The Hotel Everybody's Talking About Has a Secret Swinger Side
Plus, Southwest's dramatic but not surprising change.
In a Potemkin manor an hour outside of London the American dream is for sale.
For a few hundred dollars a night, anybody can play out the fantasy we’ve chased for two centuries—being British aristocrats. That’s the premise at the heart of one of the hottest new hospitality ventures in the world, Estelle Manor.
The sand-colored Jacobethan pile sits on a 65-acre estate set within a few thousand acres of parkland just outside Oxford. It has been overhauled under the auspices of Sharan and Eiesha Bharti Pasricha. He is the CEO of Ennismore which owns Hoxton Hotels, Gleneagles, and just bought Our Habitas. She is an artistic director and daughter of Indian multi-billionaire Sunil Mittal. Working with New York-based Roman and Williams, they’ve decked out the interiors with flair–historic bones enlivened with modern art, a cornucopia of textures and colors, and glitzy light fixtures.
No looming portraits of halitotic old men and snoozy landscapes here.
The south terrace is a Slim Aarons photo in the waiting–a long turquoise pool framed by the house and its candy-striped awnings. Eynsham Baths, its spa, restores meaning to the devalued word breathtaking. An all-white multi-story affair, it resembles what John Pawson might have designed for a Roman emperor.
And then there are the secret, borderline risqué members-only spots.
All this splendor has earned the hotel rave reviews since it opened last year: ”the most lavish, beautiful, incredible hotel in the country,” “the private members' club the social set can't get enough of,” the spot “everyone’s trying to book for summer,” “A glamorous new dawn in the Cotswolds,” spots on numerous best new hotels lists, the spa named one of the best in the world, and viral videos accumulating millions of views and likes on TikTok and Instagram.
Anecdotally, everybody in London or visiting London has been or is planning to go.
Most significantly, it knocked Soho Farmhouse from its perch as the place to escape to from London—Estelle ”leaves Soho Farmhouse in the shade,” Tatler crowed.
“To be honest, Farmhouse has gone downhill,” one individual who belongs to both properties lamented to me. “[Soho] is always sending emails essentially saying ‘bear with us’ … If I’m going to Estelle, it’s always a good time. With Soho, out of every five, two are going to be disappointing. Often quite shit.”
Estelle Manor is an outpost of Maison Estelle, the chic but not too flashy new member’s club in London. Maison Estelle was created as an antidote to the ills of Soho House (too crowded, letting anybody in—“you might run into your barber,” as one person who switched to Estelle confided) and Annabel’s, the maximalist icon designed by Martin Brudnizki that is now seen in some quarters as too over the top, too foreign, too overt in its connections to modern London’s lucre.
“Everyone from Soho is now there, the OG crowd,” another member of Maison Estelle claimed. “And they throw out any members who are dicks.”
Housed in a listed Georgian townhouse in Mayfair, Maison Estelle’s Roman and Williams-designed interiors touch on a range of very English influences1, including an erotic James Bond-esque nightclub in the basement. It’s been a success—membership has been capped, and it’s regularly listed as one of the city’s most exclusive clubs.
A little over ten years ago, before it lost its luster, Soho House set a different urban trend when it opened Soho Farmhouse. It was a modern reimagining of the Cotswold farm that changed the hotel scene for Londoners. On weekends, it was where one could find the fashion, media, and art set cavorting. Going out there became top of mind for visiting Americans, who also had Cotswold-esque fantasies from films like The Holiday. Rustic British countryside in a sleek package is what it delivered.
Estelle Manor’s proposition is something entirely different—aristocratic British country life but in a sanitized Marie-Antoinette-toy-farm form. Everything here is an illusion, albeit a deftly pulled off one. Even the house itself is a bit of a facsimile–it was only built in 1908.
“It’s all a bit Downton by way of Dubai,” said one prominent designer who has visited the property. Another in that same circle offered this assessment: “It’s a perfect place for people whose wellies have never been muddy and who order the black-painted extra-large wheels on their Range Rover … all very slick and a zillion miles from an actual country house but nobody cares—if they can get a margarita in their room.” Americans want a British country house with a view of sheep and working AC.
None of that nattering matters, of course. As that same person later confessed: “Trust me I’m sure I’ll visit it again and use those baths and pool.” Because if you’re wondering what people want nowadays, this hotel and members club is delivering it.
The service is top-notch compared to a typical American country club–legions of handsome young men and women who ably toe the line between friendly and obsequious. As you walk into the warm, wood-paneled entrance hall the view straight ahead is a gasp-inducing look out the bay window to the terrace pool and grounds beyond. Just off the front hall is a cozy, orange library with yellow-backed bookshelves of glossy dark wood. Hanging from the ceiling are wagon-wheel chandeliers with ostrich-egg lighting. Next to it is the living room, a space so visually busy it’s a bit like hanging in a Cavalli dress and yet its quirkiness and color feel apt for an ambitious “new school club.”
“If they had stag heads, globes, and all that shit people would say it was cliche,” one member who loves the decor told me.
The drinks always hit the spot and the food is solid albeit not spectacular. Dining options include a brasserie (that mysteriously serves three-quarters of a waffle for breakfast. I couldn’t get an answer on where the fourth quarter goes) and dim sum restaurant2 in the manor as well as a restaurant in the glass house in the gardens. There is also a spacious, well-equipped gym, sprinkled with enough hot people to make it stimulating without intimidating.
One hundred and eight rooms and suites are spread throughout the manor, outbuildings, and strange octagonal Scandinavian huts. (One tip: it’s not necessary to pony up to stay in the manor itself. You’ll hardly spend any time in your room and the views from the manor don’t include the view worth paying for–the manor itself. Second tip: if you’re in the manor, don’t have a front facing room as you might have a view of a parking lot. And if you’re in the outbuildings, don’t get one behind the glass house restaurant, you’ll look onto HVAC units.)
Decorated with antiques, the rooms are more staid than the public areas of the house–“nice, but I wasn’t overwhelmed” as one family friend who visited recently told me. It’s an assessment I’d agree with after visiting myself. But the beds are sink-in-and-luxuriate comfortable, the water pressure torrential, and the products were from Commune and George Northwood.
The price per night starts around $700 and goes well into the thousands. Members of the manor and their friends, however, get discounts of around half off.
For those trying to understand and potentially replicate the universal thirst for the property: a quarter of it is the Saltburn-coded manor house itself, a quarter the experience (from the service to dining to air rifle and padel), and a quarter is undoubtedly the pool.
Wanderlust has long been visually driven, but never more than in the present day. And few components of a hotel are guaranteed to be as visually compelling as a pool. A well-designed one can vault a new hotel into the public consciousness. That’s arguably been a big part of the early interest in Vestige Son Vell, a new hotel in Menorca which has three snap-worthy pools. Similarly, a hotel that’s been around forever can now find a new wave of enthusiasts, which has certainly happened to the Landa in Burgos. Hardly a week goes by lately that I don’t see somebody posting its pool set within an arcade of Gothic arches.
And what better thing to shovel into the black hole that is our need to flaunt on social media than frolicking in a pool in front of a mansion like Estelle Manor? That said, one of the loveliest things about the hotel was how few people were taking photos and videos on their phones. There is a studied nonchalance about the whole place for regulars. Instead, floating around the pool the only thing disturbing my moment was a woman with one of those voices going on about horse racing season. In winter, the pool is heated and an attendant told me you’ll often find people in there at 8 a.m. with a cocktail.
The final quarter of the hotel’s success is its 32,000-square-foot spa, Eynsham Baths. Visiting it isn’t included in your stay—it’s an extra £95. But it’s a must.
“The spa experience was absolutely amazing, the highlight of the trip for us,” gushed one guest I talked to. In a stark-white atrium of marble and pale brick, guests rotate between pools of varying temperatures as well as a hammam, sauna, and steam room. Within the complex the manor offers treatments ranging from stomach massages to rasul, a mineral-mud experience.
It was here that I discovered the manor’s steamier side.
A straight couple visiting for their 20th anniversary were being chatted up in the sauna by a beefy former rugby type. He began dropping enticing bits about a secret, members-only waterfall pool that hosts DJ parties on Friday and Saturday nights. He offered to show the couple this exclusive spot. Preying on British politeness, I asked if I could see it too.
“Um, sure, I guess,” he acquiesced.
Padding along in our suits, we went outside, and there it was, a man-made cave with a waterfall and a ten-person hot tub. Just off it is a co-ed tunnel of black stone bathed in multi-color light where water shoots at you from all directions as you pass through.
The whole thing seems pretty naughty, I said to the guy.
“People definitely find a dark corner,” he blithely replied.
Another member I called to ask about the experience went further.
“Everything is set up to get a bit raunchy, genuinely marketed to members as ‘what happens, happens’,” he marveled while recounting promotions for the party sent to members. “I wasn’t quite sure if I’m going for a drink or a shag.”
For straight couples visiting, there was undoubtedly a swingers vibe in the air.
While membership at Maison Estelle in London is closed unless you know somebody, it’s still open at Estelle Manor. Prices, however, are wishy-washy, and they don’t make it public. I couldn’t get a membership host on the property to give me a quote, and each member I’ve talked to has given me a slightly different number, ranging from £1,500 a year for founding members to £3,500 plus joining fee. And there are whispers that at some point the whole property will be members only.
Whether in the bygone era of stuffy gentlemen’s lairs or the modern one of exclusive fun, London has always defined member club culture. In the 19th century, wealthy New Yorkers modeled much after the British, aping their country houses stone-for-stone, their manners, and their private hangouts. Continuing a time-honored tradition of copycat Anglophilia, New York City of late has been taken over by members clubs. So much so that a New York Post column a little while back bleating about the mania declared: “New York’s New Private Club Craze is a Cancer on the City.”
Scott Sartiano, the man behind the hangout of Eric Adams and the striving rich, Zero Bond, was explicit on where the influence is coming from when he described it to the New York Times: “It's a New York version of a London club.” Despite its beleaguered rep, Soho House, the original London import, is still going strong. The Twenty Two, another new London spot, now has plans to open in New York. London club king Robin Birley’s been fighting for his entrant on the Upper East Side. Throw in Casa Cipriani, Aman, ZZ’s, Jeff Klein’s upcoming SVB, Chez Margaux, NeueHouse, and you start to realize that perhaps that Post columnist’s point wasn’t all histrionics. The Londonification of New York’s social scene is complete. And it’s not just New York. One could also point to the ersatz-Annabels that is Carriage House in Palm Beach and the original SVB in LA as examples of the trend nationwide.
If the members club fever currently gripping the U.S. is any indication, we’re still following London’s lead on some things. Now, Estelle Manor-style concepts that combine modern desires with a setting that taps into a glittering romanticized past are undoubtedly coming to the U.S. Just outside NYC in New Jersey, the Natirar estate was just turned into a countryside members club and hotel by Pendry Hotels. (The COO admitted in an interview a funny detail of why they believe it will be a success: “I think people have never really thought of New Jersey as a high-end resort destination. So, there's sort of a low hurdle to clear in order to wow people, but when people get out to see the property, they're definitely wowed.”)
The incentives for this trend to continue are there. Post-pandemic, country club revenue has soared, so people clearly want to have a place outside the city to hang out. It’s not hard to imagine, though, that cosplaying as the misbehaving offspring of a robber baron will become the hot escape from major American cities. Whether NYC, Boston, Philadelphia, San Francisco, DC, or Chicago—the surrounding regions are filled will palatial turn-of-the-century homes just begging to be restored to their glamorous past. (Imagine how fun it would be, for instance, to see Lynnwood Hall returned to her glory in this way.) Not to mention with HBO’s The Gilded Age we’re finally seeing Americans interested in their own extravagant history.
So many have been butchered in attempts to turn them into condos, conference centers, and hotels. Now, nearly a century after they all began to be abandoned, they might get some dignity again.
DEPARTMENT OF GRIEVANCES
Southwest airlines shocked nobody in the industry when it announced this week it’s doing away with open boarding. But it likely shocked many customers. I’ve flown Southwest habitually most of my life. The Providence to BWI route was how I got to and from D.C. during college, and now they have the DCA route which is how I get home in summer. For the unfamiliar, Southwest has no assigned seats. You are assigned a boarding number that depends on how quickly you check in starting at exactly 24 hours before departure.
It was all part of Southwest’s “aw shucks” egalitarian ethos that passengers gobbled up. All seats are the same, two free checked bags, and no change or cancel fees. While this seismic policy change was no doubt in response to pressure from an activist hedge fund, Southwest already had dipped its toes in the water. I used to regularly get an A boarding number, but as Southwest started to offer programs and ticket classes that guaranteed A boarding, I became grateful if I didn’t get C. Now, there will be assigned seats and premium seating. According to Southwest’s own research, passengers largely disliked open seating. And people abused the system—claiming disabilities to board early, saving seats for family or friends who didn’t score the high boarding number. And the money left on the table—premium seating is a HUGE source of revenue for airlines—just became too big a pile given the airline’s recent financial underperformance. Only time will tell if the airline starts to scrap its other policies that made it unique…
Delta is a cult. For those who were under a rock this past week, the major U.S. airlines (except Southwest) were victims of an IT outage. Everybody recovered after a day—but not Delta. And it took the airline ages to do anything more than the bare minimum required to aid passengers stranded at airports for literal days. I’ve never understood the Delta obsession. I had no knock against it, but was always perplexed by how many people I know “swear by Delta.” And I found Delta reward redemptions for international flights wildly higher than any other airline I use frequently. Not just a little higher. Wildly higher. Then throw in all the madness with their lounges because of how many people use their cards and I just could never be bothered to seriously consider becoming a loyal customer.
I like Philadelphia a lot: a number of my favorite 19th century architects worked there, the museums are great, and the food scene one of the best in the U.S. I have a couple stories planned for attractions in the surrounding area. BUT. I do not understand how USA Today’s readers dubbed it “The Most Walkable City to Visit” in the U.S. There are certainly sections of it that are walkable, but as a whole?
I’ll always click on a hotel trend piece, because it’s a very reactive industry and so you get a decent sense of what people want by how hotels shift. Over the last decade, this has meant adding hotel gyms, a shift that many a hotel owner or designer in Europe will lament if you get them talking about it. Especially since the consensus seems to be that travelers like a hotel to have a gym, but very few of those requiring it actually put it to use. During COVID, hotels started to have portable fitness sets that could be brought to your room as the gyms were closed (I first experienced this at the beloved Crossroads Hotel in Kansas City). Now, the new trend according to the Wall Street Journal makes that perk permanent—rooms that incorporate a fitness component. We’ll see if it sticks, but I’m skeptical. Going down to a gym isn’t that hard, so I’m not sure sticking equipment in my room will make me more likely to work out rather than resent the Peloton in the way. Plus, I can’t imagine the noises created are all that great for other guests.
This piece in Edward Russell’s Substack “Airport Architecture” was a fantastic dive into the history and design of DCA’s Terminal 1. D.C. has spectacular airport architecture. Saarinen’s Dulles terminal is an icon that changed airport design. And Cesar Pelli’s main terminal at DCA never fails to catch my breath as I walk its halls. But there was always the funky, outdated, but historic Terminal 1 at DCA that just seemed like they couldn’t decide what to do with it so left it as is. Now, though, it’s slated for an overhaul.
Airline safety videos are not only likely ineffective (I have never watched one after the first time seeing it), they’re so, so, so grating and annoying and I would just rather them have flight attendants do safety demonstration. I do not care whether or not they’re funny, musical, relatable, or have tie-ins like British Airways’ new Bridgerton-themed one. They. Suck.
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Strange that it has a French name.
This was the weakest dining option.