One Day with Charlotte Scott at Trasierra

ONE DAY WITH | MASTERS & MUSES | WORLD OF CABANA 

Deep in the hills of Andalusia, Trasierra feels like a world of its own. Conceived and shaped over decades by British interior designer Charlotte Scott, the former cortijo has slowly evolved into a beautiful hotel. In conversation with Cabana's Alessandro Laraspata, Charlotte shares the rhythms and rituals of her day, and a life defined by contrasts: solitude and sociability, English restraint and Andalusian warmth, discipline and improvisation.

INTERVIEW BY ALESSANDRO LARASPATA | MASTERS & MUSES | 17 APRIL 2026

Trasierra founder and owner Charlotte Scott, photographed by Kati Nicklas.

Trasierra is a place where terracotta pots lie half-buried beneath the earth, where guests, young and old, mingle freely, and where the rhythm of the day follows light, not clocks.  Charlotte shares the rhythms and routines of her day, from waking up before dawn with a glass of olive oil to her essential siesta and lunch at 5pm. She reflects on the life and legacy she has built in Andalusia, around instinct, beauty and a sound sense of place.

Giant terracotta pots at Trasierra, photographed by Guido Taroni.

I wake up very early, often before dawn. I love that first part of the day when everything is completely quiet. I always say I’m a morning person, though in truth I’m not sure that’s entirely accurate. What I really love is being alone. I wake, and then often go back to bed to write for an hour or so. Ideally, I wouldn’t speak to anyone until noon.

I write, I meditate, and slowly prepare myself for the day. Those early hours are precious. It’s the only time that feels entirely uninterrupted. And yet, I love the night just as much. There’s a similar stillness to it, a sense of release. With my siesta in the early afternoon, it often feels as though I live two separate days in one.

Breakfast is a ritual: I begin with half a glass of our own olive oil. It’s excellent. George, my son, has a cold press at his farm just ten minutes from here. Then I go out to the garden and pick a lemon from the grove I planted three years ago, squeezing it into hot water. It feels like an extraordinary luxury, something so simple and yet so complete. A cup of English breakfast tea follows, that is my reward.

One of Charlotte's libraries in her drawing room, photographed by Alessandro Laraspata.

After breakfast, I meditate, then I'm ready to face the team. The mornings are always hands-on at Trasierra. I spend them with the builders, the gardener, or the seamstress who makes all the curtains and soft furnishings here. There is always something to discuss, adjust, or rethink, it’s a constant, evolving process.

I moved to Spain in 1978, settling first in Seville. Later, we found the property that would become [my hotel] Trasierra, completely by chance. It was an abandoned cortijo, half stables, half house, surrounded by a wall. It had been neglected for years. What I’ve done since is simply reveal what was already there. I haven’t expanded beyond the original walls. I’ve restored the structure, converted the old stables and pigsties into rooms, and gradually softened everything — adding shade, planting trees, opening up spaces.

Spain was always part of my life. I was born in Madrid, though I grew up in England. My parents loved Spain, my grandparents lived here, and my grandmother was completely obsessed with it. As a child, I spoke Spanish before English, though I lost it when we moved back to London. Still, I always knew I would return. There’s a freedom in Spain that I never found in England — a sense of space, of possibility.

Ruth resting after a long run, pictured by Alessandro Laraspata.

Trasierra itself was never meant to be a hotel. It began out of necessity. The house was too large to maintain alone, and so I started inviting small groups, art classes at first, and slowly, it evolved. My children were part of it from the very beginning: helping serve meals, inventing performances for guests, growing up in a house that was always open and full of people. 

My approach has always been intuitive. I don’t follow a particular style. I respond to the place, to the light, the landscape, the materials at hand. The most exciting moments were often discoveries. When we began clearing the land, we found enormous terracotta pots buried underground, used for storing olive oil and wine. There were dozens of them, taller than me. It felt like uncovering something ancient.

I never formally trained as a designer. I wouldn’t have even called myself one at first; I simply loved houses. I loved visiting them, imagining them, drawing them. I used to redesign my own bedroom constantly. It was instinctive, something I 'felt' rather than learned. Before moving to Spain, I spent about ten years helping friends decorate their homes. There wasn’t really a name for it then; it wasn’t a profession in the way it is now.

Jaime Parladé was one of the people who shaped my eye early on. I spent time in his houses, particularly Tramores and later Alcuzcuz, and they left a deep impression on me. They were simple, comfortable, and completely in tune with their surroundings. That feeling stayed with me long before I understood how to articulate it.

By early afternoon, I have my essential siesta. Once the staff have left, everything becomes quiet again. Only then do I think about lunch, after my siesta, around 5pm, in my own apartment. I’m rather antisocial at that time of day; I prefer to be alone.

Lunch is almost always the same. Avocado, fresh salad leaves from the garden, soft-boiled eggs from George’s hens, sometimes sardines on toast (the Spanish ones are so good), asparagus when it’s in season, and lots of nuts. I drink Vichy Catalan. It’s simple, but exactly what I want. Lunch in summer is more communal, more abundant: gazpacho, tortilla, tomato salads, everything seasonal. We have a wonderful cook in the summer, who works with Gioconda, my daughter, and together they prepare simple but generous food using the freshest local ingredients. The wines are local too — made by two young people in the village, in the old way, using large clay jars, not unlike the ones we discovered here when we first began restoring the house. 

Summer changes everything, the rhythm shifts with the heat. I walk very early, before it becomes too hot, and swim before the guests arrive. Then I retreat to my private rooms to write and work on photographs for my book, after meeting with the staff. 

After 5pm, it feels like a second day begins. I go through lists, plan for the next morning, and take Ruth, my dog, for a long walk as the light begins to soften. It’s also the moment when I allow myself to slow down. I read a great deal then, mostly memoirs and history. I’m very drawn to how people tell their lives, to the structure of experience.

I am always reading. I tend to have autobiographies and collections of letters on the go at the same time as books on houses, decoration, and architecture. I never tire of Cecil Beaton’s diaries, Sybille Bedford’s novels, or anything by Evelyn Waugh, Ernest Hemingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald — they are simply so beautifully written.

I return often to Under the Sun: The Letters of Bruce Chatwin. It's a collection of letters written during his travels, and there is something endlessly inspiring in the way he observes the world. I also read a great deal of cookbooks, art books, and Spanish history; my library is so varied that it’s almost impossible to name one book I couldn’t live without. Certainly not the Bible or the complete works of Shakespeare.

Photographed by Guido Taroni.

What inspires me most is not a book or music, but a place. Walking along a deserted beach out of season, when there is no one else around, either on the Atlantic coast in Spain or along the North Sea in Kent. And then there are places of extraordinary beauty, like the Alhambra, whose construction and atmosphere I find endlessly moving. But they are so often overwhelmed by visitors that they only truly inspire me in solitude. I first saw it by moonlight, in the middle of winter in 1970, and that is how I still remember it.

India also played an important role in shaping my sensibility. I travelled there often with my children when they were young, sometimes for extended periods, and it opened up another way of seeing — particularly in terms of textiles, colour, and a more instinctive way of living. Many of the objects and fabrics I found there have quietly made their way into the house.

Running Trasierra today comes with challenges, especially on the business side. But the joy comes from seeing people connect with the place. When guests return, or write to say how much it meant to them, that feels like the real reward. What I’ve always wanted is for people to feel at home here. Not in a luxurious, over-designed way, but in a real sense, as if they are living in a house, not passing through a hotel. I think people are beginning to want that again: less perfection, more authenticity.

Photographed by Guido Taroni.

Dinner, if I have guests or family, is always outside and very late. It’s the most beautiful moment of the day. I think that's what I love most about Andalusia – the light. It has a brightness that transforms everything: the white walls, the terracotta roofs, the landscape. There’s also a hint of Morocco in the air, in the palms and the atmosphere, which I find endlessly inspiring. It's also the space. You can drive for miles without seeing another car. After England, that sense of openness feels extraordinary.

And then there is the way of life. It’s relaxed, generous, and deeply human. Children are welcomed everywhere; life happens outdoors, time stretches. That, in the end, is what Trasierra is about. It's not just a house, it's a way of living, a slower, more attentive one, rooted in its surroundings. Once you’ve experienced that, it’s very hard to leave.