Postcard from London: afloat in an ‘ancient’ spa

And so it was a pleasure on a sweltering day last week to step into the dark, subterranean pools at Aire Ancient Baths, a spa just off the Strand that opened its doors in June.

It is housed in the lower floors of an 18th-century neoclassical building — a blue plaque informs passers-by that it was once home to the literary grandees Sir James Barrie (of Peter Pan fame) and John Galsworthy (The Forsyte Saga).

Aire is one of an expanding Spanish-owned chain of spas “inspired by the ancient ritual of thermal bathing in Ancient Greek, Roman and Ottoman civilisations”. That’s reflected in the experience and the (occasionally gimmicky) decor: a series of candle-lit pools under brick arches in the manner of a Roman cistern, patches of peeling plaster and clusters of salt-glazed pots, the odd pair of columns and terracotta urns. The sound of what I suspect is a pan flute gently pipes through the speakers (even underwater).

The standard 45-minute massage turns out to be the best of my life. I live in dread of it ending

This is Aire’s first spa in the UK and its eighth globally. The first opened in Seville two decades ago, and its portfolio has since expanded to New York, Chicago and Copenhagen, the company choosing (where possible) storied sites where ancient-styled bathing pools might seem at least vaguely plausible.

Persuading a landlord to let Aire fill the lower floors of a listed building with multiple pools was not without its challenges, says Amadeo Serra, Aire’s chief executive, who meets me in the waiting room. The company began looking for a location four and a half years ago, and the build took 18 months. Despite Brexit and the pandemic, Serra is confident of London’s ability to continue to attract high-net-worth individuals who might be in need of a massage, or several. The idea behind the theme, Serra explains, is to create an atmosphere where “time doesn’t exist”.

There may be no worse time to open a spa than during a pandemic, but there are few better times to visit one. Since opening, Aire has limited the number of visitors to a maximum of six at one time; guests are given a two-hour slot in which to arrive. The staff outnumber customers by at least 2:1, though the number of guests might eventually increase to 12 or 14, depending on demand.

After a quick trip to the women’s locker room, where I am supplied with a white robe, foamy slippers and the offer of a bathing suit (I brought my own), I descend down candle-lit stairs to the baths. There are seven in total, some hot but not to the point of fainting (40C), one set at body temperature (and vast enough to swim laps in), and others single-sized and as frigid as the sea off Cornwall (10C). They are given Latin (or in some cases Latin-sounding) names: the Tepidarium, the Caldarium, the Vaporium — the latter in a room so thick with steam that I am startled after a minute to discover that a couple is inside with me. My favourite is the salt-filled Flotarium, where piles of white salt are poured at one end for a self-administered scrub.

This being a spa, there are also treatments, which range from your standard 30- to 75-minute massage to (and I can’t say I was tempted by this personally) a wine bath large enough for two, which is filled with litres of “antioxidant rich” tempranillo and accompanied by a platter of wine and cheese, followed by a grapeseed oil massage.

I have instead signed up for a 45-minute massage, which turns out to be the best of my life. When Julia, the masseuse, touches my neck, my whole body feels as if it is being pulled into alignment. I live in dread of it ending. When it finally does, she hands me my slippers, which have been toasting on a heater. It’s delightful.

Aire may be designed to take guests out of place and time, but I also have a story deadline, and so I exit a little before my two-hour slot is up. The stairs take me from the Roman basement into the Georgian reception area, and back to the blazing hot contemporary reality of the Strand on a summer Friday. But the sun and the heat and the London crowds no longer feel so overwhelming.

Lauren Indvik is the FT’s fashion editor