Have a spa weekend - final chapter - Do I Recommend It for the Never Too Late List?

As mentioned in an earlier post, my stay at Ragdale Hall (www.ragdalehall.co.uk) was mid-week rather than a weekend, but the principle remains the same, is a couple of days away at a spa worth it?

It is not a cheap break, despite the Take a Friend for Free package because by the time you have added in extra treatments and hit the boutique with your flexible plastic friend, you can be left with a bill that you feel you need to double-check, just to be sure your room account didn't get hacked. That said, if you just take the inclusive treatments, don't have wine at dinner (yep, we did that too) and avert your eyes from anything glamourous or glimmering in the all-too-accessible shops, then it is possible to get quite a lot from a little.  The thermal spa can be used as much as you like, ditto the pool, ditto the gym, ditto classes and various lounge areas.  The car parking is also free.

I like being around water, I like beauty treatments and I like the fact that Ragdale is fairly well on the doorstep - less than an hour away from where I live (if you don't get lost, like I did).  What I was not convinced about was that in only two half and one full day away I could be persuaded to leave all my worries and stresses behind me and just live for the moment.  It did take me quite a while to unwind.  The first day I was still in business-mode and I went to bed that night still with work on the brain and dreamt of falling buildings and dark corridors.  But after my early swim on day 2, after my detox-breakfast (though I hate to say it) and as I sat waiting for my Balinese massage, I realised I had left my phone in the bedroom.  I smiled at this. 

By the afternoon of day 2, I was already 40 pages into my book and contemplating what was on the menu for dinner.  Day 2 night I slept long and well.  Sitting in the Rose Sauna (again) on day 3 morning, I did not want to go home.  So, would I recommend it for my Never Too Late List.  I suppose I would. :-)

Going back again.  Soon, I  hope.

Have a spa weekend - chapter 8

The most wonderful part of Ragdale Hall, at least from my perspective, is the Thermal Spa.  Newly commissioned just before my last visit four years ago, just pushing open the door and hearing the first gentle sounds of running water makes my shoulders relax and the first soft sensations of relaxation begin to percolate up through my toes and quietly diffuse through the rest of my body.  I am sorry to say, in a nice way, that not all one's decision making capacity can be left at the door.  But the kinds of decision you will make in this little microcosm of tranquility and peace are the sorts that most of us are happy with. Decisions such as 'shall I start with the candle lit pool today?'  Visiting the spa for a second time does make a difference because it all starts to feel a little familiar and one can start to develop a routine of sound, colour and olfactory sensations which suit ones particular mood.  Being naturally drawn by water I nearly always begin in the candle pool. 

Leaving my robe on a peg at the door, there are a few gentle steps spiralling downwards into the water; warm, inviting and hip-deep.  Turning the corner as you decend there is the first flicker of candles lit against the gloom and the soft strains of classical music.  Emerging into the centre of the pool, you wonder perhaps if this isn't exactly the kind of place that Aphrodite may have felt at home in on a spa break from Mount Olympus.  So channelling my own internal goddess I settled my head back against one of the conveniently supplied pillow supports and thought about love, beauty and pleasure.

Being one for contrasts, I follow my dip in the candle pool with a drenching, or two or three, under the storm shower.  I know it is only pretend and that only ten feel away are rattan chairs and fluffy towels, but if you turn your back, hit the correct button on the wall and concentrate, for ten or fifteen seconds it's just about possible to believe you are caught in a storm on some tropical island somewhere near the equator. The 'rain' falls hard, drenching you immediately and then the sounds of thunder and flashes of lightening begin.  It really is exhilarating.  I love it.  Maybe it connects with our ancestoral and primeavil awe of the elements and our intrinsic draw to them.  Maybe I just like getting wet.  Whichever, or both, I recommend it.

Having started in the candle pool, had my exhilerating fill of the storm shower, contemplated life in the volcanic salt  bath and allowed the scented room to melt away those final thoughts of life in the outwide world, I sort of pour myself into the Rose Sauna.  Flipping the timer I settle myself on the upper level, gaze out of the triple-glazed window into one of the Hall's gardens and allow the heat to settle in, around and upon me.  Slowly I feel my pores open and the sweat begins to leave trails of moisture across my skin.  I feel my scalp contract and the unusual sensation of hot air prickling my lungs. My ordinary life seems a very, very, long way away now.  And for those moments, I am truly at peace.

Have a spa weekend - chapter 7

My trump card, post breakfast, was knowing the Veranda Bar at Ragdale Hall sold some rather naughty-but-nice treats to which I full intended to introduce myself once my holier-than-thou detox-breakfast had worn off. Which wasn't, I decided, going to take long.  My second treatment of the stay at Ragdale was a Balinese massage.  Four years previously on my last visit I had just returned from a weekend at Friday Island in the Cotsolds.  I'd been at Friday Island because I had been shortlisted for the third team member to join James Cracknell and Ben Fogle in their efforts to win a race going out to the South Pole.  A documentary of the race, called On Thin Ice, had been shown on BBC2 in June and July 2009.  Having been short-listed I had spent 48 hours being put through my paces by the Marines. I did not get selected, a brill young medic called Ed did, but I had survived, and my body was suffering the consequences of almost no sleep and serious physical and mental stress.  I had selected the sports massage then, had been administered to by a very professional and effective young male masseur whose name I now don't recollect, but who had used his body weight at various points to get some serious deep stretches in.  I had been single for quite some time at that point, and so the proximity of such a nice young man was doubly welcome.  Just so you know, I am not single now, and so would not enjoy it anywhere near as much.  Honestly.

This time I could not get a sports massage, it was all booked out, so I opted for the Balinese on the basis that in terms of sado-masochistic enjoyment, it was probably next down the line.  One thing you learn when you have played sport at a reasonable level, is that all this strokey, playing-at-massage stuff just doesn't hit the spot.  In my experience, too many masseurs go through a set routine which they have been taught without really understanding what they are doing.  And I wasn't going to pay eight-two quid for that.  I wanted some serious umph.

One of the lovely things about Ragdale Hall is that the whole environment is conducive to relaxing.  You wander down to the treatment area five or ten minutes before your due time and settle into some cosy armchair or sofa and wait for your name to be called.  Most inclusive treatments last about 25 minutes and so on the hour or half hour there is this this gentle stream of therapists who appear, all gorgeous and well-turned out, and who quietly call your name (Mrs this, Miss that, Mr the other - so nice to have some old-fashioned curteousy), shake your hand and take you off to some beautifully scented room.  My masseuse was a little older than the others, had the most amazing white blond hair held back in a pony tail (not natural, but hey, I'm nearly 49, not everything is natural anymore) and.....could talk for England.  One good thing about getting to middle-middle age, is that you know how to switch off. Which I did.

My masseuse had never been to Bali, which I was rather disappointed by, and she did rather front-load her sales pitch. In fact the whole first ten minutes could have been cut down to two or three, easily.  But she was quite right in observing that my road to relaxation was still yet to be completely travelled.  My mistake was in confiding the fact that at the European Masters Swim Championships in Ukraine last September I had opted for a session with the Russian team masseur, on the basis that the British one was too busy, and had had perhaps the most excruciating 30 minutes of my life.  I like to think it was a language problem perhaps or maybe the cultural barrier but looking back, the Russian woman (Russian man? It was difficult to judge) masseur had seemed to enjoy every moment.  At one point I had resorted to biting my towel and was convinved she was about to rip out my shoulder blade at another. But that steely British resolve kicked in and kept me there, nodding mutely each time she asked me if I was OK. At least that's what I think she was saying. She may have mistaken me for a member of British Intelligence and was just doing her job, that is, attempting to put me out of action.  Whatever her motivations, the memories had not yet faded and my Ragdale masseuse looked just a little bit too much like her.             

Have a spa weekend - chapter 6

The sound of birdsong woke me early Wednesday morning and the gentle filtering of light through the curtains gave me at least some idea of what time it might be.  It was early though, my alarm had not yet gone off and there was no sound of activity either in the garden outside or in the corridor  I laid there for a moment, enjoying the crispness of clean sheets and mussed on whether to get up and in the pool.  The idea of a whole day off was really quite a novelty. Breakfast was not scheduled til eight so with a carpe diem moment I peeled the covers back, grabbed my swim stuff and was out of the door before my brain could kick in and convince me that another hour in bed was what I really wanted.

The hall was quiet, few early risers and only a handful of staff going about their business.  I strolled down the corridor, down the stairs, through the central lobby and into the pool changing rooms.  I had forgotten how lovely it is to be up and about early when the day is starting, the sun is shining and the air is still and full of possibilities.  Fifty lengths of the pool later, I was ready for my breakfast.  Suddenly the pre-ordered light-weight detox option was feeling like a mistake.       

I had pre-ordered my breakfast the previous afternoon - as all guests are obliged to do - and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Spa break equals healthy eating equals vigour, energy and weight loss.  My skin would glow, my brain would spark, I would be a new woman. But as I sat the table in my room contemplating the green tea, fruit quinao and oat smoothy on the tray infront of me I suffered a serious bout of doubt.  My companion picked up her croissant, took a sip of coffee.....and smirked.   

Have a spa weekend - chapter 4

Having wandered into dangerous territory in my previous post by questioning why so many of those that populate spas are women and how come they can afford it both in terms of money and time, I shall stick with what I do know. How did I find my spa break and was it worth it?  Having arrived on Tuesday afternoon, later than expected and feeling slightly stressed from taking time away from work and study, I had no real confidence that merely two half days with a full day between would unwind me sufficiently well.  My bags were whisked away by the porter as I was welcomed on my 'return'.  They knew the name of my companion without prompting and advised me that she had already arrived.  I felt some grudging respect begin to build.  Grudging, because as I said, I fully expected to leave as stressed as I had arrived.  My mind was still on business, my email still being checked, my iphone whisked out at the sound of a text coming in.  I sat and drummed my finger tips on the table in the café as my complimentary latte arrived and I was taken through the arrival details and the programme for my stay.  It was four o'clock in the afternoon and I was thinking about what I should really be doing.  Important work. Work which really shouldn't wait.  As soon as politely possible, I made my excuses, checked my programme and wondered what I might do with the hour I had to kill before my first treatment.  I found my room (cases already delivered, lovely view of the garden and countryside, interesting herbal teas) and spent a few minutes studying the map of Ragdale World. As mentioned before, this time I would not be found aimlessly wandering the corridors, only to be gently rotated and pointed in the right direction by some helpful member of staff that recognised the rising panic in my eyes.

An hour later, post scalp massage, I was to be found curled into a ball on the sofa in the colonial room.  Muttering quietly to myself.  My scalp tingled, the smell of essential oils was gently but persuasively permeating my senses and I was fighting the desperate desire to drift away into sleep.  Relax.  Chill out. No way.  I was determined to fight it all the way.