I’m lying in a poolside cabana sipping on a superfood smoothie spiked with bovine collagen, watching reflections of the gold-leaf ceiling dance on the water to a soothing soundscape devised by neuroscientists.
I waft around the corner in an Alice Temperley robe and slippers and peer into the snow shower, where cascading ice flakes offer a civilised alternative to the traditional cold plunge, and then a steam room swathed in rose quartz.
My instinct is to grab my phone and capture some content; it’s what we’re programmed to do in spaces of such uncommon beauty.
But I resist the urge, partly because I don’t want to disturb the zen state brought on by my massage – during which I lay on a hot onyx bed in a room lit to enhance my circadian rhythm and was drizzled with honey like a baklava pastry – and mainly because a sign kindly asks guests to refrain from taking photos.
Surrenne, a private members health club in the swanky London suburb of Knightsbridge, describes itself as “a new era of ultra-luxury social wellbeing”. The club opened in April 2024 courtesy of the Maybourne Hotel Group (parent company of Claridge’s and The Connaught), and is free to access for guests staying at The Emory or The Berkeley – with a sly back passage for very important clientele.
Everyone else can become a member for about $20,000 a year, plus a $10,000 joining fee, for which they will be welcomed by a team of professionals who’ll oversee every aspect of their health and wellbeing: healing massages, high-tech facials, holistic nutrition plans, bloodwork with medical director Dr Mark Mikhail, microbiome mapping, epigenetic testing and personalised supplements delivered daily.
In news to nobody, wellness is a booming industry valued in the trillions, with a captive, often fanatical, audience. Silicon Valley tech bros infuse themselves with peptides and – in the case of 47-year-old venture capitalist Bryan Johnson – teenage boys’ blood on a relentless quest to live forever.
Once-kooky concepts like biohacking and longevity have seeped into medical books and mainstream culture, with more than 60 per cent of consumers surveyed by McKinsey in 2024 considering it “very” or “extremely” important to purchase products and services that help with longevity.
But Surrenne is one of a new crop of high-end health nirvanas merging the science with a social aspect, too.
At Remedy Place in New York and West Hollywood, guests partake in social acupuncture or grab an IV drip while watching a movie, perhaps alongside Kourtney Kardashian-Barker or Drake.
At Australian private wellness club Saint Haven, members drink mocktails at the marble hightop bar after stimulating their circulation in a pair of lymphatic compression boots or inhaling the world’s purest air inside a hyperbaric oxygen pod. Since launching in Collingwood, Melbourne, in May 2023, the demand has been so high that three more have opened across the city, with additional locations planned for Sydney in 2025.
On the fourth floor of Surrenne, I enter the hallowed Tracy Anderson studio, dedicated to the famous body-sculpting method of Gwyneth Paltrow and Victoria Beckham’s trainer.
The room is heated to 35°C, the floor is sprung to minimise impact on joints, and resistance bands hang from the ceiling. One woman is stretching and chatting to a receptionist about her weekend jaunt to Sardinia, and puts in an order for a green juice post-class. “No fruit, babe,” she says familiarly.
A perky American instructor guides us through a sweaty workout, and afterwards I ask the green juice drinker – let’s call her Kate, as anonymity is paramount at Surrenne – if she’s a regular at the club. “I come six times a week, usually for the Tracy Anderson classes. It’s a way of life now,” she tells me. “I’m 50 but I look and feel 21. I do everything natural. Surrenne’s the place I come to reconnect and feel better – then I go home to my kids and work, and I’m better.”
It must be lovely to make use of the plush facilities, too, I comment. “I don’t go to the pool, sauna or steam room as I have those at home,” she says. “I’ve stopped using public pools. But the valet is great.”
I think I want Kate’s life, and the closest I’ll get to that dream is probably Saint Haven in Melbourne. Not that joining up is necessarily an option, given the club’s rigorous application process and extensive waitlists.
“We don’t talk about member numbers, but each of our clubs is at capacity – the membership waiting list is now over 25,000,” says Saint Haven founder Tim Gurner, who oversees the four locations in Collingwood, Toorak, South Yarra and St Kilda. Gurner, a property developer and dedicated biohacker himself, saw a gap in the market for a luxe centre that merged the health facilities of a wellness retreat with the practicalities of a private club – minus the stuffy and sexist traditions.
“Why do we all burn ourselves out and then have to escape to Gwinganna or Eden or Chiva-Som? Why can’t we [live like that] every day?” he asks.
Gurner attributes some of Saint Haven’s success to a widespread re-prioritisation of health post-pandemic. People are more conscious of their mortality, partying less
as nightspots shut down, and experimenting with sobriety.
“I think that leads people away from big nights, but they still want to be able to socialise,” explains Gurner. Many are searching for community, too – according to a recent study, one-third of Australians feel lonely – and for “third places” outside the home and workplace, where they can convene and connect.
“Our members talk about Saint Haven being their second home,” affirms Gurner, hinting that clubs like his may even offer a solution to the downward spiral of dating apps. “Believe it or not, we’ve had three engagements from [people who met] in our sauna.
If you’re a single, healthy-minded person looking for someone with shared values, this is definitely the place to be … Just come and sit in our sauna.”
Fifty-eight per cent of Saint Haven members are women, 42 per cent men, with an average age of 33 to 45 across the different locations. “We have such a diverse range of members,” adds Gurner. “We have incredible artists, elite athletes, footballers, and lots of Australia’s key executives who need a place to go and hide from the world. So you could be sitting at the bar next to a bank CEO on one side and a hot international artist on the other. It’s a great mix.”
The newest opening, Saint in St Kilda, is aimed at a younger-minded, though not necessarily younger, crowd. It features co-working spaces, a breath-work studio, red-light therapy and all the standard amenities of its sister clubs, but also a den with a DJ and cinema. “We’re serving 100 per cent natural alcohol there on Friday and Saturday nights,” says Gurner. “The music’s more upbeat.
If you are 25 to 50 and you’re looking to meet someone, I think it’s going to be a great place.” Especially so for a growing but typically overlooked demographic whose lifestyle inhabits the space between cramming into boiler rooms and having babies.
Private members clubs are big news across the world right now: Casa Cipriani is the place to be and be seen in New York, The Wilde just opened in Milan, and Soho House will soon launch in Sydney. Each is built on exclusivity – which is the natural allure of a members club, but becomes more complex when wellness is added into the equation.
Should perfect health be the domain of an elite few, something only the wildly rich can afford or the exceptionally connected are invited into? Like the referral-only Pilates studios popping up in New York, or Sydney’s Lockeroom Gym, where only high-flying business executives need apply.
Gurner points out that Saint Haven memberships, which start at $179 a week and reportedly go up to $2000 a week, aren’t as prohibitive as they may initially appear. “They’re actually good value,” he says.
“Because these people are travelling the world [to visit health retreats] … They have a private club membership, a gym membership, a Pilates membership, a recovery membership … [Once] they combine all of that into one place, we’re much more efficient from a time perspective and also from a cost perspective.”
After expanding into Sydney in 2025, Saint Haven is looking to go global. Maybe our demand for these spaces comes down to a growing appreciation of “wellth”, a term coined by ex-Wall Street trader Jason Wachob to describe how physical and mental wellbeing makes us richer.
Or maybe privacy is the real drawcard here, even for very unimportant people like me. In a world where your every movement is tracked on Find My Friends and we barely sneeze without sharing it on Instagram, a ban on social media – implemented at all Saint Haven clubs except Saint – is quite thrilling. Sometimes it’s just nice to have a secret.
I eventually visit the Saint Haven sauna, set in an ultra-sumptuous sanctuary that feels a little like a Puglian bath house, but mainly like a whole new world. I sit opposite an Australian musician who’s shorter than I expected, surprisingly witty, and makes a mildly shocking revelation. But I can’t share the juicy details; those are the rules of private wellness clubs.
