Seriously,” the journalist at the other end of the line tells me. “Take my advice and cancel the trip.”
“But I’m supposed to be leaving in the morning.”
“It’s not too late. Some of the war reporting I’ve done was a breeze by comparison.” I can hear him shudder down the phone.
“I lasted four days at the Mayr Clinic. Longest four days of my life.”
The Mayr Clinic in Austria is not, it would appear, for the faint-hearted. I board my plane with a heavy heart and an empty stomach, which I proceed to fill with rubbishy snacks: a mini-tube of Pringles, a pack of roasted peanuts and a KitKat, even though I haven’t eaten chocolate for about a year. But needs must. I feel slightly panicky as I take my seat and finally – rather late in the day – get round to reading the clinic’s brochure (and it is very much a clinic, as opposed to a spa). The price list at the back mentions things such as “blood-letting”, colonics, enemas – the whole shebang. What on earth have I let myself in for?
A few hours later, ensconced in the back of a taxi transporting me through spectacular Alpine scenery, I realise that my journalist friend and I weren’t talking about quite the same place. The original Mayr clinic is also on Lake Wörth, but I am going to the brand spanking new Viva-Mayr – “the centre for modern Mayr medicine”; “modern” being the operative word. The Mayr clinic is old school; the place I am in recognises that feeding patients with nothing but stale spelt bread and milk for weeks on end – as a method of inner cleansing that deals with a variety of complaints from weight problems from allergies to infertility – was perhaps a little harsh for the modern world.
“You will eat!” the receptionist says. “Don’t worry. In fact, supper is in an hour.”
Much cheered, I check into my room – airy and bright, immaculately clean, though slightly clinical (there are emergency buttons in the bathroom to summon medical staff). The balcony overlooks the aforementioned Lake Wörth, which is 21km long and stunningly lovely. The water is so clean you can apparently drink it. At least I won’t die of thirst. This all looks fine. What was I worrying about?
The charming waitress in the dining room (more stunning views from here) says, “You’ve just arrived, so you won’t be on the diet yet.” That’s right, I nod, famished. She brings me a spelt-bread roll, a golfball-sized portion of cream cheese and smoked trout, and a small bowl of soup. I wolf it all down, blissfully unaware, at this stage, that I am supposed to carefully chew each mouthful 50 times. Not the biggest dinner in the world, but fine, and it tastes good. On the way back to my room, I am given a mug containing Epsom salts, and instructed to drink it half an hour before breakfast tomorrow morning. Before going to bed, I notice that there are six loo rolls by the lavatory. Seems an awful lot. Still, I go to sleep feeling optimistic.
I kept a diary of what happened next.
Sunday
A bit of a pointless day, since the medical side of things is closed. It would have been better to arrive tonight. Still, I familiarise myself with everything. There are two long pontoons with sun loungers by the lake. In the medical department, which I wander round, there’s a small but well-equipped gym and lots of consultation rooms. It feels like a clinic. Well, it is a clinic. My fellow patients are an odd mixture: a few are very fat, but most are ordinary Austrians and Germans – some whippet-thin, actually, and bursting with health. Apparently they like to do “the cure” once or twice a year. The point of the cure is not weight loss, but renewed health – a kind of body MOT. And it’s all about the colon, digestion and detoxing.
Speaking of which, I take my Epsom salts before breakfast. Very bitter. They induce almost instant diarrhoea. Apparently this is the idea – it’s the only way the small intestine can clean itself out. Uh, okay. Breakfast is herbal tea, one small spelt roll and a blob of cream cheese. Lunch is root vegetable soup, a piece of veal and a handful of vegetables. Dinner is soup and another roll. I ask for water and we get a measly mouthful – we’re not supposed to drink with meals.
