If you’ve ever had the pleasure of floating through the lobby of a Six Senses hotel, then you’ll find a spark of recognition in the smooth lines, low-slung furniture and beautifully crafted joinery here in the group’s new London outpost. The daily wellness programmes and nutritiously dense menus are business as usual; likewise, the profound aphorisms chalked on boards and hand-scribbled on notepads in rooms. But the familiarity stops there.
While Six Senses London brings the group’s signature blend of excellent taste and thoughtful wellness into the city, hot on the heels of Rome and Kyoto openings, it occupies the cruise liner-like bones of storied department store Whiteleys. For Londoners who know the area, there’s some emotional baggage here — now joined by the odd Birkin.
Located on Queensway in the affluent Bayswater neighbourhood, Whiteleys was the department store in its 18th-century heyday, claiming to sell anything and everything, ‘from a pin to an elephant’, and referenced in the 1964 Audrey Hepburn classic, My Fair Lady. Retail magnate Harry Gordon Selfridge took it under his wing in 1927, but during its time under United Drapery Stores (who oversaw many popular Brit department stores), Whiteleys lost its spark and closed in 2018 for redevelopment. Enter: Six Senses.
You might think the group’s alternative-medicine, back-to-nature, spa-first allure would surely be lost on a big-boned shrine to rampant capitalism; but it turns out, it’s not. Rather, the art deco drama, palatial public spaces and chequered lobby floor are softened and warmed by mid-century curves, earthy fabrics and the abundance of plants, curling around Victorian cabinetry and poking out from glass cases like they own the place.
In the lobby, I knock back a ginger kombucha welcome drink. I’m fresh from a Titanic-themed school project I’ve been working on with my eldest daughter and can’t help drawing parallels: William Whiteley’s board opted for grander headquarters on Queensway in 1908, the same year the design began on the ill-fated ship. It’s there in the glossy black frames, the welding, the famous spiral staircase, the brass lantern chandeliers casting a warm glow — all reminiscent of the golden age of both the ship and the store.
I’m here with a Little Smith, a very Little Smith — small enough to ensure my bachelor alter ego can have its moment (toddlers have a way of killing it). I’m angling for pre-lunch massages, afternoons indulging in wellness between glasses of Château Margaux, and taking a long soak with BBC World, before trotting downstairs for fireside martinis.
My suite (220) confidently meets the brief: green-velvet sofa, parquet floor, conical lamps and hefty Crittall doors leading onto a grand balcony. So this is where guests quaff the fizz that staff have quietly left on the stone table (classic Six Senses), along with sesame crackers, sourdough chocolate and peculiar looking pastry balls that I inhale, regardless.
More cruise-liner-like touches in the courtyard’s monochrome symmetry, the ebony detailing in the bathroom and the art deco mirror encircling my enormous round tub. In most rooms, the shower is encased in Crittall glass, but slap bang in the middle, steps from the bed — an unfortunate design for those who value at least a little privacy. My whopper of a marble bathroom is closed off with an actual door. Little Smith fancies a splash in the tub; two cherubic, croissant-shaped thighs breaking the water, caught in the lanterns’ amber glow. No solo tub time for me… no solo time ever, anymore. I take this grievance straight to the spa, in the hope that the in-house herbalist can dispense some tincture to miraculously solve it, along with a long list of other cortisol-fuelled ailments.
Following a colossal development project that included retail spaces, 14 residences, an inaugural private members club and the 109-room hotel itself, the spa could have been an afterthought. It was not.
EPR Architects’ decision to dig deep in order to create sweeping, Romanesque ceilings avoided the dark, basement dankness that’s typical of London spas. It feels light and bright, with soaring arches and a lobby area dominated by a cascading, ceramic art installation by Ula Saniawa. As I’m led into an apricot-hued space through silent sliding doors, I have a Narnia moment: what appears to be an old Victorian apothecary, the mahogany cabinetry filled with old-fashioned tincture bottles transporting me immediately to Dickensian Britain.
Amid the copper stills, dried flowers, grasses suspended from the ceiling and jars of foraged herbs sits Rebecca Collison-Walker, medical herbalist (not a shrink, as I wrongly assumed during my consultation). Collison-Walker endures my rollercoaster novella of ‘three C-sections in five years while trying to turbocharge a career in journalism’ as she presses me on health concerns. Little Smith is fixated on the copper still pumping away. ‘Oh, that’s sage, for this evening’s cocktails,’ she explains, deftly moving her stepladder around the room like a librarian, reaching for nettle, milk thistle and oat straw (my nervous system needs a boost), all dispensed into a dark, Victorian tincture bottle.
The moment I step back into the room, my alter-ego returns and I resume the lifestyle I lamented to Collison-Walker not 10 minutes ago: scoffing any remnants of the sourdough chocolate, sipping still-chilled Champagne (between shots of a lemongrass infusion for balance) and slumping onto the now-sunny balcony.
While Little Smith naps, I open the wardrobe to dig into the elite snacks lurking within (Karma Cola, trail mix, fancy gummy bears). This baby-free period also buys me time to suss out the wellness tech: the sleep-tracker device on the bedside table, developed by expert Dr. Michael Breus; the wellness chair that’s more like a therapist’s lounger, complete with headphones and vibrations to shimmy me into a sweeter dimension.
I may be a somewhat flaky health disciple, but Six Senses’ love of the good life resonates. At all of the group’s hotels I’ve checked into, it feels like hunkering down with a friend who takes their downtime very seriously. So seriously that biohacking and full-body MOT analytics are par for the course (all available in the hotel spa-slash-members’ club downstairs). But they’re also game for a well-crafted cocktail. As am I.
Cut to me nursing an Island Apothecary (Mount Gay Black Barrel rum with kefir and Earl Grey tea) propped up against the bar. Behind lies the now familiar Victorian cabinetry, with various curative concoctions sitting alongside the naughtier bottles.
I head over to Whiteleys Kitchen via a beast of a farmhouse table and what is surely London’s smartest open kitchen, clanking and steaming away. The restaurant mimics the casual layout of a European brasserie, with art deco details (geometric mirrored walls, frosted glass lanterns suspended from a mahogany ceiling) and a menu worthy of the spotlight. Locality and seasonality are the stars here, as befitting Six Senses’ ethos, with the best of British meat, fish and veg channelled into dishes such as cured black bream with chard dumplings. The best thing on the menu is the ‘trust the chef’ option, but after spending far too long quaffing rhubarb and gooseberry cocktails at the bar, I ad-lib: a pillowy-then-crisp milk kefir flatbread; gold-standard lamb koftas with ‘nduja and chives; fresh stone bass in miso sauce and fermented cabbage. The fermented part is important — expert Jelena Belgrave’s jars of vegetables and fruit are on display by the open-plan kitchen and woven into both the dinner and breakfast menus.
Speaking of which. Breakfast is often the highlight of any hotel stay for me: knock-out ingredients, newspapers, and really, really good coffee. But in London, it’s typically sweet pastries, British classics and the odd omelette thrown in for the health conscious. Not here. The morning after, we load up our Bircher muesli with exotic fruits, nuts and seeds, all curated on the table in wooden bowls like an art installation. You’d think mixing punchy health juices with numerous coffees, omega-3-heavy Bircher and wood-fired mushrooms on sourdough would end in tears on a massage table; but apparently digestible food is just that… I haven’t felt stuffed since I walked through the grand pillared entrance yesterday.
Back in the spa, and the most divine facial massage tips me into a delicious sleep. I had great intentions of swimming in the striking 20-metre indoor pool and dunking my way through the thermal circuit with its magnesium baths today. But I’m curled up in a dressing gown, seemingly paralysed by an odd sensation my overstimulated body and brain barely recognise anymore: total relaxation. Whiteleys once promised that it could provide anything — now it specialises in the one thing Londoners rarely manage to take home.
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Rosalyn Wikeley is a travel journalist contributing regularly to Condé Nast Traveller, The London Standard and the Telegraph. Specialising in Sicily, skiing, the West Country, and boutique hotels with soul, Rosalyn has written for The Financial Times, Vogue, The Telegraph, House & Garden, The Times, among others, and is the author of three destination guidebooks for Glimpse Guides.
Six Senses London photographed by Jake Saint Love Axler