A partial hand massage and a shared dressing gown

So Adrian won an award from the Czech Tourist Board, in thanks for his tireless and perfectly selfless tasting and promoting of Czech lager (well, that’s the way I see it).  ‘It’s a three night stay for two people,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be good to show you Prague.’

‘Hmm,’ I said. I had a fair idea of what “showing me Prague” would entail  - I could probably recite a list of all the apparently incredible bars along with their signature beers in my sleep.

‘No,’ he said, all hurt. ‘I wouldn’t just drag you round bars. I could show you…’ He paused. ‘Umm…the river!  I could show you the river.  And the castle. And there’s a great bridge.’  Hmm. But I’ve got a river and a bridge here…and a hillfort. But then again, everyone says Prague is lovely so...

Anyhow.  A few weeks later he appeared at my office door with a piece of paper and a puzzled look on his face.

‘What’s that?’  Suspecting a bill or a court summons.

‘Er, it’s confirmation of our trip.’  He did look very odd indeed. Perfectly perplexed.

‘Is everything alright?’

‘Er, yes.  It’s just…we’re not staying in Prague.  They’ve booked us into this place in Podebrady.  It’s…a spa hotel.’

Kerching!  I suppressed the little victory dance that was playing out in my head and snatched the letter.  And laughed my tits off.  Not only were they sending us to a spa, they were sending us for a ‘Wine Relaxation Stay’.  Given Adrian writes about beer and generally turns his exceedingly sensitive nose up at wine, there was a blissful irony to it.

I read on. 

Not only do we get a “welcome drink of 2dcl of delicious wine with you first dinner” (sic), we also get “grapes in the room on arrival.”  Followed by “1 x relaxation wine bath with wrap, 1 x classic partial Hand massage with grape oil, 1 x HydroJet (massage water bed)” (sic).  By now I was wheezing with amusement.

‘A partial hand massage?' I said. 'What the hell’s that?  Are they only going to massage part of our hands?’

‘Sounds like…’

‘No. Don’t go there.’

‘Fair enough.  I’m not having a wine bath though.  And I’m not too sure about the massage either.’

‘That's okay. I’ll have yours.  You can go out and find bars.’

His face brightened.

And then it dawned on me. This will be the first time I have ever been to a spa with someone. Ever.  I always go alone.  And then I thought again.  And breathed a deep sigh of relief that there’s no detoxing involved. 

“We wish you a nice stay and a lot of unforgettable memories!” trilled the letter, before adding: “A dressing gown is available during the stay.”

So, there you have it.  Adrian and I flying off to the Czech Republic tomorrow for a regime of wine and bathing.  A partial hand massage. And a shared dressing gown. Bottoms up! 

Blissful beauty in Bampton

So the phone rang and, to my utter amazement, I picked it up.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello, stranger.’

My friend Nicky. My cohort in extreme exercise crime. Except since cracking myself on the nose I haven’t seen her for…weeks.

‘I’ve left you tons of messages,’ she said. I glanced at the ansaphone and winced. Thirteen messages? Eek.

‘Shit. Sorry.  Er, wanna coffee?’ I said and we both laughed cos we don’t ‘do’ coffee. We usually ‘do’ three hours of Zumba or killer Pilates with weights and wotnot. Come to think of it, I don’t even drink coffee but hey…

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘But let’s go to Bampton.’

So we went to Bampton.  Lo and behold a parking space right outside my mum’s old house. Sigh.

And we toddled over the road into Toucan, which is this really nice café/bistro on Front Street.  When Mum was alive it was her second home – she loved the place.  So Nicky and I shot the breeze and then she said, ‘Come and have a look at this…’ And she pulled me up the stairs. 

Huh? She wanted me to go to the loo?  But it seems that Toucan has a brand new beauty room, all beautifully clean and fresh and kitted out in tones of cool grey and zingy lime.  Soft music playing - Rumer.  Aromatherapy candle burning - possibly fig. 

Well, blow me down with a feather - it turns out that Nicky’s daughter, Charlotte Richards, is setting up shop as a beauty therapist here.  Now this is seriously good news if you live in or around Bampton.  Cos Charlotte is good, damn good. Actually more than damn good.  She doesn’t do healing and wotnot but if you want really professional, effective beauty treatments, she’s your girl.  I used to visit her a lot while she was training and she’s a total natural.  Firm assured touch, lovely manner and she doesn’t feed you any bullshit.  Yes, she’s young but don’t let that put you off – it means her training is up to the minute and she’s fresh and enthusiastic.  And, to be honest, she’s way better than the majority of people who’ve been doing it for years. 

What can I recommend?  Well, all of it really.  She uses Dermalogica products which are pretty nice. Not my absolute favourite but still...they ain't half bad.  She’s given me lots of facials and they were all really good. Her body massages are divine. Pedicures and manicures are the business.  Eyelash and eyebrow tinting?  Yup. And the girl’s a whizz with the wax.  Let it be said – very clearly – she was NOT the one responsible for the butchered badger – no sirree. She does a very neat bikini line - and makes you laugh at the same time, which is no mean feat. 

Anyhow…check it out.  Book yourself a treat or buy a voucher for a friend. Go see her and say hello from me.  She doesn’t know I’ve posted this so hopefully it will come as a nice surprise. J

Brook Street Studios, Toucan Café, Brook Street, Bampton, EX16 9LY

01398 331777  www.toucanrestaurant.co.uk/

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/

Heaven in Somerset...

I’ve been pretty spoiled over the years. Having worked as a health and beauty journalist (mainly for the Mail and the Telegraph) for decades I've been pampered every which way. I’ve had all manner of facials in all kinds of fancy spas and top-notch hotels.  And, I have to be honest, most of them really weren’t that special. Given the choice between a facial and a massage, I’d generally choose the massage every time. I mean, there’s only so much can be done with a facial, right?  You get your skin cleansed and exfoliated, they slap on serum, chuck on a mask (or ‘masque’), maybe zap a few blackheads, massage in a bit of moisturiser…you know the score.  Or you get wired up and have currents shoved through your skin or whatever.  And yes, often your skin looks a fair bit better but it’s just not…terribly satisfying really. 

In fact, the only facial that really rocked my boat over the years was the treatment (no way can I call it a mere facial) I had from Annee de Mamiel. Now, even if I could afford Annee (which, needless to say, I can't) her waiting list is longer than the phone directory. However…oh yes… I have discovered something and someone rather special, right here in Somerset.

I came across Nicki Hughes on Twitter. Then we met for a coffee in Taunton and I liked her. She seemed like a pretty smart businesswoman with a fair dollop of soul (instead of expanding her salon business and becoming effectively a suit, she decided to pull it back and keep herself hands on with a small beauty and therapy centre based at her home in Curry Rivel, near Langport.)

Anyhow, to cut a long story short, she offered me a facial and, looking at myself in the mirror I figured it would probably be a blessing.  I expected something nice, something functional and professional. What I didn’t expect was to be blown sideways.

She was raving about Repêchage, a US skincare system that relies heavily on…er…seaweed.  Now seaweed is all well and good, and packed with great stuff (vitamins, minerals, trace elements, amino acids, antioxidants) but it’s never really rocked my boat. ‘Nooo,’ said Nicki as we sat on the sofa in the rather bijoux treatment centre (oak floors, marble coffee table and delicious graphic paintings from Thailand).  ‘You’ll love this. They extract the seaweed in a particular way, cryo-crushing it…’

Cryowhatting it? 

‘They spin it in a centrifuge. And seaweed is wonderful because it has a very similar molecular structure to that of the skin, so the body absolutely drinks it up.’

Fair enough.  Anyhow, she got me to fill in a questionnaire and laughed out loud when my answer to ‘How do you relax?’ was ‘Twitter’.  Then she took a good look at my skin and pondered. Turns out Nicki prefers it if people don’t come in wanting a particular facial; she likes to advise and come to an agreement about which would be best. Oh hallelujah! At last! The one thing that really puzzles me is when you go to a spa and are presented with this list of treatments a mile long and are expected to choose.  It’s like a surgeon saying, ‘Look, here’s a list of all the ops I do – go on, you pick the procedure.’ You go to an expert because they’re an expert, right?  Garn, it’s a no-brainer surely?  So she said it was a toss-up between the Four Layer facial which chucks a shedload of moisture back in the skin or the VC5 which is all about firming and toning. 

‘Can I have both?’ I said.

‘Nope,’ she said. And so I went for the VC5 because it sounded suitably technical.

Her therapy room is huge, light and airy, and overlooks the garden. Had a brief love-in with  Bob the dog (soppy hairy cross between a collie and an arctic wolf) before he wandered back out.  Oohed and aahed over Nicki’s singing bowls and insisted on a quick blast - tingles right down the spine. Then stripped off my top layers (many) down to my bra and snuggled under the blankets on the most comfortable couch ever. Why don’t all places have couches that actually hold you without putting your back into spasm?

What happened after that?  Ummm…  Errr…..  Aaaahhhh….   I am usually really really good at remembering all the various stages and steps but not this time.  Cos this wasn’t just a facial; this was healing…serious full-on healing combined with a beautiful, assured touch and gentle caring.  I tell you, the woman is magic, sheer magic.  Most therapists will pop on the mask or whatever and go off, leaving you twiddling your thumbs and listening to the monotonous sub-Enya musak. Nicki never left the table.  I had my head massaged, my arms massaged, my neck de-stressed.  And at the mask bit, she darn well did Reiki on me.  Time just…vanished. 

‘That was…just…ummm…wow,’ I said afterwards.  Actually I think I just mumbled incoherently. Really, I’d lost the power of speech.  

‘Do you do that stuff on everyone?’ I asked. Eventually…I’m editing out a lot of umms and aaahhs here.

‘Yes, but I don’t always talk about it. Some clients don’t really want to know. They just think they’re getting a straightforward facial and that’s fine. 

Did my skin look different?  Not particularly but then Nicky hadn’t promised any miracles. It felt good though – clean and (it might be wishful thinking but) firmer.

I drove home on auto-pilot, so chilled that even the truck pulling out on me as I was overtaking on the M5 didn’t really faze me.  But, once home, I just sort of collapsed into a heap.  It felt like someone had taken a whole pile of crap out of me and dumped it in the bin.  Try as I might I couldn’t keep awake so I threw myself into the bath (with a handful of Repêchage Sea Spa salts).  And then I crawled into bed and…slept.  Deeply, blissfully, refreshingly.  Woke feeling like a whole new person.  And then I looked in the mirror and wow, I looked like a whole new person too. My skin looked clear and almost..glowing.  And so so soft. 

I know this sounds like a total puff but, believe me, I don’t rave about stuff unless it’s really really good.  I’ve got myself into all kinds of trouble with my honesty before but I’m not about to change. If I like something, I say so. If I don’t, I say so (or just keep my mouth shut). But I wholeheartedly recommend Nicki and, if you live within driving distance of Taunton (she’s roughly 15 mins away from the town) I would seriously suggest you get yourself booked in.  She doesn’t just do facials either… I’m eyeing up the massage menu and am intrigued by the idea of Theta DNA healing too.  Plus you can get all the usual beauty malarkey – waxing, tinting, electrolysis etc. Go on – check it out.

Wayside House, Curry Rivel, Somerset. 

Meanwhile I’m checking out the Repêchage range of skincare at home. So far, so good. Find out more (and find a list of local spas/salons using the range) here.

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

Teaching steam room meditation to Americans

There are times when I truly love my job. I’m typing this, swathed in a fluffy white robe, at the antique desk in my suite at the Royal Crescent Hotel in Bath.
I pitched up yesterday, rather hot and more than a little wet and windswept, pulling my M&S case behind me like a reluctant terrier.
‘Do you have a car, madam?’
‘Nope, just me.’ Smiling brightly and wiping a line of perspiration off my forehead.
‘Just the one case?’
‘I'm detoxing.’
Not sure he got that one.

If you’re going to detox you may as well do it somewhere nice and the Royal Crescent is nice, very nice. Location? Couldn’t be more gorgeous if it tried. Style? Trades on its neo-Classical good looks to the extreme with that rather grand yet extremely comfy English country house look: big squashy sofas, swathed four posters, antiques hanging around louchely as if they were just any old IKEA job-lot. I was expecting a nice room but I wasn’t expecting an entire suite, complete with a chandelier, fireplace (working) and a massive Joshua Reynolds (yes, the real mccoy) on the wall. Seriously you could fit the average modern house into this and have room to spare.

It’s a bit weird though, staying in a hotel prized for its food and wine and not being able to eat or drink it. I reckon it would have been kind to have removed the wine list and the menu from the welcome pack and though my view out the front looks over a nicely healthy green to the hills beyond, from the bedroom I can watch the diners trip-trap in and out of The Dower House restaurant. Still. I have my tree syrup and lemon juice flask and, weirdly, wonderfully, I haven’t been hungry since I got here (and we’re talking well over 24 hours now).

The spa is a good ‘un. It’s small and down-to-earth and the therapists know what they’re doing and clearly enjoy their work. The actual workhouse part of the spa is earthy and organic, with rough slate floors and dim lights – very kind to the less than svelte. Actually, it was a huge relief to find that the clientele at the Bath House are not size zero supermodels but nicely solid, chunky forty-pluses on the whole, serenely swimming up and down the very warm pool.

It’s pretty evenly mixed between men and women too. I plunged into the steam room to find someone, a male someone, already sitting there. Now it’s OK if there are several people, and it’s OK if you’re the only one – but just two of you is always a bit uneasy. I tend to keep schtum other than a polite nod and sat down opposite, tucking one leg up underneath. After a few minutes I realised this was a very uncomfortable position and swung my leg up and into a half-lotus (nothing smart about it, just always been able to do it and find it comfortable).
‘Aha,’ said my steam-mate who, judging by his accent was American.
‘So you’re meditating? Good idea.’
And he promptly swung up his legs and placed his hands on his knees and started breathing deeply.
Dear God. So, we sat like that for what seemed like forever. Him meditating; me pretending I was meditating and wondering how long a decent steam session meditation might take.
Finally he got up.
‘Thank you so much,’ he said. ‘I never realised that was what you’re supposed to do.’
He’ll probably go back to LA and set up sauna meditation (though they probably already do it).

I went off for my reflexology session with a lovely woman called Pam who told me that my liver was ‘stressed’ and that I had problems with my ears, bladder and immune system. ‘Good job you’re having a detox,’ she said sympathetically.

I slept for a straight twelve hours and then spent a couple of hours being scrubbed and hosed and then massaged by the fab Fran, who has the wonderful nack of knowing when to chatter inanely (when your boobs are being swept hither and thither by a strong shower jet) and when to be silent (when you’re being soothed into slumber).

I love nothing more than a massage but I do wish someone would invent a massage table that not only has a hole for your face but also a couple for your boobs and hey, maybe one for the stomach too.
I shared this thought with Fran and she burst out laughing.
‘Actually that’s a really horrible idea, isn’t it?’ I said, imagining my tits hanging down under the table like udders.

So now I’m back in my room(s) and, though I suppose I should be catching up on emails and so on, the bed is calling and, hey, it would be plain rude not to make the most of it, wouldn’t it?