BATHS, I’ve had a few. There were the seaweed baths – watch out for the barnacles on yer bum... only joking!
You emerge like a fat happy mermaid from the waves with the softest of soft hair.
I've also strolled about in the Paris hammam with 100 French mademoiselles and nothing but a teeny triangle of cloth to cover my modesty.
The hamman in the Paris Mosque is like a harem – all marble and arches straight out of Aladdin and big muscled masseurs clutching what look like brillo pads to scrub you to polished perfection.
And afterwards, you sip peppermint tea served on brass trays in a beautiful garden,
But those baths were long ago when I still had a waist and could look down and see all 10 of my toes.
I’ve also had escape baths as in: “Here, you’re home, take that baby, I’m away for a bath,” moments. Lock the door, heavy on the bubbles, ah the bliss of solitude...
But this week, we had our first gong bath.
“Did you take your clothes off?” asked a friend.
Absolutely not, I said. It is not that kind of bath. But it did feel like a good soak for the spirit.
There were flickering candles and huge beautiful shining gongs. You could sit down or lie down, cuddle up in a blanket or sit cross legged. I was nervous.
“Could you nudge me if I snore,” I whispered to my other half.
We made a pact that each of us would poke the other.
But the gong master took time to explain. And, he said, if anyone snored, no need to worry... after all, snoring is just another sound. I suppose it’s like sneezing, only a bit longer and very regular and intensely irritating. And have you ever woken yourself up with a great ugly snort of a snore and thought, hey, what was that... only to realise it was you?
But let’s leave the angst. Come back to the floor where we lie on mats, cuddled up under blankets, just listening.
There is something ancient and holy about the sound of the gong. It echoes down the centuries – calling people to prayer, calling people to food, just calling. The gong sings out to your soul and invites it to soar like a swallow in the evening air.
These are beautiful shining gongs. One is made from Tibetan monks’ broken singing bowls – you can hear the echo of a chant in a monastery far far away and long ago.
The sounds echo and vibrate in the room. For me, they whip up grey storm clouds and thunder.
And there I am, seven years old with my little sister on a long ago beach in Killarney. She wears a cherry red swimsuit and I have a navy one and we are standing as the heavens rage and a storm breaks over our heads.
But it is exciting, it is thrilling. For our father holds each of us, by the hand, keeping us safe at the water’s edge, laughing as huge waves, way higher than our heads, crash down on the sand.
He holds on tight and we laugh and dance in the frill of the waves on the shoreline, just out of reach of danger. Then the gong music turns gentle, a whispered kiss of rain in the ears and I’m walking forever along an ocean’s edge, drinking in the beauty of the moment.
There is a tinkling of bells and I’m in that French chateau deep in the Savoie countryside where I au paired for Madame La Comtesse and endured her nettle soup. The bells are honey deep, clanking gently as the cattle stroll to the milking shed.
Did I say the gong bath was beautiful? One of the other women was very excited. The gongs had summoned up so many memories – she had visited places and times as she lay in the gong bath.
Some people see colours. Some people see pictures.
They say you can have a good gong bath or a bad gong bath. Every bath is different. And in the summer, the gong masters go out into the fields to festivals in the great outdoors.
It must be very beautiful to lie under the stars and listen to the music and dream.
Pass the metaphorical soap. Can’t you tell I’m hooked?
