After a few years in the doldrums, today’s hankering for wellbeing and hen-do spa parties has put a spring back in its step
What’s going for it? One thousand feet up in the clouds (OK, drizzle), with barely a street not at a 45-degree angle, Buxton is a town built like a fitness class. Work that body. It’s been a spot encouraging the restitution of health for centuries. The Romans spotted the Jacuzzi-warm water bubbling out of the hills, awfully good for settling the tum; but it was the Georgians who turned Buxton into the Bath-of-the-north, with columns, crescents, domes and, if they’d been invented then, neoclassical hot tubs, too. After a few years in the doldrums, today’s hankering for wellbeing and hen-do spa parties has put a spring back in its step (no pun intended). It remains a place thoroughly good for mind, body and soul, with its elegant streetscape and refined arts scene. There are enough trees and countryside for a forest bath, and enough spas and sou’westerlies for a more watery soak. The result being that Buxtonians are as chilled and zen as a Buddhist monk, as trim and hench as Joe Wicks, with the lungs of a Nepalese Sherpa, the skin of a newborn babe and digestion as regular as a Swiss train. Right?
The case against Rainy. And when it’s not rainy, cloudy. And when it’s not cloudy, misty. And when it’s not misty... you get the picture.
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