Seaton House

Let's agree that there are two, admittedly rather different, approaches to enjoying a Scottish winter. At Seaton House, with a scattering of snow dusting St Andrews' famous West Sands beach and the North Sea air thick and heavy with cold, Mrs Smith elected to tread one path, while I — in the interests of science or journalistic rigour or something — trod the other. When I say 'trod', I must admit that, in the case of Mrs Smith at least, I don't mean it literally.

It was January, the New Year arriving in a blur of rosy soft sunsets and sub-zero temperatures. For the indolent, a holiday such as this might offer opportunity for action. For those whose lives are already infused with a certain manic energy, it's vital to take a moment to relax. Being of the former disposition (which some, yes, may characterise as lazy), I embraced every chance to get outside. I took long runs at low tide along snow-covered beaches. I spent an hour in a sauna on the edge of the sands, my whole body enveloped in steam as I ran down to the sea and into the ice-cold waves, walking back, bare feet turning fast to concrete, to the sauna's hot, dry embrace. Rinse, repeat.

The path trod by Mrs Smith, meanwhile, involved mostly tea and books and lying wrapped up in a cosy soft nest of blankets and duvets. From bed to armchair to sofa to bed. A journey in itself, with wide expansive sea views the perfect backdrop. If one way to enjoy the cold is to plunge yourself into it then, undoubtedly, the other is to hide away and watch it through big bay windows.

The general aesthetic of Seaton House is what one might call Scots Modern. The building was constructed in 1864, and traces of its origins as a former schoolhouse remain in those lovely bay windows and high ceilings, which create handsome outlines throughout. Clean, unfussy neutrals and lots of pale wood owe a debt to Scandi minimalism. Leather seats, brass fittings and lashings of tartan and tweed provide strong, if perhaps a little predictable, accent notes. An occupational hazard of being an art critic is the inability to overlook the limitations of hotel art (in this instance, mostly pictures of golf courses and digital reproductions of abstract paintings). Signifiers of a certain conception of Scottishness — stag-patterned curtains and thistle-motif velveteen cushions — do drift sporadically towards pastiche. But if comfort is in part a product of predictability, then Seaton House is undoubtedly a place wrapped in a warm fuzzy cloak of relaxation and contentment.

Most successful from an interiors perspective is the bar: a cosy hideaway of dark corners and leather sofas, with various brass bits and bobs glinting in the flickering light of a log fire. An extensive whisky list and friendly, knowledgeable staff make this the ideal place to while away a winter's night. Ondine, meanwhile, the smarter of the two hotel restaurants (named after a water nymph associated with Renaissance alchemy), is an elegant wash of sea mist.

It's the attention to detail that makes Seaton House stand out. The complimentary bottle of Lindores single malt waiting on a side table beside a pair of Riedel tumblers. The Seaton House-branded Dryrobe to keep you warm after a dip in the sea. The cashmere blanket from Johnstons of Elgin. The beautiful tartan throw by Ava Innes. This is the life.

All the staff at Seaton House are friendly and helpful, and whoever is in charge of baked goods deserves a medal. Deliciously crisp, cinnamon-dusted shortbread biscuits served with coffee upon arrival. Dainty treacle-dark — and dangerously moreish — soda-bread rolls alongside lunch at Ondine. Incredible. And there is clearly no shortage of butter in these parts. Our main course at Ondine (expertly charred and pepper-crusted monkfish) comes with an enveloping chive-butter sauce and a generous platter of delicious veg, including crispy roast tatties, charred spring cabbage, and roast carrots and parsnips so soft and rich that you feel they must have spent the last week bathing in a buttery Jacuzzi. (That's a good thing, by the way, especially at this time of year.) At breakfast, scrambled eggs and buttery tattie scones are just the thing to return to after a beach run in -4°C.

Could anything be more joyously invigorating, I wonder to myself as I return all smug and wholesome from my January sea swim and sauna. Well, yes, actually. As the sun sets, and the sky fills again with streaks of pink, I emerge from the shower to stand alongside Mrs Smith on our suite's snowy terrace, wrapped in nothing but the softest cashmere blanket you could ever imagine. With tumbler of whisky in hand, gazing heroically across the sea to the dunes and pine forests of Tentsmuir and the snow-capped mountains beyond, I feel — ah, yes — I feel alive.