In a surreal weekend of virtual cephalopods, tartan suites, and Michelin-starred sacrifices, Jess Baldwin ventures to Sofitel London St James with her nature-loving son — and discovers that even the wildest creatures can learn to love luxury…
I must confess, it’s slightly discombobulating watching five strangers flail about, clawing at the air, desperately attempting to caress an imaginary cuttlefish. The last time I saw grown adults in such a loose-limbed pickle, I was nibbling on a bitterballen in Amsterdam—but that’s a story for another day.
Today, I’m in a far-flung nook of the Natural History Museum, feeling a little ridiculous as I shuffle around their multi-reality “Visions of Nature” experience, donning what can only be described as the world’s largest goggles. Nearby, my son, is still earnestly attempting to tickle a techy tentacle, blissfully unaware that this utterly captivating alternative universe that he has found himself in is in fact, merely VR.
To be fair, it’s been a confusing morning. He started the day at Lightroom, the immersive documentary space in King’s Cross, scuttling across the floor in pursuit of a digital crab, all while being eyeballed by virtual velociraptors. Crabless but undeterred, we pressed on to the Natural History Museum for Sir David Attenborough’s latest offering, Our Story.
“Darwin believed it’s not the strongest that survives, nor the most intelligent, but the one most adaptable to change,” intoned the national treasure before catapulting us through time and space to witness the impact that humans have on the world in which we live. Soon we were swimming with whales, dodging belching gorillas and spinning off into distant galaxies. Woven within the wonder was a sobering, yet hopeful plea: wake up, smell the ultra-processed bacon and save the planet. Too little, too late? Perhaps. But it beats gluing oneself to the M25, no?
I’ll admit, not all of my weekends in the capital are so existential. Usually, they revolve around swish teas and flamboyant West End shows, not the fate of humanity. But George is a creature of hedgerows and hay bales — a shy, mud-caked country boy who speaks fluent badger and finds London a little overwhelming; all tooting traffic and tutting tourists. He would take stroking an invisible cephalopod over enduring a crowded musical any day.
So it was, with a dash of apprehension and the canned enthusiasm of a CBeebies presenter, that I led George towards our weekend home: the five-star Sofitel London St James – I don’t mind sacrificing the occasional scone for the wee boy, but I draw the line at compromising on luxury lodgings.
Just a fossil’s throw from St James’s Park, the burly former bank has one of the most enviable addresses in Londres. Set just off Pall Mall, the grade-II listed property, which marries French elegance with British charm, acts as a glorious Gallic gateway to 500 acres of royal lawns, lakes, and landmarks — ideal terrain for my rural travel companion.
Welcomed with a flurry of bonjours, George was handed his very own London bus-shaped room key. Pocketing it, he bolted through the lavish lobby like a dormouse on the dash. Designed by Pierre-Yves Rochon, the bedrooms are a riot of colour: racing green, phone-box red, royal blue or, like our Luxury Room, plummy purple, with loud and proud tartan carpets and a smattering of playful pop art. Kaleidoscopic abodes not your bag? Feat not, you will find more neutral colour palates in some of the hotel’s lavish suites.
George, on the other hand, wouldn’t have noticed if the walls were made of Époisses. His attention was firmly fixed on the surprise birthday spread which greeted him: a personalised card, a fluffy Paddington Bear and an elaborate hand-decorated cake. Inside the card, a riddle led to a second soft toy waiting in the wings—Peter Rabbit, to take home to his twin sister. On paper, Sofitel St James, with almost 200-gestrooms, is a big, swaggering hotel, but personalised service and thoughtful touches like these make it feel like a boutique family-run hôtel at times.
Of course, big hotels have their perks. Here, they come in the form of a three-storey, award-winning spa hidden in the old vault, not to mention the hotel’s rose-tinted tea salon, pretty in pink it’s the perfect place to while away a day champagne-sipping, tea-tasting and scone-scoffing. But the jewel in this crown has to be Wild Honey, the hotel’s Michelin-starred restaurant.
With acclaimed chef Anthony Demetre working French magic on the finest British produce, I’d been eyeing up their menu all week, schizophrenically jumping between the Loire valley rabbit and the slow roast Grezzina courgette, flower and all – a wasted debate, as it turns out. For, sat on the hotel’s sun-drenched Laurent-Perrier champagne terrace, embroiled in my 768th game of noughts and crosses, I found myself reluctantly agreeing to spend our evening visiting Buckingham Palace and having a picnic in the park. Yes, my evening of Petrus and petit four had been hijacked for palatial pomp and pelicans.
It took nearly two hours to find the latter — ironic really, given they’d been ten-a-penny at the Natural History Museum just hours before. Still, we found them: lakeside, preening regally in St James’s Park, where they’ve held court for nearly 400 years. A gift from the Russian ambassador, though in hindsight, a crate of Beluga might have sufficed.
George sat in the evening sun, sandwich in hand, mesmerised by the exotic birds — presumably trying to work out if they were real or just very convincing VR. Eventually, we bid our feathered friends goodnight, sauntering past Wild Honey and inhaling every airborne calorie along the way before and retreating to our plummy abode.
The next morning, George requested that we dine al fresco once again. I had humoured him once already and it had cost me a Michelin star, today, we would dine at the hotel. He grudgingly agreed. As he scanned the room, eyes widening at the spread before him, I could see the hotel life was beginning to take root. Balancing a fortress of blueberries atop his chocolate toast with meticulous concentration, he looked up and asked eagerly, “can we have lunch here too?”
The boy was adapting. Darwin would be proud.
Sofitel London St James is a five-star luxury hotel blending French elegance with British charm in central London; Classic Room lead-in rate: £996 Excl. VAT / £1,195 Inc. VAT. For more information, please visit www.sofitel.accor.com.
Our Story runs at The Natural History Museum until 7th January 2026. For more information, and to discover the summer programme, please visit www.nhm.ac.uk.
