On Harley Street, marine waste is quietly turned into medical-grade skincare, and forty-eight hours after my facial, my skin still hadn’t got the memo that the treatment was over, glowing on days it had no business glowing.

On Isola delle Rose, a former sanatorium has become the kind of five-star hideaway where the seclusion costs a small fortune and is worth every euro of it.

No injectables, no recovery, no hiding indoors afterwards. Just a plumper, brighter, distinctly younger face by lunchtime.

Terracotta walls, an olive tree in the middle of the room, and a parmesan wheel that turns lunch into a proper event. Como Garden just gets it right.

Ibiza gets a bad rep. People hear “Ibiza” and immediately picture sweaty 2am queues for Amnesia or someone face-down at Nikki Beach by 4pm. And yes, that Ibiza exists, and it’s incredible for a certain kind of holiday. But the real gift of the island is that it contains multitudes: in the same 572 square kilometres, you can wake up on a 300-year-old finca in the hills above Dalt Vila, eat a Michelin-starred tasting menu on a cliff with views of the sea, and still make it to Pacha before midnight. That’s a rare thing.

Le Royal Monceau Raffles Paris has 350 works of art, a Nobu restaurant, and a 23-metre pool. But it’s the bathroom that stays with you.