Touch...

Touch.  So essential.  So overlooked (or rather so undertouched).  We're touch deprived, so many of us  - we really are.  I've been fascinated by the healing power of touch and have been reading the research for the last twenty years. It gets more and more convincing.  We humans need touch - it's as essential in its way as food, drink, air.  The saddest thing?  Babies in orphanages deprived of touch.  They fail to thrive; if they do survive they grow up with behavioural problems.  On the other hand, babies who are held, cuddled, stroked, kissed, grow up calmer, more resilient to stress, with stronger immune systems.  Baby massage? Fabulous.  Well, if your baby will go for it.  James absolutely loathed it.  But we spent a lot of chilled time, skin to skin, when he was small to compensate - and he loved that - so maybe it was just that I wasn't the best masseuse! 

I could bore you for hours about this, cos I find it fascinating, but anyway...

If I were in charge of the country I'd make massage therapy free on the NHS. Cos I figure it would solve on helluva lot of our problems (not just health-wise but societally too). It would also save a shedload of money.  

Back in the 90s, when I earned a decent whack, I didn't spend my spare cash (oh, the thought!) on fancy shoes or clothes - I spent it on good bodywork.  I used to visit this guy called Paresh Rink once a week, out in Glastonbury.  No fancy spa, no shiny clinic.  He worked from home, from a little back room of his terraced house, with socks hanging on the radiator (okay, so that bit wasn't quite so fabulous).  But frankly it didn't matter one jot because he ironed out my body. And my mind followed.  Of course. Because what profoundly  affects the body, affects the mind - and vice versa. How could it not?

Now I think I have found my new Paresh (the original escaped back to California). You already know I love the Hands On clinic in Braunton which, incidentally, is as clean and fresh as a brisk sea breeze from nearly Saunton beach.  Not a single damp sock in sight.  Well, I went back yesterday, for another session with Phil Steward.  I told him I'd wrecked my Achilles (again) and that my coccyx was gridlocked. At which point he laughed out loud and plucked out a textbook and showed me a picture.

'Don't worry,' he said with a broad grin. 'I won't use that particular technique.'

'Thank feck for that,' I replied, eyes like saucers at the prospect of having my coccyx manipulated from the inside out.

The next hour melted me.  He used a combination of techniques but really that's just the bottom (sorry!) layer of the puzzle.  The guy's a healer, pure and simple.  At the end he got me to turn over onto my back with my arms crossed over my chest and he did this thingy where he got me to breathe in and then exhale as he put his weight on me (and he's one big guy).  'Lift up your chin,' he said. 'Like you're trying to do a crunch.'  I managed about an inch (tough when you've got no air in your lungs) and the whole set of my thoracic vertebrae just gave in, clicked and released in sequence. Unbelievable.  No trauma, no invasive manipulation.

'Your body really needed to do that,' he said.

'Er, just a  bit,' I said. Then added, 'Was I very tense and uptight? Like all over?'

'Er, just a bit,' he said.

Now not everyone shares my love of being pummelled and pounded.  I know some people who literally shudder at the idea of being massaged.  And that saddens me, it really does. Not because I think people should like the stuff I like (horses for courses and all); it's just that I can't wrap my head around the idea that anyone wouldn't adore having their body sorted out by someone who really knows what they're doing.

Of course there are reasons why some people don't like touch (it often goes hand in glove with early abuse) and that is even sadder.  

Other people raise their eyebrows when I say I like getting massaged by guys.  In fact, out of my top five best massage therapists, three were men (Paresh, Phil and some guy at the AlpenMedhotel Lamm in Austria).  Interestingly, the two women both do chavutti thirumal, the Indian rope massage (where they mainly use their feet to go deep into the muscles and fascia). Cos, see (or rather, feel) I like a deep touch and it might sound sexist but guys just do tend to probe that bit deeper.

'Ooooh, no, I could never be massaged by a man,' said my friend Gill.

'But why?' I said.

'Well...because...you know...' She paused and looked meaningful.

'No. What?' 

'Well...' More eye gestures.

The penny dropped. 'Oh, you mean sex?'

'Jane!'

'Well, you did mean it, didn't you?' 

'Well...'

'Oh, for pity's sake!'

It's not just women either.  When I raved on about Phil on Twitter I got a dose of Carry On 'ooh errr, missus' from our own Jake Barton.

- All that hands-on malarkey would worry me. Prone to alarmist tendencies re wandering hands [he said]

- Don't be ridiculous, Barton. [I said]

- Shy boys like me dread the very idea of massages. Far too much indiscreet rummaging. [he said].

- No comment. [I didn't say.]

I mean. Really. Get over yourselves.  That idea of massage really is dead and gone - unless, of course, you find your massage therapists from cards in telephone boxes or in small ads that say 'added extras' and throw in a Badedas bath at the end.  Today's bodyworkers are supreme professionals.  You're a body.  With issues.  That they can fix.  That's it. 

And my poor body had issues.  In fact, according to Phil, its issues had issues.  But now it feels...rather delightful.

Seriously, if you're anywhere within driving distance of North Devon, give your body a treat and go see Phil.  And if you really do have guy 'issues' another of my top therapists, Jules, works there.  And if you can't handle 'deep' massage (no, not of the anal variety, for pity's sake) they have other therapists who, I'm willing to bet, are pretty damn good too.  Cos Ellie (Phil's partner) vets them all and I get the feeling she's as picky as I am.  

Sooo... How about you? Love massage? Hate it?  How do you like it?  Whom do you rate?  

The Hands On clinic is in Braunton, North Devon. Check out their website for more details:  http://handsonclinic.co.uk/

I trust therefore I float.

Trust. One of those words you think about, long and hard and deep.  Do you trust? Totally? Utterly? Unconditionally?  Very difficult.

But, you know…at some point, somewhere along the way, you have to trust.  You have to let go, lean back and just…float; knowing you’ll be held; that you’ll be okay. And if you're not...hey ho. You'll still be okay.

And ah…floating.  I first floated in London for a feature.  I didn’t like the idea of it at the time – couldn’t help thinking about William Hurt turning into a wolfman in Altered States.  But then I tried it and…oh my…total love in 18 inches of Epsom salts.  Every so often I’d Google floatation tanks and not find anything round here – at least not a proper floatation room (rather than a poky pod). But then, last week, I had a message from a lovely woman called Jules I met a few years back.  She practices Chavutti Thirumal, the Indian ‘rope massage’ – where you lie butt-naked on the floor and the therapist uses his or her feet to massage you, using an overhead rope for balance. It is, quite simply, bliss. Possibly the only massage I’ve ever had where, come the end, I feel sated, finished, done – rather than biting the therapist’s hand and wimpering ‘just another five minutes, please?’ 

Anyhow.  Back when I had an income, I used to go to Jules for the occasional Chavutti and heaven it was.  And now it seems she’s working at a new centre in Braunton and she asked if I’d like to come over and check the place out, have a massage, have a float.  And I said… well, what do you think I said?  

Actually what I said (about 15 years ago) was this.  Floating was developed in the 1950s by Dr John C Lilly, a medical doctor who was also trained as a psychoanalyst and a specialist in neurophysiology.  He found that floating helped people think better, learn more easily, concentrate more fully. Some said their creativity improved; others felt younger and healthier.  Some even claimed their sex lives rocketed.  Almost without exception, people insisted they felt much calmer and more relaxed.

This gives an idea but you float naked and in darkness

The almost complete sensory deprivation caused by floating seems to agree with both our bodies and minds.  Blood pressure and heart rate become lower and calmer while oxygen consumption improves.  People suffering chronic pain find that they can obtain relief, often not just for the hour or so they float but up to three days afterwards.  Floating seems to stimulate the body to produce endorphins, natural pain killers.  Meanwhile musicians, actors and writers frequently float because floating allows the right hemisphere of the brain to operate freely, allowing much more creativity, imagination and the ability to solve problems. 

One of its most successful applications is in the treatment of addictive behaviour:  overeating, smoking, drug-taking and alcoholism all respond remarkably well.  Phobias often clear up quickly and anxiety states frequently disappear altogether.

Apparently an hour’s float is the equivalent of four hour’s sleep. Oh, bring it on…(incidentally, the last four words I said last week – or rather I thought them).

If you’ve never tried it, really you should. And if you’re anywhere around North Devon or West Somerset then shake a leg over to Hands On (okay, that clause bothers me but never mind).  Their float room is lovely – with lights underneath and a star-spangled sky above. You simply shower, bung in some ear-plugs, lie back and then, when you’re ready, turn off the lights and…float.  And I did and it was fabulous. At first my neck hurt and my shoulders hurt and I realized just how tense I’d been.  So I let go, leaned back into the water and trusted it would hold me and do what it needed to do.  And it did.

As if that weren’t good enough, I also got myself massaged by Phil, who owns the place.  Now I’m not fussy about a lot of stuff in life.  Okay, so I have an apostrophe issue and I can’t bear jeans that aren’t long enough and bananas have to be blemish-free and just ever so slightly under-ripe and…oh, okay, so maybe I’m more pernickety than I thought. But when it comes to bodywork I seriously take no prisoners.  Back when I had a job I reviewed massage for a living (yeah yeah, jammy or what?) and I can tell the second someone puts their hands on me if they’re going to be good or not. Phil was good.  More than good.  Up there in my top five bodyworkers actually.  He’s trained in sports massage, ayurvedic massage and Reiki but there was all kinds of stuff going on and, yeah, at the end I had to resist biting his hand and going, ‘more, more, more.’

Sooo.  Bottom line.  Nice place.  Small, nothing to look at from the outside but bright as a pin inside and – if Phil and Jules are anything to go by – damn good therapists. They do all kinds of bodywork too (osteopathy, aromatherapy, reflexology etc) - and also hypnotherapy and medical herbalism. 

It’s about an hour’s drive from me but I’ll be back… in that, at the very least, I trust.  J