When in Edinburgh, which Sir Walter Scott called ‘yon Empress of the North,’ one does not merely visit – one must reside, in surroundings as grand and storied as the city itself.
Gleneagles Townhouse is such a place – the sort of address where one might expect to find a duke nursing a single malt, a financier misplacing a fortune, a novelist ruminating over an unfinished manuscript, or a shiny socialite holding court over a bottle of vintage pop, dazzling and directionless in equal measure. At 39 St Andrew Square, this neoclassical beauty has worn many guises – first a private mansion for the Eighth Earl of Dalhousie, then the formidable British Linen Company bank, and now, perhaps its finest incarnation, as one of Edinburgh’s most covetable hotel addresses.
I was in town to enact a spirited paulée with the charismatic founder of Coravin, Greg Lambrecht, a Bacchanalian summit for leading sommeliers in Scotland, including not one, but two talents from the original Glorious Playground, Gleneagles, 40 miles north, before meeting a particularly couth independent bottler and whisky cask broker by the name of Spiritfilled.
Between these affairs, the Townhouse provided a haven – a place to restore body and spirit before another deep dive into the well of vinous and malted delights. Guest rooms continue this theme of refinement, featuring marble bathrooms and Pekoe tea from Leith – because even one’s contemplations on empire and industry are best accompanied by a properly brewed cuppa.
Purchased in 1807 for £5,000 – a sum which, today, should cover a particularly sybaritic weekend in one of the Master bedrooms – the building expanded its empire, annexing its neighbours and embellishing its facade with six Corinthian columns and statues representing virtues such as commerce, science, agriculture, manufacturing, navigation, and architecture. These stone guardians still stand sentry at Lamplighters, the Townhouse’s rooftop bar, their solemn watch tempered by the swirl of well-rested single malt Scotch, or cocktails such as ‘Life On The Verde’, a tribute to the Midori Sour.
St Andrew Square, part of James Craig’s grand Enlightenment-era masterplan, has long been a stage for power – its centrepiece, a statue of Henry Dundas, the last British MP to be impeached for financial misdeeds, a fitting reminder of wealth’s precarious nature. Until 2017, this address housed the Royal Bank of Scotland, its grand banking hall a temple to influence and excess. Now, it has been reborn as The Spence, a restaurant which is at once stately and spirited, named after an old Scots word for larder.
At the helm is Jonny Wright, a Scot with over 16 years of experience, whose menu – served where cashiers once stood – strikes a careful balance between indulgence and restraint. ‘The team dispenses attitude, not money, now,’ quipped a cheerful server, acknowledging the shift from ledger to larder.
Beneath an opulent cupola and intricate plasterwork, diners weave through a sea of well-coiffed heads and murmured investment strategies to find a menu which favours bold, fleeting flavours over needless embellishment. Lobster chawanmushi, delicately set in a tomato dashi, speaks of Japan via the North Sea, while halibut – pellucid as the sails of a Scottish schooner in full wind – arrives crowned with morels, a fitting emblem of the kitchen’s quiet confidence.
At breakfast, ‘The Townhouse’ – starring Stornoway black pudding, McWilliam haggis, and a potato scone – reminds one that while money can’t buy happiness, it can certainly acquire something close. Meanwhile, in the former vaults, house guests and members may access The Strong Rooms, a dedicated treatment and therapy space. The still-imposing vault doors – a relic of financial might – now guard something perhaps more valuable: absolute serenity.
Robert Louis Stevenson once wrote, ‘To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.’ But had he stepped foot in Gleneagles Townhouse, he might have questioned his wisdom…
For more information, including details of offers and what’s on, please visit www.gleneagles.com.
