BY DOMINIC WIGHTMAN
There are few greater luxuries afforded to the Briton than the ritual of the bath. Not the perfunctory, hurried ablutions of the shower—that brutish, Continental invention—but the proper, deliberate submersion into steaming, scented waters, where a man, or woman, might, for half an hour, pretend that the world beyond the bathroom door does not exist.
The bath is not for eating in, nor for conducting business, nor even for vigorous scrubbing. It is for shedding—shedding the grime of the day, the weight of one’s obligations, and, if one has had the foresight to equip oneself properly, the last vestiges of sobriety.
First, one must address the water. The novice fills his bath hot from the outset, a grave error that reduces the whole affair to a kind of slow-boiling martyrdom. The true connoisseur begins with the cold tap running, allowing the bathtub to fill just enough to cover the lower extremities upon entry. Only then, using one’s toes to control the taps, does he permit the hot to follow, inching the temperature upwards with the patience of a man who knows that pleasure, like revenge, is best served not only cold, nor scalding, but with a gradual, almost imperceptible ascent towards perfection.
This method is not unlike the poaching of an egg—another delicate operation where haste leads to ruin. The bather, like the egg, must submit to the water’s embrace with caution. To leap headlong into a furious boil is to invite either rubbery disappointment or, in the case of the bath, a scalded dignity.
No bath is complete without its accoutrements. A flannel—preferably white, and of a quality that suggests it was purchased from a venerable department store now teetering on the edge of liquidation—must be draped modestly over one’s nether regions. This is not out of prudery, but decorum. A man in a bath is, after all, a man at his most vulnerable. The flannel is a nod to civilisation, a fig leaf for this century of naked savages.
Next, the Cohiba. The bath is one of the few remaining sanctuaries where a man might enjoy a cigar without fear of censure. The steam lends itself to the smoke, curling it upwards in languid spirals, while the occasional ash may be flicked into the water with the insouciance of a man who owns at least one good ashtray—but chooses rebellion.
Then, the whisky. It should be single malt, preferably from Islay, and served in a tumbler heavy enough to suggest it could double as a weapon in a pinch. Ice is permissible, if one is the sort of person who enjoys diluting good whisky, but better to take it neat, allowing the peat to mingle with the cigar smoke and the rising vapours of the bath. The first sip should coincide precisely with the moment the hot water reaches that golden equilibrium between comfort and near-intolerable heat.
No bath is truly complete without the silent, solemn attendance of a terrier—preferably a wiry, opinionated specimen, the sort that regards itself less as a pet and more as a minor aristocrat. Mine takes up his post on the wicker chair beside the tub, where he performs his one indispensable duty: warming my towel. He does this not out of any trained obedience, but because he understands, in that inscrutable canine way, that a cold towel is an affront to civilisation. There he sits, a compact bundle of fur and judgement, his belly pressed against the folded linen, his chin resting on his paws in an attitude of patient suffering. By the time I emerge, steam-pink and dripping, the towel has absorbed both his body heat and a faint, musky scent of dog—a small price to pay for such thoughtful service.
Bubble bath is essential, but not the garish, bonbon-scented varieties favoured by chavs and Americans. A proper bath demands something refined with a whiff of sandalwood—Floris, perhaps, or Penhaligon’s—poured liberally beneath the tap so that it erupts into a froth worthy of a Victorian aesthete. The bubbles serve no practical purpose, which is precisely the point. A bath without bubbles is like a Bordeaux served in a teacup: the contents may be the same, but the soul is absent
A bath should last no less than twenty-five minutes and no more than forty. Anything shorter is a shower by another name; anything longer risks prunish fingers and the suspicion that one has fallen asleep. The ideal soak follows an arc: the initial shock of immersion, the slow surrender to warmth, the contemplative plateau (during which one may ponder life’s great questions, such as why pledgit gathers in such neat balls of fluff in one’s belly button), and finally, the reluctant acknowledgement that all good things must end.
Emerging from the bath is an art in itself. One must rise slowly, allowing the flannel to cling heroically to its post until the last possible moment, at which point it may be discarded in favour of a towel of Egyptian cotton. The transition from water to air should be seamless, dignified. There will be time enough for the vulgarities of drying one’s feet later.
And then, refreshed, slightly lightheaded from the whisky, and wreathed in the lingering scent of cigar and sandalwood, one may face the world anew—or, better yet, postpone facing it until morning.
The bath, after all, is not merely a washing ritual. It is the last refuge of the civilised man.
Dominic Wightman is the Editor of Country Squire Magazine, works in finance, and is the author of five and a half books including Conservatism (2024).