Day 27 of London to Brighton training: In which I have
a massage and covet someone’s tea
I have had my first massage.
OK, this is not completely true. Once, some years ago, I had a massage in the Departure lounge of Belfast Airport. This was not from one of the massage stations you often see in such places now, we you sit in a sort of hybrid dentist and barber’s chair and have your neck and shoulders massaged for 10 minutes, but from something I have only seen there, for a brief period. Something I can only really describe as a massage coffin.
This rather strange contraption really does look like a coffin mounted on a stand, with a large hinged lid which pivots length-wise. When opened, a padded massage table is revealed, complete with cut-out for your face. The underside of the lid consists of a heavy rubber membrane or sheet and built into the lid itself are a number of movable, high-power water jets.
Can you see where this is going yet?
The machine is completely unattended, so you basically climb onto the table fully clothed, pop your coins in the slot and lower the lid onto yourself, which is a bizarre and rather claustrophobic experience. Once settled, you press the ‘start’ button and the water jet bombard your back, shoulders and neck with high pressure water, which of course strikes the rubber sheet, so you feel all of the pressure without the wetness.
A bit like learning not to wet the bed.
Controls allow you to direct the water, or leave it to the machine’s sadistic brain to decide which part of your anatomy to beat next but, by the time your pound coins have expired; you’re left with the distinct feeling of having been mugged, not least because wearing a suit and tie whilst having your body pounded makes one feel that the aim is less about relieving you of stress and more about relieving you of your wallet. Afterwards, I was left with a very strange feeling of being lightheaded, if not downright dizzy and the distinct feeling that massage was not for me. Over the years, a number of people have eulogised the benefits of massage and tried to convince me that my electric coffin experience was not truly representative and that I should try a ‘proper’ one, but I have resisted, not least because of a certain reluctance to be ‘touched’ by a stranger.
However, a combination of 30 seconds of massage during a class on a recent holiday, plus the forthcoming trip to Spa hotel to celebrate A’s birthday (which coincides with Valentine’s Day – a happy or unfortunate conjunction, depending on your point of view) led to me booking a massage not only for her, but in a fit of impulse, for myself. The hotel on the Cornish coast and was chosen in part for the opportunity it offered to do a nice walk along the cliffs, rather than long the roads of North London, and so the massage was booked for the Saturday afternoon, the plan being to go for a nice walk first, then enjoy the benefits of the massage afterwards.
Rather foul weather and a late night meant that our departure to Cornwall was delayed somewhat and travelling by train was not an option, as the flooding that the South West has suffered meant all lines to the area had been cut, so a long drive meant that we didn’t arrive as early as expected and the anticipated long walk along the cliffs was condensed to a far shorter walk along the beach. A longer walk may have been possible, but its start was delayed by the celebration of A’s birthday in the traditional way – with a cream tea.
Now, as anyone with so little to occupy them that they have been following these ramblings will know, I am gluten intolerant, so for me a cream tea is very much a spectator sport, and although I can safely say that most sports I have watched have never particularly left me with a burning desire to participate, observing a cream tea - particularly a Cornish one with 'proper' clotted cream - leaves me fully convinced that not only should I be an active participant but, with only a little practice, I could easily represent my country, should it make it into the next Olympics. As long as men do not compete against women, I may even win a medal. However, cream tea completed, a walk along the beautiful beach ensued, as a precursor to my first real massage.
I have to confess to some trepidation, to least because of the aforementioned uncertainty about being 'touched'. Don't get me wrong - I have no aversion to being touched per se, indeed I have been described as 'tactile', in a way that I like to take as a compliment (i.e. it wasn't by an industrial tribunal) but I was unsure about being touched by someone with whom the 'getting to know you' phase of our relationship consisted of completing a questionnaire about previous medical conditions, personal preferences and what I was looking to achieve from the massage. Perhaps this is why I have never been tempted to try speed dating? However, form completed, I was taken through to the massage room and left to prepare, which consisted of stripping down to my underwear (thanks Mum - the same good habits apply to massages as well as accidents) and lying face down on the table under a towel.
As with the electric coffin, the table had a cut-out for your face and I couldn't help thinking of those comical character stands that you find at theme parks and other venues, where you stand behind them, poke your head through the hole and have your picture taken as a pirate, or Tarzan, as Fred Flintstone or Marilyn Monroe. I have to confess, at that moment I think I'd have felt less out of place as Marilyn. The masseuse (therapist? Operative?) then joined me and began the process of removing 50 years of accumulated bad posture, stress, lack of exercise and social discomfort. She observed that I seemed really "tight" and had lots of "nodules". Apparently this is not good, something I was glad I realised before thanking her. The next 25 minutes basically consisted of her trying - unsuccessfully I fear - to remove these characteristics, whilst 'chatting'. In the space of those short minutes, I was treated to an potted life history. It transpired that she actually came from an area not far from where I live, so I was given the details of why and how she ended up there, where she lives, details of her relationship and plans, what he does for a living, hobbies and pastimes and aspirations for the future. I even learned about her caravan and the fact the roof leaks.
I may apply for a job at Guantanamo Bay, as it seems I have a really talent for extracting information.
Despite this being my first massage, I couldn't help feeling a strong sense of déjà vu during the experience and I puzzled over this as I lay there, when suddenly the realisation hit me. Having a massage is very much like having your hair cut: The same inane conversation. The same sharing of personal information. The same intimate yet completely asexual physical contact. The same smelly stuff that you would never buy for your home even if you lived with 867 cats. And finally, the same pretence that you're really happy with the result although the after effects of a massage last considerably less time. I was told that I really ought to "treat myself" to a massage at least every month and that the results would be cumulative, but in truth I was left thinking that, just as I have cut my own hair for many years now, I will resist the temptation to venture further into this particular therapy. The exception to this is that I have booked a massage for the day after the actual London to Brighton walk, although I consider this is less about indulging myself and more about ensuring I can actually move as far as the bathroom without crying.
The following day, feeling slightly refreshed from the massage and far more refreshed from a hotel breakfast - why is it that a hotel breakfast tastes so much better than the same food cooked yourself?- we ventured up the cliffs on a walk. If you’re not familiar with Cornwall, it has a beautiful coastline of cliffs surrounding small bays with sandy beaches and is famous for its surfing. The idea was to have a nice walk along the cliffs from the bay where our hotel was to the next one along; a walk the nice lady at reception declared was about an hour, which would leave us time to get some lunch and use the hotel spa before starting the long journey back to London.
They say that when you’re on holiday, time goes more slowly. Apparently, this also applies to the estimates of time given by locals.
We set off, heading down the steep path to the beach so we could cross to the other side and find the path that led up to the cliffs on the other side of the bay. There is something about walking across a beach that brings out the child in me; I want to throw skim stones, see how close I can get to the incoming waves before running backwards and see my footsteps filling up with water. I really need to go without a grown-up next time. Reaching the other side, we found the path that would take us up to the cliff-top, where we envisaged a nice stroll in the sunshine and fresh air to the next bay.
I have had my first massage.
OK, this is not completely true. Once, some years ago, I had a massage in the Departure lounge of Belfast Airport. This was not from one of the massage stations you often see in such places now, we you sit in a sort of hybrid dentist and barber’s chair and have your neck and shoulders massaged for 10 minutes, but from something I have only seen there, for a brief period. Something I can only really describe as a massage coffin.
This rather strange contraption really does look like a coffin mounted on a stand, with a large hinged lid which pivots length-wise. When opened, a padded massage table is revealed, complete with cut-out for your face. The underside of the lid consists of a heavy rubber membrane or sheet and built into the lid itself are a number of movable, high-power water jets.
Can you see where this is going yet?
The machine is completely unattended, so you basically climb onto the table fully clothed, pop your coins in the slot and lower the lid onto yourself, which is a bizarre and rather claustrophobic experience. Once settled, you press the ‘start’ button and the water jet bombard your back, shoulders and neck with high pressure water, which of course strikes the rubber sheet, so you feel all of the pressure without the wetness.
A bit like learning not to wet the bed.
Controls allow you to direct the water, or leave it to the machine’s sadistic brain to decide which part of your anatomy to beat next but, by the time your pound coins have expired; you’re left with the distinct feeling of having been mugged, not least because wearing a suit and tie whilst having your body pounded makes one feel that the aim is less about relieving you of stress and more about relieving you of your wallet. Afterwards, I was left with a very strange feeling of being lightheaded, if not downright dizzy and the distinct feeling that massage was not for me. Over the years, a number of people have eulogised the benefits of massage and tried to convince me that my electric coffin experience was not truly representative and that I should try a ‘proper’ one, but I have resisted, not least because of a certain reluctance to be ‘touched’ by a stranger.
However, a combination of 30 seconds of massage during a class on a recent holiday, plus the forthcoming trip to Spa hotel to celebrate A’s birthday (which coincides with Valentine’s Day – a happy or unfortunate conjunction, depending on your point of view) led to me booking a massage not only for her, but in a fit of impulse, for myself. The hotel on the Cornish coast and was chosen in part for the opportunity it offered to do a nice walk along the cliffs, rather than long the roads of North London, and so the massage was booked for the Saturday afternoon, the plan being to go for a nice walk first, then enjoy the benefits of the massage afterwards.
Rather foul weather and a late night meant that our departure to Cornwall was delayed somewhat and travelling by train was not an option, as the flooding that the South West has suffered meant all lines to the area had been cut, so a long drive meant that we didn’t arrive as early as expected and the anticipated long walk along the cliffs was condensed to a far shorter walk along the beach. A longer walk may have been possible, but its start was delayed by the celebration of A’s birthday in the traditional way – with a cream tea.
Now, as anyone with so little to occupy them that they have been following these ramblings will know, I am gluten intolerant, so for me a cream tea is very much a spectator sport, and although I can safely say that most sports I have watched have never particularly left me with a burning desire to participate, observing a cream tea - particularly a Cornish one with 'proper' clotted cream - leaves me fully convinced that not only should I be an active participant but, with only a little practice, I could easily represent my country, should it make it into the next Olympics. As long as men do not compete against women, I may even win a medal. However, cream tea completed, a walk along the beautiful beach ensued, as a precursor to my first real massage.
I have to confess to some trepidation, to least because of the aforementioned uncertainty about being 'touched'. Don't get me wrong - I have no aversion to being touched per se, indeed I have been described as 'tactile', in a way that I like to take as a compliment (i.e. it wasn't by an industrial tribunal) but I was unsure about being touched by someone with whom the 'getting to know you' phase of our relationship consisted of completing a questionnaire about previous medical conditions, personal preferences and what I was looking to achieve from the massage. Perhaps this is why I have never been tempted to try speed dating? However, form completed, I was taken through to the massage room and left to prepare, which consisted of stripping down to my underwear (thanks Mum - the same good habits apply to massages as well as accidents) and lying face down on the table under a towel.
As with the electric coffin, the table had a cut-out for your face and I couldn't help thinking of those comical character stands that you find at theme parks and other venues, where you stand behind them, poke your head through the hole and have your picture taken as a pirate, or Tarzan, as Fred Flintstone or Marilyn Monroe. I have to confess, at that moment I think I'd have felt less out of place as Marilyn. The masseuse (therapist? Operative?) then joined me and began the process of removing 50 years of accumulated bad posture, stress, lack of exercise and social discomfort. She observed that I seemed really "tight" and had lots of "nodules". Apparently this is not good, something I was glad I realised before thanking her. The next 25 minutes basically consisted of her trying - unsuccessfully I fear - to remove these characteristics, whilst 'chatting'. In the space of those short minutes, I was treated to an potted life history. It transpired that she actually came from an area not far from where I live, so I was given the details of why and how she ended up there, where she lives, details of her relationship and plans, what he does for a living, hobbies and pastimes and aspirations for the future. I even learned about her caravan and the fact the roof leaks.
I may apply for a job at Guantanamo Bay, as it seems I have a really talent for extracting information.
Despite this being my first massage, I couldn't help feeling a strong sense of déjà vu during the experience and I puzzled over this as I lay there, when suddenly the realisation hit me. Having a massage is very much like having your hair cut: The same inane conversation. The same sharing of personal information. The same intimate yet completely asexual physical contact. The same smelly stuff that you would never buy for your home even if you lived with 867 cats. And finally, the same pretence that you're really happy with the result although the after effects of a massage last considerably less time. I was told that I really ought to "treat myself" to a massage at least every month and that the results would be cumulative, but in truth I was left thinking that, just as I have cut my own hair for many years now, I will resist the temptation to venture further into this particular therapy. The exception to this is that I have booked a massage for the day after the actual London to Brighton walk, although I consider this is less about indulging myself and more about ensuring I can actually move as far as the bathroom without crying.
The following day, feeling slightly refreshed from the massage and far more refreshed from a hotel breakfast - why is it that a hotel breakfast tastes so much better than the same food cooked yourself?- we ventured up the cliffs on a walk. If you’re not familiar with Cornwall, it has a beautiful coastline of cliffs surrounding small bays with sandy beaches and is famous for its surfing. The idea was to have a nice walk along the cliffs from the bay where our hotel was to the next one along; a walk the nice lady at reception declared was about an hour, which would leave us time to get some lunch and use the hotel spa before starting the long journey back to London.
They say that when you’re on holiday, time goes more slowly. Apparently, this also applies to the estimates of time given by locals.
We set off, heading down the steep path to the beach so we could cross to the other side and find the path that led up to the cliffs on the other side of the bay. There is something about walking across a beach that brings out the child in me; I want to throw skim stones, see how close I can get to the incoming waves before running backwards and see my footsteps filling up with water. I really need to go without a grown-up next time. Reaching the other side, we found the path that would take us up to the cliff-top, where we envisaged a nice stroll in the sunshine and fresh air to the next bay.
Now, the thing about cliffs is that
from the seaward side they can look imposing and huge. From the landward side, this is not always as
obvious initially, but oh boy, did it become clear quickly. Almost immediately, we were presented with
steps cut into the hillside. Now, as a veteran
of the staircase at Covent Garden Tube Station, I consider myself the equal of
staircases. After all, if I can vanquish
the winding monstrosity that is Covent Garden, surely this could hold no new
terrors.
Well, that’s what I thought. However, within a few minutes, I discovered
that Covent Garden is to staircases what Boxercise (no, I haven’t tried that
yet) is to Cage Fighting (and no, I haven’t tried that yet either. Who am I kidding? “Yet”? Yeah, right).
The tube steps may be winding, but they’re consistent – each the same
distance and height from its neighbours.
Not so here. Each step was a
different height. Each could be nearer
or further from the next. Each could be covered with mud, or loose stones, or
slippery grass, or a combination of all of the above and all of which seemed possessed
by the malevolent spirit of some tourist-hating ghost, determined to pitch one,
if not actually into the sea far below, then certainly into an undignified
heap.
The views are magnificent. Allegedly.
It’s hard to be definitive about this, when one is staring fixedly at
your feet and trying so very hard to breathe effectively, yet not so loudly as
to scare the local wildlife – or inflame the malevolent spirit. I know now how one of the figures in an Escher
picture feels.
The walk in total was only some
five miles, but the elevation changes, terrain and conditions underfoot made it
feel a lot more. Given that much of the
London to Brighton challenge is off-road and I am aware that, not far from the
finish I will have to scale the Sussex Downs, this was probably good training,
although the prospect of such a climb after walking 50 miles is rather
daunting.
We finally made it back to the hotel and after indulging in
the spa facilities of a Jacuzzi, sauna and steam, we headed back to
London. 300 miles for a single night is
probably madness, but it’s worth it, as I discovered inner resources and
strength that I really didn’t know I had.
I REALLY wanted one of those Scones, but I resisted.
You don’t know what you can do until you try.
If you’ve enjoyed this post, please feel free to show your
appreciation by sponsoring me. I’m doing
this walk for Macmillan Cancer Care, a charity that is dear to my heart as I
have personal experience of the work they do.
You can find a link to my sponsorship page here: http://www.justgiving.com/Richard-Stanton2
- Thank you.I REALLY wanted one of those Scones, but I resisted.
You don’t know what you can do until you try.
For some annoying reason, the bulk of the blog post is white text in a white box...it's a bit like reading the sub-titles in LA STRADA, where they set the white sub-titles against a beach.
ReplyDeleteI recall the water machine. Still makes me laugh.