A good pummelling among the olive groves

At a tranquil monastic Tuscan spa retreat, Ginny Dougary submitted to a regime of detoxing massages, but found there was no gain to be had without pain.

Tuscany may not be the first location that most sane people would choose to undergo a detox diet for a week. Imagine your sole summer holiday without a drizzle of olive oil on your food, not a single slice of delicious thincrust pizza, no scoops of gelato, no large glasses of chilled Orvieto with which to toast the sunset or tiny cups of espresso to kick-start your day.

But there is a reason why people subject themselves to such deprivation of the flesh, and that is usually as a consequence of them having become too fleshy themselves. I say “usually”, since my fellow inmates at Castel Monastero — a beautiful converted monastery; indeed, a whole converted village that dates from the 11^th century — could have done with putting on rather than shedding a few pounds.

My journey to Castel Monastero — at the top of a winding road 20 minutes from Siena, surrounded by olive groves and vineyards and overlooking woodland as far as the eye can see — started several months earlier in the consulting rooms of Mosaraf Ali’s London clinic off Baker Street. Dr Ali is described on his books (on yoga, back problems, nutrition and weight-loss programmes) as “the UK’s top integrated health expert”. Born in India, he has garnered many celebrity endorsements and is not shy about mentioning them: The Prince of Wales is a favourite name-check, but others include Sylvester Stallone, Kate Moss and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Our consultation was brief and abrasive; whatever else he may be, Dr Ali is not a fawner. He gazed deep and rather coldly into my eyes, drew a hideous picture of my shape (tapering legs, with a large stomach resembling a giant sausage on its side) and deduced that my weight problem was the most intractable sort, being hormonal/menopausal. If I didn’t do something about my weight, he predicted, my knees would go, and then my hips. His regime at Castel Monastero, he added bluntly, was really not geared towards the clinically obsese but for high-flyers who needed to cleanse their systems. Nevertheless, he concluded, a week at the Tuscan spa following his regime of massage and diet might be of some benefit to me.

As a parting gesture, he gave me a brief taste of what to expect. He stood behind me and dug his knuckles into my neck and the base of my skull, prompting me to squeal in pain. This is one of Dr Ali’s killer inventions (in the wrong hands, you feel it could almost be lethal): the “Marma” massage, which he believes controls food cravings, perhaps because after experiencing it you feel too faint and traumatised to eat or do much else but collapse in a heap.

To be honest, the idea of placing myself under the care of Dr Ali did not seem all that appealing. But I did need to lose weight and Castel Monastero looked inviting and a week away from temptation and stress (of the ordinary kind) might do me some good. And so, after a last blowout dinner in nearby Siena, came the rein-in on our Tuscan hill. Dr Ali seemed much more relaxed, even smiley, in this serene setting. We spotted him in his long shorts and trainers, striding purposefully into the olive groves, accompanied by a cheerful American man who never seemed to be without a phalanx of gorgeous and very slim young women. This successful businessman had apparently lost three stone under the doctor.

My partner and I soon settled into a pleasant, if time-consuming, pattern. This was fine, since we had decided not to hire a car and explore the area, but to submit ourselves totally to the detox experience. Our days would start with a yoga session; just the two of us with our instructor, Esther.

We would race down to the pools and bag our sun beds under an umbrella (which were in limited supply), and then head up the stone steps into an open “room” by the spa, shielded from the early morning sun by muslin drapes that billowed gently in the breeze. While Esther coaxedus into various cat-like stretches, the resident cat and her kitten would sometimes lie beside us, seeming to join in. It’s a measure of Esther’s skill and sense of humour that we never missed a session, even though we could have snatched another hour or so lying in.

This was followed by a hasty swig of a disgusting twig-infused drink — murkycoloured, tasting of mud — that was meant to be an appetite suppressant; followed by a Himalayan tea (scarcely less potable) that was apparently good for restoring our energy. Dr Ali’s instructions were for us to drink these whenever possible — there were jugs of the stuff all over the spa — which (holding my breath) I duly did. As someone who is naturally sceptical about many alternative health remedies (though I am completely convinced by the Prince of Wales’s other guru, the back specialist Sarah Key, having experienced the benefits), I needed to be convinced that these magic potions worked. Certainly, neither my partner nor myself felt hungry, apart from the odd pang at night, but then we were doing very little activity apart from being pummelled in the spa and flopping, after the odd dip, by the pool.

Breakfast was taken in what was the old village’s paved square, overlooked by the charming chapel. This meal consisted of a spoonful or two of Dr Ali’s special muesli, plus a plate of artfully presented fruit.

Lunch was served at a cluster of tables in a shady enclave by the main swimming pool.

We would be presented with three small, but quite filling, courses: a modest salad of, say, french beans with dijon dressing (no oil) or a yoghurt and pistachio dressing, followed by a little mound of wholewheat spaghetti with fresh tomatoes and basil, or a more tempting saffron risotto, finishing with another salad of chicken or turkey or veal. Dinner was another three courses of salad, soup and tuna or sea bass or sea bream, grilledor steamed, with salad or vegetables. There were limitless bottles of water and we were also allowed a couple of crisp breads. There was a lot of variety and the attentive service and lovely setting tended to offset any sense of deprivation.

The first couple of evenings, however, we felt awkward sitting among other hotel guests tucking into creamy-sauced food (on the regular menu) and quaffing wine, so we took to eating on our own in a romantic little spot close to our room.

When we weren’t eating, we spent most of the time in the spa. The therapists were exceptional, though I never did get accustomed to the excruciating Marma massage and tended to need another less brutal massage to recover from it. Actually, I had every sort of treatment — from the very messy mud detox to a lymph-draining massage and, best of all, a conventional relaxing massage. But by the end of the week — and this from someone who has been a massage queen since I was barely out of my teens — I was massaged out.

We left feeling refreshed, healthy and full of good intentions, as well as lighter — but, alas, not for long. Perhaps because of its history as a monastery, the hotel does have an unusual quality of peaceful tranquillity. For a month or so back home, I gave up olive oil and most other fats and spent hours preparing my fruit in an appetising way and organising salads and grilled fish and meat while reducing my caffeine and alcohol intake. I also spent an hour a day doing yoga, but I became the victim of my overenthusiasm when, pulling my legs with a belt to touch my forehead, I injured a knee.

Dr Ali’s methods must work wonders for some people but, really, we all know that the secret to weight loss is nothing more than a simple equation of less food and more exercise. I have added boxing to my physiotherapy sessions (for my damaged knee), but for the other part of the equation. I think Weight Watchers beckons again.

The Times