totally trumps any old iron and a Roberts radio with matching red slippers. Coffee’s locally sourced and your bed’s a ‘deep topper’, which is just asking for trouble.
One thing you notice when you come to Scotland is just how Scottish everything is. If there’s a flower arrangement on your table at breakfast, it will contain a thistle. If there’s some fabric knocking around, it will be tartan or at least tartan adjacent. If there’s a rugby match on, the boys will be in kilts, the girls in, ooh, a kicky mini in Isle of Skye with a tartan tam up top. If there’s some music to be played, there better be a bagpipe in earshot and if there’s a kitten in a basket you can bet your bottom dollar he’ll be snuled up to a nice piece of MacTavish. Maybe a Royal Stewart to make his eyes pop.
And Market Street Hotel wouldn’t have it any other way. Resolutely international and a punch-your-heart Scot, your lovely mid-century wingback chair will come with a scarlet tartan flourish while the hallways whisking you from room to champagne on the roof proudly tell the story of the Scottish unicorn, that Celtic symbol of purity, innocence, masculinity and power.
To be fair, they had us at champagne.