When you think of the classic, luxury, glittering hotel experiences in London, you probably imagine striding down Piccadilly to the Ritz, picking your way through theatre crowds on the Strand en route to the Savoy, or languishing in one of the Belgravia palaces like The Goring. I doubt that you picture yourself clutching an umbrella, braced against the horizontal rain streaking in off the river, navigating the dark concrete of the Thames-side paths at Imperial Wharf. However, this is where I find myself on a Friday night, seeking shelter from the inhospitable weather in whatever warm, bright, dry space I can find.
After a few minutes of confused, distressed wandering I turn a corner and the wind falls away instantly: instead of noise and water there’s just stillness and half-light. Flags are ruffling gently in the breeze, and lined up in front of me are thirty boats, ranging from little clippers through respectable schooners right up to splendid yachts. This is Chelsea Harbour. I’ve arrived. Just up the stairs to the left is my salvation…
The Chelsea Harbour Hotel sits in the shadow of the hulking Chelsea monster itself, the disused Lots Road Power Station. Its 158 suites are spread across eight floors, with the top few boasting both harbour and river views. We’re welcomed in with a smile and ushered away from the chill wind leaking through the revolving door, sinking into chairs to warm up and check in. The lobby stretches out between various installations – the Brasserie, the bar, discreet function rooms, and some eye-catching boutiques selling what looks like the latest in oligarch ladieswear. We glide up to our marina suite on the fourth floor.
Now, this is living. To my left, the bedroom: luxuriant bed, floor-to-ceiling windows looking over the harbour (I could sleep with an eye on my boat, if I had one), and the double-sink ensuite stuffed with delightful products, hairdryers and fluffy towels. To my right, the living room – there’s a fully stocked bar area, the sofa and chairs opposite the flatscreen and an excellent coffee machine. I walk straight past all of this though and make a beeline for the reason I came here, unlocking the screen door, sliding it open and stepping out on the balcony.
Unfortunately I’ve forgotten that it’s a winter evening, pitch black and absolutely lashing it down outside. The view will have to wait. Someone stops by to perform that most indulgent and unnecessary of services, the turn-down, and we get dolled up for dinner.
The Brasserie is priced at the upper end of what I’d call reasonable, but hey, this is Chelsea. The menu is heavy on fish, in keeping with the maritime theme, and no doubt makes a pleasant lunch venue for workers at the design studios clustered around the area. We have a terrific view of the harbour, so it’s a shame that the rows of beautiful boats are just being drizzled on in the murk, but it’s atmospheric nonetheless. We skip through some competent starters until we get to the seafood bouillabaisse (for her) and the crusted tri tip steak with chimichurri sauce (for me). Hers is generously proportioned and with meaty shellfish, and while mine is a little better done than I’d like, it’s certainly a heartwarming dish. Tri tip is always a tempting cut, what with the minimal fat content, and I feel both sad for, and grateful to the old girl who gave up her fasciae latae to my plate (that’s just above the knees to you and me). We cannily left room for desserts and they don’t disappoint – the flourless chocolate cake is gluten-free gluttony and we fight over the accompanying ice cream. We’re thankful not to take the stairs when the siren call of the suite lures us back to the fourth floor for a well-earned rest.
Come morning, all is quiet outside and I leave my lady deep in slumber, creeping to the coffee machine timidly, feeling much like my younger self did at Christmas when the possibility of presents had addled my infant brain. Machine-infused café lungo in hand, I take a deep breath: it’s showtime.
I pull back the curtains, slide open the doors and step outside, dry feet on the cold concrete. It’s an enchanting scene in the quiet morning: below me, all those boats have dried off and they sit still, shifting occasionally in the water. Behind them, there are residential apartments (probably priced a little beyond the upper end of reasonable), and over the top of these I can see the mist nestling lightly over Battersea, with the London Eye down to the left and a deep blue sky framing the vista. The silence is palpable and it’s a good while before I submit to the cold and retreat inside. I can see, with some jealousy, the River View suite, which puts you right on the Thames – a glorious place to wake up of a weekend.
I can’t leave without seeing the spa, which has a significant following beyond the hotel residents – luxurious treatments and a well-fitted gym are decent draws, but for me the pool is the star. Hotel pools, especially in cities, are often glorified baths in clammy, dingy basements, but not here. At seventeen metres, replete with massage showers and bathed in natural light, this is a particularly nice dip and it leaves me refreshed and ready for breakfast.
Once the pastries and caffeine have done the job, we pack up and head out into the fresh morning light, taking the short walk to the King’s Road to peer through shop windows at bespoke items we can’t afford. In that way the Chelsea Harbour Hotel is not dissimilar to those Belgravia palaces, but in all others it’s a different take on the London hotel experience and one that makes for a fine weekend – weather permitting.
