The Victorian Spa Town of Scarborough

Archly situated on a cliff, gazing down on a beach that curves wide and long into a far collection of dollhouse-like houses climbing the rocky ledges, stand the vaulting, shining-windowed spa hotels of Scarborough in North Yorkshire, England. Birthed from a magical healing spring (the mineral-rich waters were discovered near the town during the 1620s, quickly leading to bottled water, bathing machines and, by 1875, a cliff tram), Scarborough still throngs today with enough tourists to fill an overabundance of bed and breakfasts, and a few decadently huge hotels that dominate the landscape.

My husband and I were recommended to the Crown Spa Hotel. We arrived at 9 p.m. after getting quite lost (there is one road that leads down to the Grand Hotel, against which we were recommended,  and one beside it that leads vertiginously up to the cliff, where The Crown stands in tandem with several other behemoths. We first took the wrong road).

The warmly-lit Crown features a lobby populated by forest-green and burgundy leather sofas and armchairs, all of which have shockingly deep cushions. I would have sat in one all day, had it not meant missing the surroundings--and the spa.

Admittedly, we were hesitant at first about staying at The Crown: 99 pounds per night meant approximately $200, and we wouldn't have time to enjoy the spa in the evening before it closed at 10 p.m. The friendly woman at the desk offered us a full-day pass for the following day plus free parking, and knocked the price down to 95 pounds but said she couldn't do any better. She kindly called ahead to another hotel to allow us to compare accommodations (they were charging 80 pounds).

After a visit, I determined that I didn't like the second hotel as much, and we returned to The Crown. The desk woman was so pleased that we'd returned, she knocked the price down to 75 pounds.

The Crown's basement is a full health spa with a sparkling gym, men's and women's locker rooms, and several healing rooms that made me feel as indulged as a delicate Victorian. I entered through the glass door etched "Pool/Sauna/Aroma." After passing a few showers created exclusively for foot washing, I found a blue-tiled, low pool with faux Roman statues throughout. At the beginning of March on a Monday morning, it was nearly empty and serene, with pool noodles available for water play. I chose to instead take my place in the large "spa pool," a warm bath with air jets. The tiled underwater ledge bubbled both warm and cold water at once.

Following a soak, I discovered a second room filled with lounge chairs, and surrounded by more glass-doored rooms: two saunas, a steam room, and one mysteriously marked "Aroma." I began with a hot sauna that proved to be too hot; then, tested a second sauna that was cooler. This one featured a ceiling dotted with pinpoints of light that slowly changed colors. I lay there enchanted, watching the spectrum of constellations until I could no longer breathe the heat, and moved to the steam room. This felt like walking into a fiery cloud where water condensed in my mouth and rolled down the back of my throat.

I retreated and, at last, entered the dimly-lit aroma room. I was greeted with perfumed warm air, absinthe-green glowing wall sconces, a trickling wall fountain and heated tiles. Lying back on a tile ledge, I breathed the pervasive scent of an essential oil mixture called "restore." I lay in the silence and inhaled subtle curls of scent.

Relaxed, my husband and I took a stroll outside along the "spa bridge," a long cement footbridge that connects the cliffbound hotels to its ground-level sisters, and  down steep staircases set into the cliff and curving toward the "spa complex." This is the restored sprawling building where the Victorians used to go for their treatments and rest. While the structure is currently closed for renovations, it was still awe-inspiring to see the many-domed, Gothic-style complex reveal itself through the skeletal trees. With an area for outdoor performances, a theater, and untold rooms within, the structure evokes a time when those who could afford to celebrated life as ostentatiously as life itself gave them time to do.

There is no fair in Scarborough. But there may well be the scent of rosemary, and the sweet, delicate smell of time.