Can you remember the last time you had a good night’s sleep? Mine was 12 years ago. I had dragged my sorry carcass, battered suitcase and obliging boyfriend to Six Senses Yao Noi, desperate for a few days of respite from the soul-grinding job that had left me on the wrong side of a burnout.
Something loosened in me the moment I stepped within the walls of our villa. Was it the whisper of the Andaman breeze? The flutter of hornbills in the canopy? The aquamarine sparkle of our private pool? Fatigue wrapped around us like cotton wool. We crawled into bed, waking up 12 hours later, limbs soft and flailing like a newborn lamb’s. I reached for the bottle of crystal-infused water left by our private butler on the bedside table, took a sip and felt reborn. I’ve chased that high ever since.
In this era of ‘hyper fatigue’, you’ll find no shortage of dream-peddlers touting the tantalising prospect of a happier, glossier, less tired you.
It’s hard to remember a time when Big Mattress wasn’t vying for our big bucks. Ads for iron supplements follow us on our commutes, photos of contagious yawns deployed like artillery. Weighted blankets and neck-supporting pillows stalk our social media algorithms.
If you’re anything like me, you’ll have a Drawer of Desperation somewhere filled with ill-fitting eye masks, essential oils gathering dust, and promise-breaking room sprays. And yet we plod on, bleary of eye and dull of mane, looking for the miracle cure to our restless nights.
I’m going to let you in on a sad little secret. No amount of meditating, blue-screen filtering or 4-6-8 breathing will fix us. Modern life has chipped away at our ability to get a full night’s kip. Our circadian rhythms? They’re broken, much like our capacity to stop ourselves from doom scrolling at 2 am. No sleep remedy works – none, save returning to a life of pre-worry bliss, a state of temporary infancy.
And that’s where hotels come in. With their arsenal of black-out curtains, pillow menus, room service and targeted spa treatments, only hotels can give us that simple joy of feeling like we’ve been tucked in for the night, safe from the horrors of the dark.
I tested this theory at Grand Hotel Tremezzo, a grande dame that opened its doors in 1910 on the shores of Lake Como. On arrival, crisply dressed bellboys relieve you of your luggage, which you’re not required to handle yourself again until it’s time to leave.
The air smells of springtime roses; lounges sprawl from a billiard room to a cocktail bar staffed by twinkly-eyed mixologists. It’s just the setting for an Edwardian convalescence – one where you might be wrapped in blankets, say, fed nutritious broths and left lakeside to take in the view of the snow-capped mountains.
The reality, of course, is far superior. Days start with a lavish breakfast set out in an imposing former ballroom. I wander in a daze, pointing at whatever takes my toddler fancy: soft taleggio and sharp pecorino, translucent slices of smoked swordfish, poached eggs, yoghurt topped with a generous mound of maraschino cherries.
A small infantry unit of waiting staff pulls chairs, deploys beverages and fetches condiments. The lake shimmers alluringly, and one could easily spend the afternoon there, sipping on spritzes and dipping the odd toe in the hotel’s floating pool. I choose instead the gardens’ heated pool, strategically placed next to an alfresco café churning out Naples-worthy wood-fired pizzas.
A few lazy laps later, I’m happily drying in the sun, waiting for cold drinks and hot carbs to be brought to my sunlounger. There’s torpor in the air – the kind that would make you drop your book languorously, and close your eyes just for a second or three.
Late afternoon brings with it important work: I submit to the gruelling spa experience of a Sleep Ritual, a muscle-relaxing scrub and massage designed to encourage high-quality zzzs. It’s so soothing, unfortunately, that I can barely recall the details beyond soft skin, hot oil, and the very soporific scent of lavender.
After the treatment, I’m left to vegetate, moss-like, in a lake-view resting room. There’s a third pool – an indoor number with more postcard-perfect views – but who has the energy for that?
When I finally drag myself to my room, I find chocolates and a printed bedtime story on the pillow. Naps, snacks, fresh air, quick dips, repeat: I feel like I’ve really earned a solid night’s sleep. Thankfully my bed is plump and inviting; not too hot, or cold – just right, in fact. Goldilocks would approve.
THREE MORE FOR THE ZZZs
The clue’s in the name at Håstens Sleep Spa – because if you’ve been making the world’s best beds since the 1850s, a snooze-centric hotel, in calming Coimbra, seems like a no-brainer. Your own brain will feel noticeably less frenetic after a stint cosied up in the blue-and-white-checked confines of this shut-eye sanctuary.
They might have invented the cuckoo clock, but you can thank the neighbouring Swiss for your uninterrupted slumber at Hotel de Len in the Dolomites. One of their top universities pioneered the special energy-enhancing panels fitted beneath every bed which, and we quote, remove ‘dirty’ electricity and restore cleaner air for ultimate relaxation and regeneration.
Elsewhere, New York’s gym-adjacent Equinox hotel might be about exertion, adrenalin and high-performance but when it comes to bedtime, your mere ‘room’ becomes a ‘sleep chamber’ at the flick of a switch: cooled to 66°F, blacked-out windows, and powered-down tech. Combined with serious soundproofing, all-natural mattresses and weighted duvets, you’ve got quite the warm-down.
Fancy sleeping under the stars? Explore our most alluring open-air hotel rooms