Cold-water therapy at Broughton takes place in an ice-filled barrel on a moor. Photo / Broughton Sanctuary
The UK’s Broughton Sanctuary is no ordinary estate. This alternative wellness destination is home to sweat lodges, meditation labyrinths and cosmic gardens, writes Tamara Hinson
It’s 10am and I’ve lost count of the times I’ve sworn at Jake, the guide for my cold-water immersion therapy session, which takes place on a heather-scented moor in North Yorkshire, England. Jake warns that the shock of the cold water makes breathing hard, reminding me to exhale deeply as I sink into my ice-filled barrel. It’s not the steamy, lavender-scented soaks I’m partial to, but a desire to switch up my wellness regime is what brought me here.
READ MORE: 8 of the best transformative destinations across the world
I’ve always loved sweating out hangovers in steamy saunas, or having masseuses pummel away aches and pains, but these are admittedly temporary fixes which don’t necessarily address the issues luring me back to overpriced spas.
Cold-water immersion is just the tip of the iceberg (excuse the pun) at Broughton Sanctuary, owned by Roger Tempest, the 32nd Tempest to inherit what’s possibly England’s most glorious country estate – one almost chosen to be Downton Abbey (over Highclere Castle). But while Highclere castle, like most country estates, relies on activities such as pheasant shoots to keep the home fires burning, Roger is securing Broughton’s future in gentler ways – transforming it into the UK’s most innovative wellness retreat, embracing new approaches to rewilding, and proving that country houses don’t need to be dust-shrouded spaces preserved behind velvet ropes (my favourite spot is Broughton’s chapel, one of the few on private estates open to the public).
The estate has 19 rentable apartments and holiday homes. Many guests arrive on retreats organised in-house or offered by companies such as the London Meditation Centre. Some stay in the 900-year-old main house, where I find basement corridors lined with bell pulls which once summoned butlers, bedrooms slept in by everyone from King Charles to Ruby Wax (on separate occasions, to add) and parlours hidden behind false bookcases. Roger loves shattering misconceptions about stately homes, relaying childhood anecdotes about pouring antifreeze down toilets to prevent ancient pipes freezing during brutal winters.
I’m staying in one of the holiday homes, a stone cottage with a garden overlooking a gurgling stream, and a log fire surrounded by books with names like The Alarming History of Medicine, which details how common medical devices – including the stethoscope, invented in 1816 by a doctor who grabbed a rolled-up piece paper to listen to a woman’s heartbeat without touching her chest - remain largely unchanged.
Elsewhere, the architecture is sleekly minimalistic. I dine in Utopia, a low-slung, glass-walled restaurant overlooking a beautiful garden. The food is as good for the planet as it is for me – I’ve never been tempted by mung bean stew, but this one is delicious. Utopia (perhaps fittingly) is where I meet Roger. Far from your typical Lord of the Manor, he’s a floppy-haired ball of energy exuding an air of serenity, despite his hectic workload. When we meet, he’s finalising details relating to a recently granted beaver licence (more of which later) and organising future retreats, including one led by a sixteenth-generation samurai.
“We need to be ahead of the game here, so alongside rewilding relating to nature, we focus on rewilding the spirit, connecting inner nature with outer nature,” says Roger, sipping mushroom tea. He admits to feeling frustrated by the reluctance to consider alternative approaches. “When it comes to new treatments, science takes a while to catch up,” he says. “But approaches rooted in the 1970s are now mainstream. And now, for example, I’m looking forward to watching the evolution of a new science of psychedelics for things like menopause and depression – approaches which will become standard. New ideas are seen as alternative, and old ideas as mainstream, but we’re embracing the new.”
And if this is what new feels like, I’m onboard. At Broughton’s Avalon Wellbeing Centre, I soak in a low-chemical pool, bathed in sunlight flooding through floor-to-ceiling windows. In the changing room, I learn that the tiny skylight exists because an energy point was discovered here; Roger wanted to avoid disrupting its flow. The showers’ curving walls are inspired by Fibonacci spirals, derived from mathematical sequences replicated throughout nature, including in the number of spirals atop a head of Romanesco broccoli. Post-swim, I fill my water bottle from a glass urn containing rainbow-hued crystals.
Next up is a session in the Somadome – a pod-like device which uses brain state-enhancing binaural beats, light and colour therapy, and magnetism. I settle into the womb-like contraption, lower the lid and select a programme designed to de-stress, opting for an additional guided meditation. I remember I’ve forgotten to send an urgent email, reassuring myself that the 20-minute session will pass in a flash. I awake feeling fabulously refreshed, albeit shocked to realise an hour has passed. My husband opts for a session in the flotation tank, emerging similarly baffled by how quickly he dozed off while suspended in the Epsom salt-infused water.
On my final morning, during a hike along trails which weave around the 3000-acre estate, past hermit huts, a sweat lodge, a fire temple and a Garden of Cosmic Origin, it’s clear Roger’s passion for wellbeing is intimately intertwined with his love of nature. 350,000 trees have been planted (a tree whisperer apparently advised on their placement), and it’s a haven for wildlife. Rabbits and squirrels bounce across moorland as kites (birds once facing extinction) soar overhead.
Soon, Broughton’s newest guests will be the once-endangered, supersized rodents whose dam-building skills will provide natural flood control. Some would say Roger’s lucky to get one of the sought-after beaver licences, but I reckon the beavers are the lucky ones.
Some domestic regional flights have been affected.