However much I love history, I rarely want to live in the past. An exception is the period in which Art Deco gladdened everything in its path. It probably stems from childhood, when I’d often pass the Hoover Building in Perivale, Greater London. Its surging Aztec featherwork and dazzling white façade were fanciful enough, but were made even more outlandish by the contrast with their dreary suburban surroundings. Even now, having been converted into a supermarket and apartments, this former palace of industry conjures thoughts of Josephine Baker in a banana dress, cocktails on Burgh Island or RMS Queen Mary steaming over the horizon. When life proves devoid of brilliance, along comes Art Deco.

Burgh Island Hotel, which sits on its own tidal island, was once frequented by Agatha Christie,

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