I went on the Wayback Machine last week. I was looking at hotel websites — it's a habit that comes with the territory — and stumbled across a property that had been online in some form for more than twenty-five years.

The earliest version the Wayback Machine could find was from 2000. Even by the standards of that era it must have looked dated almost as soon as it went up. But these were the early days of hotel websites, and nobody really knew what they were doing yet.

Then I looked at every version they'd had since.

This is a fantastic property. Exceptional facilities. Beautiful grounds. It has been involved in multi-million pound sales and multi-million pound refurbishments. And for twenty-six years — a quarter of a century — it has never had a good website. Not once. They've gone to digital marketing companies. They've tried off-the-shelf products. They've attempted to manage it themselves. Every time, something hasn't worked.

It is 2026. And this hotel is still operating a shop window that doesn't come close to reflecting what the property actually is.

They are not alone.

I looked at other luxury hotels in beautiful locations while I was at it. Some are better than others. But almost no one is really getting it right. Keywords everywhere, because someone said they needed it for Google. No brand voice. Nature walks and kids' Easter fun on the homepage. The kind of clutter that comes from a team of well-meaning people all trying to help.

And that's the thing — it usually comes from a good place. The spa manager wants guests to know about the new treatment. The events team has a promotion they're proud of. The restaurant has a new menu. Everyone has something worth saying. The problem isn't that people care. The problem is that without a clear line around what the property is and who it's for, every good intention pulls in a slightly different direction. The website becomes a record of those intentions rather than a coherent invitation.

The guest arrives at the homepage — perhaps the only moment they'll ever give the property — and instead of feeling something, they have to work out what the place is. That's the moment you lose them.

Here is the analogy I keep coming back to.

Go to the Patek Philippe website. You know within seconds what this brand is and who it's for. There is no promotional banner. There is no seasonal offer. There is nothing on that page that doesn't belong there. Just the work, presented with complete confidence. Patek Philippe has been making watches since 1839 and the website feels like it knows that. Unhurried. Certain. Every word and image in service of one idea.

Now imagine if it weren't. A rotating carousel of offers. A pop-up asking you to sign up for their newsletter. A banner announcing the summer collection at a special price. You'd think something had gone badly wrong. Not because the watches had changed — but because the presentation had told you the wrong story about what they were worth.

That is what a cluttered, unfocused hotel website does to a property. It doesn't just fail to convert. It quietly undermines the value of everything the hotel has spent years and millions building.

SEO matters. Keywords have a place. But generic keywords don't convert guests at several hundred pounds a night. What converts them is desire — the feeling created by the right images and the right words in the right order. Your philosophy. Your story. What you actually are.

The shop window has never been easier to get right. There are more tools, more talented people, more understanding of what works than at any point in the history of the internet.

And yet here we are. Twenty-six years. Still a website that doesn't do the place justice.

The property deserves better. So do the people who work there.