Summertime in the city, and the living ain’t easy, let me tell you. Especially during a historic heatwave, or, you know, climate change apocalypse – tomayto, tomahto. This, and also the hyper-capitalist work regimen, is probably why you see New Yorkers fleeing the city in such hysterical mobs come lunchtime on every summer Friday, and why I was so excited to celebrate Tourists’ first-year anniversary at the beginning of August.

This lovely boutique hotel in North Adams, Massachusetts (part-owned by Mr John Stirratt of the band Wilco), which has, I’m sure, been all over your Instagram feed for the past year, is peak-Berkshires rustic: blond, angular modernism in a wooded valley, with cosy Tobia Scarpa leather couches in the Insta-friendly lounge and, amazingly, un-ironic, un-self-conscious farm-to-table nosh the day round. Just saying all of that I can’t wait to go back in the winter, although when we arrived it was full, flagrant summertime with buzzy bees in the hydrangeas, corn roasting on an open fire pit and an elaborate seafood boil in process.

As I helped myself to a buffet of oysters, ceviche, and our own individual tins of Pearl Street caviar with chips, the pine deck overlooking the pool, where the farm tables had been laid and a gin-and-tonic bar was in heavy operation, looked a lot like an early 2000s Gourmet magazine cover – the highest compliment I can imagine. My fellow guests were precisely who you might’ve expected, and hoped, to meet there, coming as they did from the worlds of food, hospitality, art, media and fashion. Just the kind of group, in fact, with whom you keep the party going at the property’s adjoining lounge for live music and too many cocktails.

The next morning, a Saturday in Windows screensaver primary colors, the more intrepid guests marched off on a hike along the Appalachian trail (still my favorite euphemism ever), and even tie dyed clothes. Hippies. I, for some reason, decided to take my hangover to MASS MoCA, one of the largest and most impressive modern art museums in the US (in an old printing factory) to stage a proper nervous breakdown. I blame Mr James Turrell, the great light and land artist whose work is on permanent display at the museum and creates a wild ride for the senses – wilder, even, for the split banana-like nerve endings of someone on very little sleep and a lot of gin. 1/10, would never do again.

However, salvation was available in the museum’s A-OK Berkshire Barbeque stand (I was desperate for the brisket, but felt guilty at the last minute and opted for the quarter chicken, which was perfect) and at the bottom of a pint glass of Bright Ideas Brewing IPA, which is brewed on the spot. I must admit, though, that I’m still bummed I didn’t make it over to North Adams’ famed Jack’s Hot Dog Stand for a little tube-shaped Americana, but I was urgently needed for a nap while watching Ghostbusters.

Dinner that night, under a tent outside The Airport Rooms, the neighboring motel, which Tourists has converted into a lounge, had a full-on brass band (The Westerlies) and buckets of Una Lou canned rosé. Win win. On Sunday, I went across the street to the Trail House Kitchen & Bar for a lovely eggy brunch, lost my treasured Master & Dynamic earbuds (a sacrifice to some gods, surely), and still made it home in time to regret living in New York City in the summer. Good times.