Page 18 of ReTreat Yourself

Then there’s something that seems very like we’re in the missionary position, so Oliver and I both feel the need to keep mouthing apologies as we look awkwardly at each other amid the eerie silence. A gentle ding rings out to indicate a change of position. Endless Cloud comes over to shove his shoulder into the back of my thigh, and then tells Oliver to do the same. With his big, firm hands round my waist, me on all fours, him pulling me back, me stretching out my hands to reach an unknown mystical force, then him flipping me over, I get the distinct impression that this is not yoga, this is definitely tantric sex.

‘Shanti, shanti, shanti,’ croons Endless Cloud melodiously as he drifts from couple to couple. The sweat is literally pouring off me but everyone else is gliding serenely about, this way and that. Next, we take turns lying down, Oliver between my legs an inch from my crotch, face up thankfully, his head cradled in my hands as I knead him like a loaf of bread. I keep getting wafts of his man scent which is very woody, clean-smelling and quite intoxicating.

Just as I think I’ve probably bathed in enough Dawn, we find ourselves flat on our backs buzzing gently to ourselves during Bees Breath, gradually getting louder until we are instructed to take our thumbs out of our ears and, just to rid the group of any last vestiges of dignity, we get back into our couples. Oliver and I find ourselves shyly reuniting to engage in what very much feels like doggy style, Reverse Cowgirl, and to finish off, the Butter Churner.

Never again. This is the last retreat I’ll ever go on. I really feel I’ve been mis-sold the experience.

Finally, we sit back in our circle to take the opportunity to be in the moment, listening to our breath, our bodies limp, all the tension in our shoulders and lives draining away.

It’s an enormous relief when it’s all over. Like me, Oliver seems mega-embarrassed.

‘Peace out,’ whispers Endless Cloud loudly enough for us all to hear. He bows, hands in prayer.

‘Peace out,’ we all say in response, mirroring his action.

Everyone turns to look at me with shocked expressions. Endless Cloud gives me a sad, disappointed look and floats off. Oliver leans over to me. ‘Seriously?’

I have no idea what he means.

He shakes his head. ‘You just told him to peace off.’

Oh God. I can’t do this. I simply can’t do it.

Thankfully, I’m pulled away to pursue no one’s favourite activity of ‘Tear Seeking’ which, I’m appalled to find out, is some form of communal crying.

The small group sit crossed-legged and before I can turn to leave, Gandalf gently puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me down to join them. Thank God Oliver is off elsewhere doing some Whispering Fingers thing as part of his Happy Bunny experience. Tear Seeking is the most hideous thing I’ve ever encountered, yet within minutes, I’m sobbing along with the rest of them, and Gandalf is rubbing light circles on my back to encourage me to let it all out.

‘Vat are you afraid of?’ Gandalf asks me, taking my palm and running his bony finger down the lines as though the answer is hidden somewhere in my veins.

‘Nothing.’

I’m a warrior. I fear nothing.

‘Look deeper. Into your soul.’

Christ Almighty.

‘I don’t know. Sharks?’

He looks annoyed. ‘Vat are you afraid of?’

You repeating this question over and over until we die.

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘I can’t read you. You are wery closed off. You are surrounded by purple. Eez no use… it vill take hours,’ he sighs, making a bridge with his fingers. ‘Probably seven or eight hours before you open.’

He smiles unexpectedly. ‘And ven you do, it vill be beautiful. You vill shine und you vill know yourself.’

We do a polite bow before he moves through the group, reading palms and stroking the air above people’s heads while I contemplate launching myself, missile-like, off the nearest cliff.

* * *

Our detox breakfast – a bowl of straw basically – is deeply unsatisfying and dry as sticks. So is the midday salad of leaves and celery. And the ‘Silent Dinner’ is such a disappointment that I am close to tears. The coffee we were promised turned out to be a caffeine enema.

The miserable silent faces around me dig around their plates to see if there’s any actual food hidden under the mossy lumps. It’s as far from me sipping margaritas around the pool as I envisioned this retreat would be. Then Endless Cloud appears holding a decanter and a large sign that says Surprise! and gets our hopes up, only to reveal the decanter is full of hot water with lemon slices, not the neat gin that it should be. It’s too much. I would kill for a glass of chilled Sauvignon right now.

A wave of resentment washes over me as I excuse myself from the table using mime.