The Store Oxford

'I've been made redundant.' Not what you want to hear on the other end of the line when chatting to your dear mum. So, I did what any semi-functioning adult daughter with a penchant for escapism would do: I whisked Smith Senior off on a girly weekend designed to cheer her up by any means necessary. We boarded a train to Oxford, coffees in hand, determined to swap job-hunt anxiety for a couple of days of indulgence, distraction and well-timed pampering.

The Store Oxford, a former department store turned polished boutique bolthole, was the ideal base. With thoughtful modern interiors and Pinterest-worthy tiled fireplaces, it’s the sort of aesthetic that instantly makes you drop your shoulders. Add to that the whiff of 'I’d like my house to smell like this' home fragrance drifting through the lobby and we knew we were in for a great weekend.

Our well-dressed room was perfectly spacious and softly lit, with a stylish Crittall-style bathroom stocked with Verden products. We bumped into the head housekeeper on the way, who let it be known that the complimentary soft minibar would be restocked throughout our stay — and told us not to miss the free Fatso chocolate, which, predictably, didn’t last 10 minutes.

Oxford, however, had other plans. Namely: a relentless, watery assault from the sky. Still, we dutifully attempted some sightseeing under umbrellas, bobbing along the cobbled streets like two damp extras in a period drama. The historical buildings really are as beautiful as the films depict — you can’t move for dramatic spires, honey-stone archways and cloisters. We wandered through the Botanic Garden, puddle-jumping past the very beds Lewis Carroll once strolled through. Magical, even when your jeans are plastered to your legs.

From there, we ducked into the iconic Blackwell’s bookshop — an awe-inspiring place that radiates academic gravitas from the floorboards up. Mama Smith, naturally, headed straight for something improving and intellectual. I, meanwhile, left triumphantly clutching a novel with an attractive cover. Aesthetics: 1, my quest for scholarly enlightenment: 0.

Back at the hotel, rain still hammering, we surrendered to the inevitable and checked out the spa. Hidden in the basement, its walnut-panelled walls contain a modern steam room, sauna, thermal relaxation area and (we’re told) state-of-the-art gym. I booked myself a massage — slow, confident strokes melting away the week’s tension — while Mama Smith re-emerged after an LED facial, practically glowing and on first-name terms with her male therapist.

While getting changed, my email pinged with the news I’d passed my wine exams. Naturally, there was only one logical response: The Store’s rooftop bar. Even in the rain, the rooftop has presence, with moody views over Oxford’s dreaming spires, flickering candlelight and a laidback soundtrack that hums rather than yells. After a round of expertly made dirty Martinis, I followed up with the theatrical ‘Second Breakfast’, topped with a bubble that burst into a curl of whisky smoke.

Thankfully, there was no need to head back into the rain for dinner, and the night continued its upward trajectory at Treadwell’s, The Store’s restaurant. Leaning into polished comfort food, it serves big flavours, local touches and generous portions. We shared plates — because choosing just one felt too limiting — devouring warm smoked-cheddar churros and crispy crab arancini, followed by Mama Smith’s perfect pork belly and my hake Kiev with enough garlic butter to qualify as a small lake (fitting for our waterlogged weekend).

Our final morning arrived with, yes, more rain, but also a breakfast spread that made it impossible to care. Forget your standard full English — although that’s on the menu if you wish — instead, we had Turkish eggs with chilli butter and chorizo jam, and a Spam hash laced with spiced tamarind sauce. Bold, punchy flavours that wake you up far more effectively than coffee. Exactly what you want while lingering over check-out as slowly as humanly possible.

Attempting more 'exploring' (loosely defined), we headed to the Covered Market for what we claimed would be a quick caffeine stop. This noble intention lasted roughly six minutes before we found ourselves sipping espresso Martinis instead. That might partly explain why we left boutique homeware store Objects of Use with a Japanese garlic knife and a Vietnamese bamboo colander.

And just when I thought the weekend might have peaked, lunch at tapas restaurant Arbequina knocked us sideways — a strong contender for lunch of the year, and that’s not praise I dole out lightly. The place hums with energy: unfussy, cool, quietly confident. From crispy chickpeas to onglet on toast, every dish landed: bright, flavour-packed, unforgettable, with a stellar wine list to boot.

We trundled back to the station, fortified by spa-grade pampering, butter-rich dinners and the kind of cocktails that make you forget your inbox exists. Oh, and a bamboo colander. As weekends go, it was exactly the reset my mum and I needed.