“Caroline Phillips is a tenacious and skilful writer with a flair for high quality interviewing and a knack for making things work.”
This teeny two-bed 18th century Costwold stone hunting lodge, set down a pot-holed farm track on the Blenheim Palace Estate, is as cute as a button. The Duke of Marlborough has leased it to ‘DJ’ Nichols, American founder of ‘lifestyle provider’ Unlisted.
It has been attracting attention from the rich and famous lately, but the lush and beautiful Greek island of Meganisi is still “firmly off the tourist radar”, says Caroline Phillips in The Times. Part of the Ionian archipelago, just off the country’s west coast, it feels lost in time, with patchy mobile reception and a population of just 1200, none of whom locks their house or car.
It’s what the Swiss Family Robinson would have built, had they met the Blue Forest design team. A Chewton Glen treehouse. The ultimate reinvention of the country house hotel. The six treehouses – or ‘treehouse suites’ as they’re known – look simple and rustic outside, like floating wooden space ships hiding in the woods. But ones with wraparound balconies and al fresco hot tubs that brush the tree canopy.
It’s a place of Olympian beauty where emerald isles rise languidly out of a patchwork turquoise and wine-dark sea. But my two teenagers and their friends disregard this scenery that’s fit for the gods. Instead they are focusing on our fellow passengers.
I need to come back as a man in my next life. It’s better than being a woman. So says the astrologer monk, Wangchuk, who counsels the king and Queen of Bhutan. He’s sitting in the lotus position on his bed, mumbling, sniffing and snorting as he turns the pages of his astrological book – revealing ever more esoteric tips to help me in this lifetime and after.
These are the islands on the edge of the world. You may see porpoises, basking sharks or dolphins. Or perchance a peregrine falcon or sea eagle. You’ll pass rivers of moss and mushroom colours of plaid, and bens and glens cloaked in bracken and tradition. ‘It’s the last great wilderness,’ declares our ship’s chief purser, Charles Carroll. It’s as if we are lost in time. Welcome to the Hebridean Islands.
People say one of two things when I tell them I’m going to Bhutan. Either: “Where the hell’s that?” Or: “oooh, you’re so lucky, I’ve aways wanted to go there.” To the first, the answer is: it’s a kingdom in the Himalayas between India and the Tibetan plateau. To the second: yes, very lucky – it is one of the most magical and beautful places on Earth where truly you travel back in time.
Rossano Ferretti is that rare breed: a hairdresser-cum-architect with a good splash of the designer in him. In fact, he has designed twenty salons across the globe – from New York to New Delhi – and is a world-renowned crimper. He’s known for a way of cutting hair that’s not simply described as a ‘haircut’ but instead is dubbed ‘The Method’ – a unique and patented technique of cutting tresses that apparently has something to do with snipping the hair based on its ‘natural fall in motion.’
Ibiza. Hmm, clubs, not my kinda thing. Raving, drinking, drugging. None of it my style. An island where people like doing those things? I don’t think so. Don’t like hippy dippy either. I’m the close friends, good books, feet-up and early to bed type. And anyway it’s probably called the White Island because it’s covered in coke.
Super-jumbo aviation arrived this summer in the UK with the delivery to Heathrow of British Airways’ first A380. The arrival of an all-new, swings and bells airliner is a bigger event than things from Outer Space hitting earth, (unless you’re talking the 650kg Chelyabinsk meteor that hit Russia in February). Small meteorites hit earth daily; whereas it was as long ago as 1970 when the last aerial megastar – the then Queen of the Skies, the Boeing 747 – first landed.
Christmas? Pah! It’s hard to forget the childhood memories of my mother getting up in the night to baste the eight-hour-shrivelled turkey. And those moments of sipping festively hot diesel – otherwise known as cherry brandy. Things are little different these days. Have you ever tried following Delia’s culinary countdown, particularly on the day itself? I’d rather eat my own spleen. Even a boil-in-the-bag kipper tastes better than the fifteenth turkey serving of the month. And find me someone who says he likes Brussels sprouts, and I’ll show you a liar.
Sometimes you find a place so good you don’t want to tell people about it. The Samling is one such. But its restaurant has just won a Michelin star, so it’s too late to keep schtumm…. The hotel can accommodate 24 lucky guests – in rooms and six cottages – in a gabled 1780s house in Windermere, the Lake District. All set on a steep hill and in 67 acres of gardens with giant genera, lavender and hemp. You may inadvertently walk past ‘reception’ – simply a bureau desk in the hall – but soon enough you’ll encounter the young, smiley, ever-solicitous staff. They’re doing great things. Since changing hands in 2011, The Samling has been snapping up awards. (‘Best boutique dining hotel in the world’ type monikers.)
Sunday 14 December. It’s a perfect afternoon: sun, sand, surfers. I’m in Sydney visiting my two Londoner daughters who are here living the Australian dream. My 28-year-old, Ella, is at the beach with friends; her elder sister Anya, 30, is out with her boyfriend. So I go for a swim alone at…
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I am onstage in front of 65 strangers who think I’m a stand-up comedian. I’ve never done anything like this before. Why have I agreed…