The Hoxton, Shepherd's Bush

Above the entrance of The Hoxton, Shepherd's Bush, a cinema-style sign poses the question, 'Florals for spring?' The answer, judging by the flower boxes beneath, is a resounding yes. Pretty white blooms, Geraldton Wax apparently, spill over the edge. Out in front of the hotel, there’s a playground on a green and children race about. You could almost convince yourself you’re somewhere with aspirations, like Brooklyn, but then you catch sight of four police officers chasing a shoplifter with a large shopping bag slung over his shoulder and you’ll remember you are in fact in scrappy Shepherd’s Bush, or SheBu to her nearest and dearest.

The hotel is a bit misleading like that. It does not have a scrappy vibe in the least. It is bustling and energetic, like its sibling sites across London and Europe. Many were planted in formerly unfashionable neighbourhoods, before The Hoxton arrived with its shot of cool. I suspect this west London outpost is having the same impact here. 

When Ennismore discovered the site in 2022, it was an abandoned office block from the Sixties. But after extensive renovations, and playful artistic licence for its deft designers, the hotel has been transformed with the brand’s signature mid-century interiors, convivial communal areas and nods to native artisans. You’ll be won over by locally crafted guides, filled with lists of insider haunts and tours of nearby districts, which include Notting Hill. An ability to surprise and delight is this neighbourhood Hoxton’s signature move. 

Over three days I keep forgetting where I am, which, perhaps, is the point. Shepherd’s Bush is so well connected that the hotel’s postcode feels incidental. The Overground whisks me south to Battersea, the Central line into town in minutes, and Gatwick is disconcertingly easy to reach (Heathrow even more so).

Inside the hotel there is no staid concierge desk, it’s just the wraparound bar dishing out promising first impressions. Who cares about checking-in, it seems to whisper. Pull up a bar stool, have a cocktail.

Mr Smith and I do not do that. We cast about for the check-in desk. We discover it tucked off to the side, feeling like an afterthought. This hotel is all about the bar, the restaurant Chet’s and the dinky outdoor terrace beyond that.

There are people milling about, men in suits, families, two young ladies with professionally blow-dried hair. There are more than 200 bedrooms in this hotel and a handful of their inhabitants are sitting at tables, tapping on laptops. The furnishings are Seventies-inspired, with pastel palettes and a bookshelf lining a section of a wall. It is successfully doubling up as a gift shop, since on its shelves are candles and items for the home. I am drawn to a little pink and red square plate that reads 'Hold my calls'.

Mr Smith and I are staying in a Cosy Park room. There are crisps to munch on and milk for tea in the fridge. I can’t hear anything outside, no traffic, no sirens, no bust-ups. There is just a single rail to hang my clothes, but it doesn’t matter a jot because Ryanair’s luggage restrictions mean I’ve brought hardly a thing to wear. The curtains envelop the room in darkness, so much so that the following morning I have no sense of the world having woken up.

Man cannot live on crisps alone and Shepherd’s Bush isn’t a renowned foodie destination, but if anyone asked me for a local recommendation, I’d confidently point them in the direction of Chet’s, The Hoxton’s Thai-American diner. It is a world away from the local Greggs and the chains in the Westfield shopping centre up the road. I’d remind any diners to dial down the spice if they don’t like fiery food (even the breakfast eggs come with Sriracha hollandaise), and I’d insist they order the minced-chicken Thai salad, followed by the banana fritter and mango rice pudding. And wash it all down with a lychee martini.

On our last morning, after coconut yoghurt, granola and fresh fruit, we ask for a late check-out. Our wish is granted and we're happy to linger a little longer in W12. Shepherd’s Bush may not be the capital’s most upmarket ’hood, but The Hoxton shows there's an enticing side to this west London locale after all.