As I stood in the marble-lined bathroom of the Langham in London three years ago, I had a moment of clarity. Not about life or love or anything deep and profound — just about hexagonal tiles. The floor of the bathroom was made up of tiny white hexagons with charcoal-colored grout, creating a subtle honeycomb pattern that gave the entire space a sense of both timelessness and freshness. I took a photo of the floor. Which, upon reflection, might have been a little odd.
It was not the gold fixtures (well beyond my budget) or the heated floors (appealing, but also well beyond my budget) that stuck with me. It was those tiles. Six months later, when I was finally ready to start renovating my own bathroom, I continued to think about that pattern. Why it didn’t try to do too much. Why it felt expensive but wasn’t flashy.
I’ve come to realize that when you steal ideas from hotel bathrooms, you can’t simply rip off everything. While the marble I loved would have cost me more than my monthly mortgage payment, the underlying principles of what made those spaces feel like luxury? You can definitely apply them.
First things first, while doing my informal hotel bathroom research (yes, that’s become a thing — my friends now expect me to send them tile pictures from every vacation), I realized that the high-end hotels don’t typically go wild with patterns. They tend to choose one bold element and let it take center stage. The Langham had its hexagons. The Ace Hotel in New York had these gorgeous oversized format gray tiles with almost no grout lines to create a seamless look. The boutique hotel in Bath had simple white subway tiles, but in a herringbone pattern that turned the ordinary into extraordinary.
When I began to plan my renovations, I determined to focus on one defining feature of the space: the floor. I located porcelain hexagon tiles that looked virtually identical to the Langham’s marble, but cost about one-tenth as much. The downside? These are available in sheet form. Therefore, if I wanted the seamless look I needed to install carefully. My tile person, Dave (nice guy, horrible at calling people back) initially was hesitant about the dark grout I requested. “You’ll show every speck of dirt,” he said. However, I’d observed the contrast in the hotel and I insisted.
Three years later? He was wrong. The dark grout actually conceals soap scum better than white grout has. Who knew?
The hexagonal floor served as the basis for all other design elements. Rather than attempting to replicate the Langham’s marble walls (and once again, the budget), I selected large white subway tiles in a simple brick arrangement. No frills; however, due to the size of the tiles, they felt more upscale than they were. I purchased the subway tiles for approximately £2 per sq. ft. — probably about 100 times less than the Langham paid for their marble.
I picked up a technique from the Four Seasons in Edinburgh. At the Four Seasons, they utilized the same tile on the walls and in the shower niche to produce this flowing continuity that made the space appear larger. I carried out the same process using the subway tiles by continuing them into the alcove where I store my shampoo bottles. A small detail, yet it adds to the overall intentionality of the bathroom.
The lighting was where I had to get very inventive. Luxury hotels have incredible overhead lighting and perfect ambient lighting. Rewiring, however, was not within my DIY capabilities. In lieu of installing new overhead lighting, I placed LED strip lights behind the mirror (£30 on Amazon, and very simple to conceal) and replaced the builder-grade vanity light with a modern chrome fixture that I found at a lighting outlet. The combined effect creates the same soft, even lighting that I recall from hotel bathrooms without breaking the bank for an electrician.
Storage was yet another hotel lesson. The Soho House in London had floating vanities that produced a sense of openness despite having a small bathroom. I couldn’t afford a custom-built floating vanity, but I found a wall mounted one at IKEA that provided similar results. The space below the vanity makes the bathroom feel less cramped, and it is easier to clean the floor.
One of the largest errors I made was initially attempting to recreate the exact color palette from a hotel in Paris — a stunning combination of sage green and brass. I painted one accent wall that green, installed brass fixtures, etc., etc. It was awful. Absolutely awful. The proportions were all wrong, the lighting was different, and honestly, what works in a grand Parisian hotel does not necessarily work in a semi-detached in rural Yorkshire.
Thus, I repainted (twice, actually — the second time was also a failure), and reverted back to a more neutral palette. Sometimes the best ideas from hotels are not about reproducing exactly what you see, but understanding why it works. That Parisian bathroom felt like it belonged to someone who spent money on the details, not because of the specific colors.
However, I was able to salvage the brass fixtures. I had stumbled upon these lovely brushed-brass faucets at a plumbing supply house’s close-out sale, and they added just enough warmth to prevent the bathroom from feeling cold. Luxury hotels always seem to select the right metal finishes — combining warm and cool tones in a manner that seems thoughtful and not random.
My shower became another hotel-inspired test. I had noted that luxury hotels frequently have those enormous rainfall showerheads, but what I really noticed was how the hotel positioned them. I measured the distance above the base of the showerhead in several hotel showers (yes, I really did this) and found that they position them approximately two inches lower than most standard installations. What a minute difference, but it completely alters the experience of the water hitting your skin.
I couldn’t afford a giant rainfall head, but I located a smaller model that still provided a luxurious feel. And, of course, I installed it at hotel heights.
The total renovation took approximately six weeks, and I ended up spending roughly £1200 — probably what one night at the Langham costs. Every morning when I walk across those hexagonal tiles, I’m given a fleeting glimpse of that hotel bathroom experience. Sometimes the greatest luxury is something you can afford to live with every day.
