Interopa presents. For the travel trade.
The Glorious Collection
Pages from a travelling diary
Quintessentially British, gloriously Irish, and not remotely shy. Every journey is a story, and these are mine.
Every journey is a story, and over the years I have had the great luxury of visiting some of the most iconic places in Britain and Ireland. They have taught me, rather deliciously, that a great stay is never just about the room.
It is the table by the window, the train worth catching, the hour to arrive and the frock to arrive in, and the castle that makes the long road north entirely worth it.
This is my little black book. I am opening it for you, and only because you asked so nicely.
Gloria
I would rather know one place intimately than a hundred politely.
People ask why we sell only Britain and Ireland. The answer is simple, and rather romantic. We live here. We know the concierge by name, the back door by heart, and which cobbled lane smells of warm bread at seven in the morning. Half a century of that cannot be borrowed or faked. It is the whole of what we offer, and I would not trade it for the world.
We live here.
Every hotel, every driver, every guide is one we know.
We know every back door.
The ones that open early, late and privately.
We do one thing beautifully.
These islands, and nothing else.
Travelling with me
Luxury stopped being about status some time ago. Now it is about being known, being left beautifully alone when you wish, and never, ever having to ask twice.
You will never ask twice.
Tell me once how you take your tea, which pillow, which newspaper. Every house on your journey will know before you arrive.
I listen.
Access, not status.
The table that is not on the website, the room that is not on the plan, the door that opens only because I asked.
No nonsense.
Never breakfast where you dined.
Always a surprise.
The nicest thing anyone can do for you costs almost nothing. I always leave room for one.
Tuesday, London
People tell me London is exhausting. Nonsense, darling. London is only exhausting if you do it in the wrong order. Here is mine, tried, tested, and not a queue in sight.
From breakfast to nightcap
Tuesday, London
People tell me London is exhausting. Nonsense, darling. London is only exhausting if you do it in the wrong order. Here is mine, tried, tested, and not a queue in sight.
Four chapters by the lake
Chapter one
The arrival
The road bends, the trees part, and there is the lake, flat and silver, with the mountains standing behind it like guests who arrived early.
Chapter two
The water
Warm water, cold air on your face, and Lough Léin so close it seems to carry on from the pool. Stay until the light goes. Everybody does.
Chapter three
The dinner
Candles, something from the hills around you, and a window full of mountains turning blue. Nobody reaches for a phone.
Chapter four
The morning
Mist on the lake, coffee on the balcony, and that rare feeling of not wanting to be anywhere else at all.
The questions I ask of every house
I am easily charmed and impossible to fool. Before a hotel earns its page, it must answer all six, and charmingly.
Is it small enough to know my name?
Where is the best seat in the house?
Every great hotel has one, for watching the world come and go. I want to know exactly where it is.
Where shall I have breakfast?
Who is your housekeeper?
What is the wildest request you have granted?
