One evening recently, walking through a quiet London square, I heard a mysterious clacking sound — not loud, but distinctive — click-clack, click-clack. I couldn’t figure out what it was. And then it hit me: it was the sound of my thighs slapping against one another.
I realised how I’d got to this point: six months ago I’d started working in an office again. Although I was going to the gym regularly and avoiding pasta, fry-ups and the like, I also walked less, drank more wine and succumbed to vending machines. Ten pounds crept on and would not shift despite sporadic dieting.
Why do I lack the discipline to master the simple formula — eat less, move more — on which all weight loss depends? I’ve never had much willpower. The only thing that works for me is illness — a nasty bout of food poisoning in Egypt and, again, six years later in India. But, even in desperation, I cannot bring myself to fly off in search of amoebic dysentery. I consider a place in Portugal that would feed me vegetable juice for a fortnight, or a “resort ” in India offering starvation. I want somewhere less exotic, easier to escape — which is how I come to spend a week in Surrey.
I chose Grayshott Hall because it is teetotal, offers personal training and promises to calorie-count every morsel I eat. It also offers lots of treatments. I book in for a week. Pulling into the driveway, I wonder if a week without friends or booze might send me mad. The ivy-clad exterior could indeed be a gothic asylum. But inside it is pure country-house hotel, with comfy sofas, a baby grand piano and mullioned windows. My room is in the modern extension. French windows open on to a lawn and a view of the woods beyond. It is raining. I want to sleep, but my “programme” awaits: 5.30pm, see nurse; 6.45, lymphatic stimulation; 8.10, last orders in the dining room.
“You don’t look overweight at all!” the nurse says brightly. I step on the scales: 8st 12lb (56kg). “That’s nothing — but of course, it’s how you feel.” I fill out a questionnaire ticking boxes for minor ailments and over-indulgence. More than four cups of tea a day? Tick. Fatigue? Tick. And so on. Then she asks about allergies and when I mention shellfish she says she will swap my marine hydro treatment for a herbal body wrap. I trundle off for my lymphatic stimulation treatment, which turns out to involve dry-skin brushing and massage. “You may go to the loo a lot after this,” the therapist says. “Let the weight loss begin!” I think. That night I eat sea bass and marvel that dinner is fewer than 400 calories.
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The next morning I rise at 7.30 and eat breakfast in my room: hot water and lemon, porridge with water, blueberries and strawberries — all a mere 142 calories and includes neither wheat nor dairy (skinny friends in Los Angeles say how great they feel after cutting out these). At 8am, I join the morning power walk. A trainer leads me and another guest through the grounds, on through a wood, alongside a lake, then up a hill. I am short of breath — the other guest, in her fifties, hares off in front.
I make it back in time to see the dietitian, who advises that if I want to lose weight I should eat in the “light dining” room and stick to 1,000 calories or less. I am convinced that I will not stay upright on that, let alone exercise. And no one has yet acknowledged that I am overweight. But at the gym, Ravi, the chief trainer and a former Olympic hockey player, stands me on a machine, gripping two bars, and watching a computer display. The machine is not so polite as the staff.
I need to lose 13lb (6kg) in fat and gain 4in (10cm) muscle. My body mass index is 22.95, which is within the healthy range, but my body fat, at 35, is high. I feel cross — irrational, given that I am here to lose weight.
Perhaps sensing this, Ravi ushers me into the gym for a fit test and declares that my fitness level is above average — “I can work you harder than I thought.” But my flexibility is below average, as is my muscle strength. I can’t understand this — I go to the gym regularly, after all. But gentle questioning reveals that I spend nearly all my time on the treadmill and cross-trainer and hardly any lifting weights. The weakness of this regime becomes clearer when Ravi leads me through lunges and squats, and I feel dizzy. “You’re working big muscles,” he points out.
My usual practice is to follow a gym session with plenty to eat. Here, I have a piece of fruit then scurry off for a blitz shower. Standing at one end of a long shower, I quiver as a beautician fires a high-pressure hose at strategic parts of my body. I think it will never end. When it does, I stagger to the appointments desk and cancel all future sessions. I do, however, undergo a five-day course of G5, which involves having a knobbly electric massage tool driven into my thighs and lower back: pleasant and beneficial, too, I think smugly.
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It is funny how little you think about food when being indulged. All guests are given a daily 40-minute massage, preceded by a trip to the steam room or sauna. In addition, I enjoy a herbal wrap, a divine Eastern massage called “oriental wisdom”, reflexology and cranial osteopathy to make up for all those hours slumped at a computer. For the first two days I sleep for a good two hours each afternoon. My appetite shrinks. I easily keep to 1,000 calories a day.
On the third morning I step eagerly on to the scales: I’ve lost a pound! I want to lose ten! That day I eat fewer than 700 calories — breakfast as above, vegetable soup for lunch, a light supper of salmon and pasta, plus fruit mid-morning and mid-afternoon. I also squeeze in two hours’ exercise — the training session, plus 30 minutes each on the treadmill and swimming. That afternoon as I wander out of the dark of a massage room into the light-filled spa, I hallucinate a large pink cake. On day four, I awake and realise that I don’t feel tired. I swim for 45 minutes and work through the entire gym programme — and still feel great. Afterwards, I have no desire for either a large bun or caffeine. Things are looking up.
So what did I achieve? I lost 2½lb. My waist and hips have shrunk just enough to allow me to wear my jeans again. I am sleeping deeply and on my return to work I get through the entire day without chocolate or Diet Coke. In the two weeks that follow I lose another couple of pounds. My clothes no longer tug. My week at the health farm allowed me to prove to myself that I can avoid bread, cakes and proper tea yet not feel weak and needy.
Oh, and a week later I walk through the same London square and listen. There is a hum of traffic, but otherwise silence.
NEED TO KNOW
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The Grayshott Hall Health Fitness Retreat costs from £160 per person, a night, based on two people sharing. The price includes a personal consultation, a daily massage and heat treatment, a body exfoliation, exercise and relaxation classes, evening demonstrations and lectures, use of all facilities and all meals, and herbal teas. There is a minimum two-night stay. Contact 01428 602020; www.grayshott-hall.co.uk
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