David Smith discovered that occasionally stretching himself a little really wasn't that bad
I booked a yoga holiday in Italy in a fit of madness. Or guilt. Or optimism. The last time I touched my toes was back in the Seventies.When I first went into Fleet Street, my karma took one look at the newsroom and ran away screaming. At around the same time my Inner Self realised that, in order to get on with people (editors in particular), it was necessary to stay indoors, shut up and let my Outer Self do all the talking. As for Nirvana, I usually found it after deadline, locked away in a subterranean wine bar. As the holiday approached, a nagging worry persisted: what if the other eight people on my course turned out to be stereotypical yoga types: brown-rice-eating, tree-hugging, clean-living neo-hippies? At one with the universe and their inner selves. The sort who wouldn't pollute their bodies with tobacco or alcohol. And retire to bed at nine. You understand why I was fretting.
As it turned out, those nagging worries ended up being the very things we all had in common. We spent our first evening together making polite conversation in the local Italian restaurant. The menus arrived and the call went up: "Any vegetarians?" No one responded, a good sign. By the time we had demolished three bottles of red and ordered a fourth, we could relax and admit that we had all been dreading feeling like fish out of water. From now on, we were a bonded community. Man. Much, much later, as the town clock inched towards 3am and we stumbled up the steep, cobbled streets of our little Italian town back to our rooms I knew I was in for a relaxing week. With a bit of yoga thrown in.
When you're single and forty-something, picking a holiday can be tricky. There are plenty of activity holidays for singles, such as horse riding, mountain climbing, and sailing, but where's the relaxation? Where's the holiday? The only form of exercise I take is fastening my shoelaces. I did go to a gym once. The instructor gave our little group a quick run through of what damage each machine could inflict upon us if misused, and then left us to it. I changed back into my civvies immediately and went awol, never to return. Now, however, my body has started to complain, especially when I bend over to tie my shoelaces. I let out an involuntary groan that sounds like Jimmy Connors serving on Centre Court. Yoga. That's what I needed, I thought. Sitting cross-legged on a pink mat having comforting thoughts of being thin again and chanting "homm".
What could be nicer than learning all about this ancient Indian art in the peace of Casperia, a walled medieval town in the Sabina mountains an hour's train journey from Rome, with good wine and coffee on tap if it all became too much? The yoga classes kicked off at 8.30am: a bad time of day without an injection of PG Tips. A gang of alley cats eyed us on our first morning as we made our way through the empty streets to a terrace on top of a 16th-century municipal building, where our classes were held. Swallows flitted over our heads, while down in the valley a distant tractor gently chugged, ploughing the land.
Then there was Lucy. Ah, Lucy. A living advert for the benefits of yoga. Tall and slim, with the poise of a ballet dancer. When she bent over to touch her toes and laid her palms on the ground by her feet, her nose touching her knees, with her legs perfectly straight, I nearly cried. Do not try this at home without medics standing by.
Slowly and methodically Lucy took us through the basic yoga positions: the dog, the cat, the mountain, the cobra and so on. I could feel my tired and taut muscles, honed in the sweatshops of journalism, beginning to stretch out. Lucy informed us how each of these asanas benefited our bodies. "This asana is good for the thyroid gland. This one is excellent for getting the liver energy moving."
Once we had these movements mastered we came to the "Sun Salutation", a series of energetic asanas. Then the scales fell from my eyes. My body was exercising. How did that happen? I could feel my heart tap-dancing on my ribcage, muscles were stretching and aching. I was out of breath, hot in the face. Yet I felt OK. To finish we lay down on our mats, feet apart, with our palms pointing to the sun, chins pointing to our heaving chests, and eyes closed. Lucy spoke to us hypnotically as we drew Prana (vital energy) through our noses into our bodies. This was the kind of yoga I'd envisaged, and I loved it. Even with a bit of a hangover and suffering from lack of sleep, turning off my mind was proving difficult. Lucy coaxed us: "Just concentrate on your breathing. As a thought enters, let it go on the out breath." It was as if she were inside my head. All of us experienced a slow drifting, I suppose, into a meditative state. It lasted only a couple of minutes, but my brain definitely switched off. I liked it. When I opened my eyes, I felt as if I were floating.
Now I wished I'd listened to my yoga-mad friends years ago when they first waxed lyrical about it. If I'd taken it up back then I might not have such a beer gut and handles on my love handles. But as Penelope Cruz's character in the film Vanilla Sky says: "Every passing moment is another chance to turn it all around."
After the class we all wandered down to the bar for caffeine and croissants. The rest of the day was our own, to spend as we chose, either in company or alone. There are wild hot springs near by, and Rome and Assisi are close enough for a day trip.
Men should note that on a holiday such as this, you will be heavily outnumbered by women. But your inner macho self can have a well-deserved holiday, which can only be a good thing.
Ultimately, however, Italy and yoga do not go together like yin and yang. Italy is too steeped in sin and sensuality, and yoga too steeped in virtue and spirituality for them to be perfect partners. Italy and food - now, that's a perfect coupling. Back in London I jumped on my bathroom scales. Dismay! I'd gained half a stone. Ho homm.