Becky Bond Writes
Spa Retreat
My View - Wednesday 13th October 2019
I’m not normally one for spa retreats, but two weekends on the trot I’ve found myself floating in a hot tub, wondering why on earth I hadn’t made more time for this sort of thing before.
The first one was in a luxury hotel in North Yorkshire for my friend Jane’s 50th. She’d suggested it might be a better use of money for us to enjoy four hours of pampering and afternoon tea instead of teetering around Leeds in heels in the rain on a Saturday night. She was absolutely right. I don’t think I’ve enjoyed myself in a robe and slippers that much, ever.
We basically tried every experience included in the package – from the juniper log sauna and rosemary steam room to a sun sensation which mimics a beach in Barbados. We devoured itty bitty battenburgs in the café and sipped pink prosecco in the outdoor hydrotherapy infinity pool as red kites circled above. The only thing we didn’t do was the group rasul mud treatment, as none of us fancied rubbing each others buttocks with slippery clay.
While a few of them giggled on heated beds in the silent Escape zone, I had a skin consultation. It was nothing like your standard 1990's department store affair, where they ask if you use sun cream, slide some faders along and then tell you to buy the yellow moisturiser. This involved 3D photographs of every crater of my face and it transpired there wasn’t one area which didn’t need repairing. After much discussion about cleansing and toning routines though, I politely chose to stick to my usual drill of a splash of bath water and a dollop of Nivea.
After four hours, my mind, body and soul were fully realigned and now I don’t want to dine anywhere unless I can do so in my slippers and dressing gown, following a bubbly dip. So when it came to our half term break with the teenagers, I was suddenly more enthusiastic about three nights in a caravan after our host texted to say he’d just had a new hot tub installed.
This hot tub was a million miles away from the previous weekend’s upper crust extravaganza. It had multi-coloured lights, an iPod dock and high enough PH levels to rot your tankini upon entrance. It might have been a coincidence, but I developed a stye on that holiday and my moles are still itching. Nonetheless, after a bracing walk on the Northumberland coast, it seemed inviting. I even managed to drag the husband in, who unleashed his inner chav by cracking open a can as the sun set.
Would I want a hot tub at home though? No. I think the joy of a Jacuzzi lies in its location and the fact that you’re away from normal life. If I had one in my back yard, the vibe would be ruined by the neighbour’s scaffolding and I’d worry the cat might climb in.
