I’m scurrying through St James’s, hot on the heels of my youngest, fiercest daughter, Alice. Amidst the morning fog she looks like a tiny tornado of sequins and glitter, razzle-dazzling her way through the testosterone-filled streets, all Michelin stars and royal warrants. Hugged tight by parks and palaces, this bastion of British gentleman’s clubs is a magnet for men with money; all pistols, pinstripes and Petrus.
“Can I have this?” Alice asks, catapulting herself towards a rifle shop’s macabre display. Sensing disappointment, she prances on, past stores catering to every want and whim; top hat? Tick. Tailcoat? Sure. Priceless Bronze Age armour? But of course. Soon her sticky mitts are heading straight for an eye-wateringly expensive monocle, “what about this?”.
Having painstakingly explained that she does in fact own two perfectly adequate eyes and therefore the solid gold monocle won’t be necessary on this occasion, I herd her past St James’s Palace, like a sheepdog on its last legs. Eventually, a bellowing union jack announces our arrival at one of the capital’s most acclaimed hotels: The Stafford London.
Sporting a wry smile, I throw the doorman an apologetic glance – just what was I thinking bringing a 5-year-old to such a civilised, grown-up establishment? Unphased, he ushers us in, playfully winking at the complimentary help yourself pick-and-mix. This wasn’t their first rodeo.
Having pilfered a few sherbet lemons we were shown to our suite. Whilst the main house’s rooms are reminiscent of a grand Victorian townhouse, with guests at the heart of the action, the grade II-listed Carriage House, previously home to thoroughbreds of 18th-century nobility, is a more rural affair, all exposed beams and four poster beds.
On the other side of the cobbles, the modern all-suite Mews residences boast peace, privacy and enough room to swing a palomino. There’s also a lavish 2-bed suite in The Gatehouse, for those that really value their own space. Our light and airy Mews suite made the perfect home from home, peppered with thoughtful touches; from the chocolate cupcake which greeted us to Alice’s tiny slippers, mini robe and obligatory rubber ducky.
Steeped in history this iconic 5* hotel is the stuff of legends, a living homage to the illustrious characters that have called it home over the years. Here, menial tasks, which one thinks nothing of in less storied establishments, have a whiff of adventure about them. Case in point: Snuffing out one’s morning croissant means bypassing the nis plus ultra of London’s American bars; a beguiling watering hole cloaked in a tsunami of baseball caps, college ties and US aeroplanes, pinned to the ceiling by sentimental American guests keen to leave their mark. “Can I have this?” Alice asks, a dangling snake skin having caught her eye. Before I can raise an eyebrow she is eyeing up a rogue crocodile skull, sizing it up to see if it will fit into her glittery backpack.
Watching over this buffoonery is the bust of another formidable female force; WWII’s most decorated woman, Nancy Wake (AKA the White Mouse). “I hate wars and violence,” she famously said. “But if they come, then I don’t see why we women should just wave our men a proud goodbye and then knit them balaclavas.” Hear, hear! If that doesn’t make you want to toast the old gal with a White Mouse cocktail, I don’t know what will – although, personally I’d be straight down Peter Jones’s haberdashery stocking up on khaki wool.
Yet Nancy spent her days fearlessly sneaking messages through Nazi checkpoints and rescuing allied soldiers, earning herself the top spot on the Gestapo’s most wanted list, with a five-million-franc bounty on her head. Despite her notoriety, she repeatedly slipped through their net, putting her success down to being a “flirtatious little bastard.”
So, exactly how does a world-class super sleuth celebrate outwitting Hitler and living to tell the tale? By moving into their favourite hotel, lock, stock and barrel. Nancy spent two glorious years in The Stafford London. “We’d wake her at 11am for her first gin and tonic,” one staff member explained. “She’d sit on her special stool in the American Bar and tell war stories… then we’d wake her at 5pm and she’d do it all over again.” This decadent gin-infused lifestyle went on for two years – spenny stuff, but eventually her coffers ran dry. Luckily, the hotel and patrons covered her bill – King Charles is rumoured to have chipped in too!
Noble steeds, dead snakes and the woman that outwitted Hitler, and still not a croissant in sight. You see, standing between The American Bar and my morning pastry is a small, unassuming door…leading to the hotel’s 400-year-old wine cellar…oh, and St James’s Palace. Home to 8,000 bottles of the world’s finest plonk, these candlelit caverns eventually give way to a miniature museum of sorts, a nostalgic nook if you will, all wartime posters, hurricane lamps and the odd gas mask – a nod to its days as an air raid shelter. Swing a right along this tannin-filled tunnel and you’ll stumble upon a clandestine passage which reportedly leads to the palace – well, how else would the queen sneak in unnoticed for her evening sups?
I can’t blame her for giving the palace the slip, now overseen by Lisa Goodwin-Allen, the food is top notch . Plus, The Game Bird’s all day dining offering works brilliantly for families and meant I could satisfy that 4pm craving for butter-poached lobster and champagne – a sudden culinary itch that was swiftly scratched. Despite its fancy fare, the award-winning restaurant is refreshingly un-starchy, with plenty of cosy corners, where coiffed ladies taking tea remain blissfully unaware of the mothers force feeding their 5-year-olds, like stubborn foie gras geese– oh wait, that was just me.
Whilst the royal tunnel may be off bounds to mere mortals, a sneaky snicket awaits those in the know, magically transporting guests from The Stafford straight into glorious Green Park. With almost 500-acres of royal parks draped around the hotel like a pearl necklace, exploring the capital on foot is a doddle – plus, you have hours of walks on your doorstep, always a plus for a country gal in the city. Alice and I took full advantage, filling our weekend with immersive art exhibitions and world-class shows and all without taking our feet off royal soil- heaven forbid!
Suitably stuffed and having snuck down our snicket we trotted along historic Rotten Row, bound for the Royal Albert Hall. To celebrate its 40th anniversary, Montreal mega circus Cirque du Soleil has taken the most phenomenal acts from around the globe and thrown them into one enormous, mind-blowing, heart-thumping, eye-popping show: Corteo.
Dramatically splitting the Royal Albert Hall in two, the stage front and centre, spiced things up nicely for veteran audience members, like myself – I shouldn’t have been surprised, after all, the venue famously flooded itself with 56,000 litres of water to give an opera a little je ne sais quoi!
“This is my funeral,” declared a forlorn clown, as Alice stared at me, horrified. Her panic quickly replaced by pure unadulterated awe as a flamboyant cavalcade of weird and wonderful tributes from his eccentric circus family unfolded; two hours of swinging from chandeliers and somersaulting between giant beds.
I felt a little discombobulated jumping up to help waft diminutive star, Valentyna Paylevanyan (who measures in at just 2’5”) up towards the gods – you could just about make out her “oh dear,” as she crashed into the royal circle, much to Alice’s delight. “Can I get one of those?” she said, pointing at the four enormous helium balloons that the tiny star was strapped to. Perhaps a monocle wasn’t such a bad shout after all.
Room rates at The Stafford London start from £463 per night (February 2025). For more information or to book visit www.thestaffordlondon.com.
