Templeton Garden

Earl’s Court, where Templeton Garden is located, has never quite captured my heart. It’s a transient pocket of London, seemingly neither here nor there: tourists on their way to the museums, backpackers drifting between hostels, everyone passing through on their way to somewhere else. I landed here briefly when I first moved to the city 15 years ago, but have rarely had reason to return. These days, Mr Smith and I live in the mountains of northern Italy, in a little hilltop village where the church bells mark time and our neighbours —mostly nonnas in aprons — make limoncello and insist we take another slice of cake. It’s a world, or several, away from this corner of London. Still, there’s something quietly intriguing about Earl’s Court: not without charm, just subtle about showing it.

'Feels like the setting for a spy novel,' Mr Smith remarks as we emerge from the Tube onto Earl’s Court Road and turn down a quieter residential street. He’s right. These imposing stuccoed Victorian terraces, with their tall windows and inscrutable façades, could easily conceal a safe house or two — the kind of street where Cormoran Strike might limp around the corner, collar up against the drizzle. I find myself wondering what goes on behind all these identical mansion-block doors, what secrets are being kept. As former Londoners returning for a weekend, we felt a strange freedom while we here, a permission to become another version of ourselves entirely.

A few minutes’ walk and we arrive at Templeton Place, outside one of those handsome terraces, its columns framing a grand entrance. Up a short flight of steps, there’s a fleeting sense we might be stepping into someone else’s story — but then, the door swings open as though expecting us. Stepping inside, we feel that same quiet thrill of anonymity again — the sense that, in this Earl’s Court address, we might, for a couple of nights, live under perfect cover.

We’re greeted at the door by a smiling woman who swiftly takes our bags and ushers us towards reception. Inside, the transformation is immediate: the cold January evening falls away the moment we step into the warm, open-plan lobby. Once seven separate townhouses, now seamlessly joined, the space feels grand yet welcoming, an elegant headquarters hidden in plain sight. Muted tones, low-slung seating, the familiar waft of Le Labo in the air and soft, golden lighting all conspire to create an easy serenity, a quiet oasis right in the heart of Earl’s Court.

Our room, on the third floor, continues the theme. Designed by the renowned studio Thurstan, it’s effortlessly polished yet relaxed, with a four-poster bed, a perfectly placed chaise longue, and tall sash windows overlooking the pièce de résistance: a private, gated garden below, much like the communal gardens of London’s grander squares, except this one belongs entirely to the hotel. Since it's January, we won’t be stepping out there, but it’s easy to imagine how glorious it must be in the warmer months. For now, it’s enough simply to gaze at it from above.

Back in Italy, we’re in the thick of restoring a crumbling old farmhouse, seldom out of our paint-splattered overalls and usually covered in a fine layer of dust. The contrast couldn’t be greater. Here, surrounded by plush upholstery and polished marble, we revel in the simple pleasure of a strong, high-pressured shower, a luxury after weeks of coaxing temperamental plumbing, and the rare opportunity to slip into something a little more refined.

We head straight to Sprout, the hotel’s bar, for a pre-dinner drink or two. It's a sleek hideaway, the kind of place where you can’t help but linger. I’m usually a wine girl, but in the spirit of reinvention, I go rogue with a Anchovy Gimlet from the elaborate cocktail list. A few perfectly mixed concoctions later, we’re swept through the heavy curtain to dinner.

Dinner is relaxed, delicious and effortlessly elegant, the room filled with the easy murmur of well-heeled diners. I’ve always loved people-watching, and here it’s an especially good sport. 

We whiled away the weekend lingering over breakfast, leafing through beautifully bound books in the library, and taking turns trying the modern equipment in the gym. Between other workouts that mostly involved admiring the decor and people-watching from deep armchairs, we soaked up every ounce of serenity the hotel offered. Eventually, duty — or rather, the crumbling farmhouse and our paint-splattered clothes — called us back to Italy. As we stepped out once more onto Templeton Place, I thought that perhaps Earl’s Court had finally revealed its secret. After all, it turns out I did have a reason to return: for two days, I rather enjoyed being someone else.