The Lost Poet

It takes all of two minutes of being in Notting Hill before a tourist sits on a step and asks me to take a picture of them. I’d read/heard about this; how the neighbourhood is besieged with Instagram influencers desperate to have a snap of themselves outside the colourful houses around the famous Portobello Road in order to pimp up their social media. But in this instance, it’s outside the property where I’m staying – boutique hideaway the Lost Poet – with its bounty of inviting, eye-catchingly hued flowers above its sign and threaded along its porch railings. And, even though I have a suitcase in one hand, mobile in the other from which I’d been scouring Google Maps, and two bags lugged over my shoulder, her phone is stuffed in my hand quicker than I can say ‘I'm also just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her’ (yes, that, the most famous line from Notting Hill). I do my duty – after all, who am I to scuffle someone’s grid?

The area outside is buzzing (or exhausting, depending on your mood), but this is typical for a Saturday afternoon in the neighbourhood. However, once you’re inside the Lost Poet – home to just four apartments – it’s calm and quiet. We’re in the fittingly named Muse hideaway, the pearl at the top floor of the hotel’s narrow winding wooden staircase. I say we, but Mr Smith has yet to make an appearance; coming in from different corners of the UK, we arranged to meet up later. Good for me, as it means I can have some quiet time, and scout out the vintage and charity shops the area excels in. At first, I put my bags down, happy to see a freestanding tub in the bedroom. ‘I did think there was an upstairs’, I say to the staff. Their heads turn skywards – around the corner, there are more stairs leading to a second floor, maisonette-style, with a sofa- and sun-filled living area, and – oh my – a rooftop. I feel like I should order my friends around for a party, but I’m eager to look for a bargain on Portobello Road, and I know for sure I’ll give it some attention later. 

I weave and dance my way down Portobello Road, past whiffs of mulled wine, which is so abundantly available it’s practically flowing down the street, and the busy market stalls. I duck and dive into indie stores, buy a mince pie for Mr Smith, spot movie landmarks from Notting Hill, such as the famous bookshop (called the, uh, Travel Bookshop), secure a bargain in the form of a svelte black dress from a charity shop (see, I told you the charity shops are on point around here), and buy a bottle of sparkling wine to take back to my Georgian townhouse (well portion of it) where, on request, an ice bucket is brought to the room. 

Corks are popped on the roof terrace when Mr Smith arrives, and we find ourselves people-watching for a while, despite the chilly evening. Tipsy, we head out for tacos before we find ourselves at locally loved Gold, Notting Hill, sipping cocktails by the bar’s fireplace, and slowly realise that it is part date-central, with couples locking lips around us (for transparency, we might have been one of those couples on one or three occasions) and part Made in Chelsea set piece. After a few cocktails we head back to the Lost Poet and snooze like a dream, even waking up without a hangover and before the 9am breakfast tote bag is left hanging from the door. Inside there are a couple of bottles of juice, vegetarian pastries (for Mr Smith) and a healthy vegan breakfast of compote and berries for me. With papers by our sides, it’s a very cuddly – yet informative – morning in bed. 

But, sunshine awaits outside, so we decide to explore the area. Firstly we hit Holland Park, which – within its 55 acres – has the very photogenic Japanese-style Kyoto Garden with a pond filled with koi carp and sculptures dotted around. It’s a far cry from the past when it was partially destroyed by bombs during World War II (yes, I did learn something). Afterwards we try our luck hunting down a spot with availability for two for a Sunday roast, before – after several failed – attempts, finding one on our doorstep. All those carbs make us snoozy so afterwards we return to the Lost Poet for a post-roast nap and warm bath (it’s a bit of a squeeze in the tub, but we manage to find a position that works…). 

Then a pal texts me to say we must visit him as he lives in the area; and, it turns out, he’s just in the mews around the corner, another covetable Notting Hill location. We hang out there with their kids, sipping tea and trying not to feel just a little jealous. But then, we’re distracted by some excellent suggestions for where to eat. We make a beeline for Tonkotsu, which, from my Hackney days, I know offers delicious ramen, before we leave, giddy on flavourful broth and noodles, to spend Sunday night at Electric Cinema, part of members’ joint Soho House, with its plush burgundy sofas and softly glowing lamps on tables. However, our choice of film, Saltburn, is less comfortable – it’s so dark and twisted we continually look to each other for reassurance. 

Luckily we have our haven, the Lost Poet, to return to. Post-last-breakfast Mr Smith caves in to work demands on the upstairs level, while I lounge about below. After errands are done, we totter off to Kensington Gardens, envious of the rainbow of houses lining the street parallel to the park. We leave, perhaps not influencers, but with a few sneaky pictures for the ‘gram. Well, when in Notting Hill…