By pummelled we mean in a spa by way of massage, obvs! Writer Rose Wadham went for a weekend break at the gorgeous Blythswood Square Hotel in Glasgow. She tells it as it is…
With its marble columns, palatial black and white chequered hall and plentiful minions, when I arrived at the Blythswood Square I half expected to be met by the emperor Nero. I collapsed into a womb-like crimson velvet love seat and, instead of Nero, a bellboy with a Burt Reynolds smile took my bags.
“I’ll just pop you and your wee bag in here,” he said in a sweet attempt to sex up the lift ride. I stared into the mirror. Nosferatu stared back. Boy did I need this trip.
Once inside my ‘classic suite’ talked me through how everything worked; from the air conditioning to the faucets to the trouser press. By the time he got to the light switches I was totally mesmerised by his auburn beard which was compelling given that he’d gone for the aesthetically compromising beard-and-no-moustache combo. He finally left me, lying on my bed pondering an enormous black lampshade that dangled over my head like a Soviet interrogation device.
I tore into the mixed nuts and surveyed the scene. The slick, corporate grey and black
burst into the room and shout “lip my stocking!”
Three quarters of an hour later I awoke to a pool of drool leaking from my snoring mouth onto the impossibly high thread count Egyptian cotton pillowcase. Almost fainting from the smell of my own armpits, I had a bath and amused myself by making out pictures in the elegant marbling.
Just then the phone rang. “Morning Madam. Are you ready for your wee massage?” chirped Claire Grogan. Golden showers notwithstanding, I was.
I took the lift from Ancient Rome down to the sultry depths of the Orient where voices were hushed and spaces reverently bathed in shadow. The Spa in this hotel has to be viewed, sniffed and stroked to be believed. I prepared myself for aqueous bliss.
The proudly Scottish Blythswood Square Hotel Spa is more Bathsheba’s personal hammam meets sumptuous Belle Epoque Bordello than Scottish Lodge and happily there is not a tartan antler in sight. Instead, seductive corridors scented by oil burners wafting biblical smells (frankincense, cedar & juniper berry) are barely lit by gold beaded lamps to reveal doors behind which breathtakingly relaxing acts are committed by some of the loveliest maidens in Scotland.
But first, I sampled the labyrinthine common rooms which include a pine sauna and ‘
I entered a white tiled steam room that gave off a ‘delicate pomegranate mist’. There was also a black tiled room with heated curvy chaises longues. A bald man in a three-piece suit rushed in when a red button was erroneously pressed by a
confused lady. “How many times a day do you get called down here?” She asked. “About 5 times normally. Keeps me fit” he added
Sensing my piano-wire muscles, Joann daubed me with carefully chosen aromatic oils and slowly and patiently coaxed the tension out of my body, stroking my lymph and balancing hot stones on my chakras until the naff Enya soundalike muzak faded away and all I could hear was my own breath. For one delectable
Later I floated back into the lift and ascended to Tokyo. The mirror reflected panda eyes, clogged ears
the retired golfing couple beside me and asked them if they were still in love.
Blythswood Square, a 5-star spa hotel in Glasgow city