Royal Champagne Hotel & Spa

One of the quirks of the British psyche is that we’d rather let a bottle of champagne gather dust than risk opening it on an occasion not deemed fancy enough. Hands up who’s got a ‘good bottle’ that’s been guarded like a top-security museum piece for years? 

No wonder the French don’t get us – they love drinking the good stuff. As an aperitif. Because it’s Friday. But also on Mondays. With oysters or baguette; friends or solo; for a celebration, but equally because champagne is delicious, life is short and pleasure is fun. And it’s in adopting this French approach to highbrow hydration, that me, Mr Smith and our Four-Legged Smith devote a random Sunday and Monday to quenching the most indulgent kind of thirst – an effervescent one.  

10 minutes’ drive from Épernay, where the gloriously named Avenue de Champagne houses manicured tasting terraces that belong to Moët et Chandon and Perriet Jouet, Royal Champagne perches on top of a valley. Born as a coaching inn in the 17th century, the hotel has imbibed a few rounds of its own – it became an open-air dance hall in the 19th century and now, in the 21st, a brutalist design reboot created square-shaped suites that look like a concrete ice-cube tray nestled among vines. 

Inside, it’s artfully on-brand, with stone floors and chandeliers polished to the point of sparkling. It’s like walking into a Lalique boutique… then I feel my right arm being yanked and I’m suddenly reminded that I have a large, excited dog with me. I panic. Did I imagine the small print allowing dogs? I look around at the precious vases of roses, a black-tie lunch rollicking below the balustrade downstairs, and furnishings in every dog owner’s most terrifying shade – light grey. 

When staff rush over, I’m already preparing my apology speech and exit strategy. My dog, however, reads the room better than I do: within seconds, he’s flat on his back with his legs in the air enjoying a full-body rub. I realise that, like the wine we’re here for, the first step to joie de vivre is to chill. Ideally horizontally. Tongue hanging on the floor, optional. 

Once shown to our Royal Junior Suite – the magnum proportions of which house a sofa, lounge chairs and a desk, almost as fillers – I realise the neutral décor is intentionally so. Your attention is meant for The View. 

The valley-facing wall is made entirely of glass, leading onto a clear-sided balcony that lets you drink in the panorama before you: rolling hills, speck-shaped towns and a dramatic paint-stroke of sky and cloud. It’s both relaxing and regal; a podium to survey wine country as if it were your kingdom. Your decisions, as its new ruler, aided by the ‘Champagne, please’ button on the room telephone that immediately summons filled flutes to your door. 

Most decision-making at Royal Champagne simply requires the word ‘yes’. Take the spa. I’ll admit that I’m a tough crowd with resort spas. I struggle to lean into laying back when I could be exploring, taking pictures or quaffing. I can rarely silence a mental commentary of whether a treatment is meeting expectations or, honestly, its expense. 

But the spa at Royal Champagne is a destination in its own right, and this is why. In the nine years that I’ve known Mr Smith, I’ve seen him wear a robe once – during a hospital stay for back surgery. In two days at Royal Champagne, he wore a robe every day, at multiple points during each day, uncoerced by medical professionals to do so. He even went to the spa to go shopping for items that did not have wires or a screen. That is its allure. 

Firstly, there’s a proper pool. In culinary terms, this is a steak not a dollop of foam – 25 metres to get your stroke on. (There is also an outdoor pool. But if you visit outside the summer months, as we did, unless you’re accustomed to the Wim Hof method of ice bathing, the inside pool is… kinder). 

Secondly, the pool area is spectacular. Floor-to-ceiling windows are the star: on our first day, glorious sunlight poured in, turning the pool water an Ibizan-cala shade of blue. On day two, the weather turned; windows now showcasing dark, hypnotic storm skies with the vines all but invisible under creeping wafts of mist. 

The treatments, hand on (well-moisturised) heart, are excellent. Facials use Biologique Recherche, a cult French brand founded by a biologist and a physiotherapist that all the Parisians I know swear by. 

So much for my loathe-to-lay-down rule, I went twice. Once to de-mangle my back, gnarled by a dog trying to pull me into high-end places. The second to give my face some champagne sparkle – you wonder how they can find so many things to layer on and off over 90 minutes, then you look in the mirror at the juicy, even-toned reflection and realise that maybe spending more than 45 seconds on yourself is worth it.  

There’s also a lot of positive noise for the restaurants. The Michelin-starred Le Royal is closed on Sundays and Mondays, so we didn’t get a chance to make inappropriate food groans in there. But Le Bellevue, the more casual restaurant (though not robe-wearing casual, Mr Smith), is a great, vibey staple – always full, with switched-on service, and fizz topped up like tap water. 

A visit to Royal Champagne is not an everyday event, of course. But you do leave with a slightly changed perspective – that incorporating more of the good stuff into your everyday life wouldn’t be an entirely outrageous idea. Perhaps my dog was right all along – run towards the good stuff and spend more time laying down. I’ll drink to that.