A very different Italy.
We discovered the utterly glorious Pride of Britain Hotels collection while working on our England magazine - spending rather decadent nights at The Montagu Arms in the New Forest, and Buckinghamshire’s Hartwell House, a picturesque historic home-turned-hotel now managed by the National Trust.
Made up of over 50 hotels that stretch across the British Isles, each Pride of Britain offering brims with character, showcases the region it’s found within, is often accompanied by a peculiar and fascinating history, and is sure to make you feel that your getaway, no matter how fleeting, is truly restorative.
So when we were given the chance to dine with and rest our heads at the decadent and design-centric Dunstane House in Edinburgh, we jumped at the chance!
The newly refurbished, family-run hotel has been owned by Shirley and Derek Mowat for over 20 years and has grown dramatically in that time. The duo had originally travelled down from Orkney, bound for London, where they had dreams of running their own hotel. But upon discovering this Scottish bolthole, they found they no longer had a desire to part with it - or Edinburgh.
Located in the calmer, lesser-explored West End, the hotel’s heritage has been lovingly maintained - indeed, they’ve clearly revelled in the joys of having a stone Victorian Townhouse as their canvas. The interiors are a mix of the traditional and playful, and Dunstane House is filled with homely Orcadian accents. It is the definitional of boutique and worthy of its five-star rating.
The walls are adorned with artworks that depict calming Edinburgh and Orkney scenes, while the colour palette is inspired by the Orkney landscape, the soft blues and beiges bringing to mind the wildest of northern beaches. In the downstairs bar, attached to a light-filled dining room - the setting of relaxed breakfasts and dinners that feature the most delectable Scottish fare; hearty, inventive and absolutely perfect on those cooler winter nights - Orkney gins and whiskeys are served, alongside creations from local microbreweries.
The bar itself - the Ba'Bar - is named for Okney’s answer to rugby; a game played twice a year (on Christmas and New Year’s Day, which also happen to be the local hospital’s busiest days). There are no rules and it is equal parts madness and brilliance, with the entire community getting involved, hoping to get the ball to the town wall or water to claim victory. A Ba’ ball, given to the player of the match, takes pride of place above the blue, art-filled bar. As it should!
The hotel’s most recent refurbishment saw Shirley and Derek return it to its neoclassical roots in their decor and furniture choices. Original cornicing becomes a statement feature, chairs and throws are adorned with Orkney tweed, and each room - all of which are different - comes with shortbread, made fresh every day. There are four posted beds in some, the odd freestanding copper roll-top bath, restored vintage wardrobes, Persian rugs, thriving house plants and flowers, an assortment of sculptural lighting features and wallpapers you long to secret away. Many of the furnishings are either bespoke or sourced from antique fairs - all different, all curious, and that’s precisely the point. Everything here is intentional, considered, a work of art.
This is a hotel that captures the soul of Orkney in a quieter corner of Edinburgh - a place I can’t wait to return to. To learn more or simply book a room, click here.
Not only will this country soothe your soul, leave you speechless and make you yearn for more . . .
A Long Way Home
Crossing Aotearoa’s South Island in search of whitebait, weather and a sense of connection.
The West Coast
Avenues of tall kahikatea trees saluted us as we made our way to glacier country, the drizzle following us all the way. We arrived in Fox, a small town at the foot of the Southern Alps dedicated almost entirely to mountain pursuits, such as the glacier heliflight we’d booked for the following day. But the peaks above us were obscured by ominous cloud. “The helicopters,” chimed the woman checking us into our motel, “haven’t been up all week.” When people in the UK tell me that I must miss the weather back home, they’re confusing us with sunny Australia. For in New Zealand the only thing you can predict about the weather is its changeability. We were lucky then to wake up to blue skies, giving us the chance to witness the mountain ranges reflected in Lake Matheson’s much-photographed mirrored surface and keep our date with Fox Glacier. Our pocket-sized helicopter hovered up the great sweeping frozen river, pure white ice rippled with translucent blue, made all the more humbling for the fact nature almost didn’t let us in.
Having encountered all weather varieties we went in search of that ultimate Kiwi delicacy: whitebait fritters, fresh from the pan and served on no-frills, generously buttered white bread with a wedge of lemon. In Haast we came upon Otoko Espresso, a rust-brown, corrugated-iron cart serving hot coffee and whitebait sarnies on the side of the road. We ate where we stood, juices running down our chins, as proprietor Robyn rested her elbows on the counter and told us how she parks here for the summer holidays. “My kids are playing over there somewhere,” she says, waving an arm towards the park. “They’ll come back when they’re hungry.” Oh my word, if only we could do the same.
We ventured inland across the Alps, through the beech forest and rugged schist ravines of the Haast Pass - once an ancient Māori greenstone trail - emerging into what appeared to be an entirely different country. The moody greys and greens of the west coast had been replaced by sandy browns and bright blues of Lake Wanaka, backed by mountains beyond mountains and Lake Hawea, which is a startling shade of turquoise. Mum’s little red Mazda carried us over the Crown Range, the highest main road in the country and one hell of a scenic drive, golden valleys appearing at every hairpin turn. Having made it to the other side we stopped for a drink at the Cardrona Hotel, an iconic coaching inn dating back to 1863, which is seriously old when you consider that the country was only founded in 1840. Its wooden facade is original as is the vintage Chrysler parked out front, while round the back the rose-bordered beer garden is the perfect spot for a cold one.
We spent two nights in Arrowtown, set at a welcome distance from the summer crowds of nearby Queenstown and a place that benefits from a proper nosey. Retaining its gold rush charm, the main street is a cluster of heritage-style shops and restaurants, merging with a tree-lined avenue of original miners’ cottages. A horse was tethered outside the pub where a jazz band had people on their feet and dancing in the beer garden. Surrounded by all this it was easy to imagine the lives of families who’d emigrated here to make their fortune panning the Arrow River for gold. New Zealand may not have seen the rise and fall of empires, or had the likes of Shakespeare walk its streets, but our country has an intrepid history all its own, something I was only now beginning to appreciate.
My favourite curiosity of all was Fleur’s Place, a seafood shack lovingly installed on the Moeraki harbourside by chef Fleur Sullivan. We arrived for dinner, the evening sun glinting off the ocean as gulls twirled above the ramshackle restaurant built from marvellous bits and bobs - old doors, pieces of boat, a spiral staircase rescued from a demolished hotel. We tucked into freshly grilled hoki and monkfish, while all around us the walls were covered in Sharpie scrawls from previous diners, love notes to a good meal. And then there was Fleur, with a cloud of white hair and a greenstone hung about her neck who, despite being in her seventies, was hustling through the restaurant with a steel tray of fish. Stopping for a chat, she told us how the ample supply of local food motivated her to open the restaurant in 2002. “I’d go out on the boats and see how much went to waste - they’d chuck the fish heads overboard. And I thought, that would make a bloody good stock!” Next thing I knew Fleur was tugging on my arm and mum and I were encouraged to come ogle another diner’s fish supper. “This bream was caught about two hours ago,” she announced, clearly as delighted as we were. Here was a woman who appreciated what was right on her doorstep. New life mantra: be more like Fleur.
We had arrived in lake country, passing Lake Aviemore, where ‘freedom campers’ congregated in their laundry-draped campervans, then the eye-wateringly blue Lake Pukaki, and Lake Benmore, with its colossal hydropower dam. Punctuating all this water are the Clay Cliffs, found just outside of Omarama. Five dollars in an honesty box beside the gate grants entry to what looks like the Australian Outback - a dry, arid landscape spiked with huge pinnacles of rock and riddled with walking trails. Then, it was back to blue for the rest of the day, our digs a tiny cabin on the edge of Lake Tekapo alongside the compact tents of committed cycle-tourers. Mum and I sat on the porch, sharing fish and chips with a family of ducks and waiting for nightfall; this place is a UNESCO dark sky reserve, the undiluted darkness a perfect opportunity for stargazing.
The morning brought a palette of colour as we hit the road through trails of lupins, an immigrant wildflower that mottled the roadside with watercolour shades of pink and purple. We were heading for Akaroa, a pretty port that the English and French had competed to claim in 1840. After a long and epic voyage the French arrived to see the British flag up on the hill. They were 48 hours too late. Nevertheless, the town still adopted a little French flavour, as evident in the street names and the boulangeries serving crépes and croque monsieur. From the pier, pint-sized catamarans come and go, taking wildlife-watchers to meet the little native Hector’s dolphins that play in the harbour. Then there’s the uniquely Akaroan The Giant’s House, the home of blue-haired artist Josie Martin, reinvented as a bonkers fantasyland of mosaics - a world of characters she created out of tiles, glass and chipped crockery and which has a je ne sais quoi all its own. Our road trip was meant to end in Kaikoura with a visit to Nin’s Bin, an iconic, retro caravan selling crayfish on the beachfront. But a few weeks before the region was rattled hard by a 7.8-magnitude earthquake, cutting off access roads and heaving up the seabed (decimating the crayfish with it). Here, quakes are a part of life. Kaikoura would rebuild and I would come back. In the meantime, we reset our route to Hanmer Springs, a splendid place to conclude a road trip, as it turns out. Hanmer has been an oasis of geothermal hot springs for more than 150 years and its steamy mineral pools are ideal for soaking weary bones and car-contorted limbs. It seems that with one hand nature may taketh away but it giveth back with the other.
On our last morning we hit the road early, the peaks of the Southern Alps striking against the pale sky. We stopped for fuel and flat whites in Springs Junction, possibly the only place to actually benefit from the earthquake. This little one-horse town was fielding all the rerouted traffic from Kaikoura and local business was booming. As I juggled our takeaway coffees a tattooed truckie smiled and held the cafe door open for me. I felt a long-overdue surge of affection for my little country and its people, grateful it had so warmly welcomed back its prodigal daughter. In Nelson Lakes National Park we made our final scenic stop, at beautiful Lake Rotoiti, where I wandered barefoot to the end of its creaky wooden jetty and felt the sun on my skin. And I finally got it. There really is no place like home. I’d just had to go to the other side of the world and back to get here.