The path to enlightenment

It was dark as our van ground up the hill. The plane had been late and the Tuscan hills were lost now in a veil of exhaustion and black. Between nodding off and jerking awake as an occasional gem-like square glowed under a passing street lamp, my fellow internees fantasised about the dinner and the wine we would finally have when we reached Borgo Iesolana and the Yogahikes retreat.

Ah, retreat. We'd forgotten about that word. When we disembarked into the crisp night air, with the faint bark of foxes trailing over the vines, we were told that food was finished, just something cold in our rooms, and that wine was off limits. This was a detox, didn't we know? Yes, yes, but it was: "God make me good, but not yet ..."

There is a peculiar kind of torture about staying in an Italian vineyard and not being able to drink. I got used to it - don't think I'm an alcoholic - but wine was everywhere. I woke up to a glorious day - the sun crisp in the sky above those undulating tendrils of green and heart-shaped leaves you see adorning Bacchus's head. It was fine then, because I don't normally drink at 7am, so I was able to see the banked wall of bottles as I stumbled through the dining room, on my way to morning yoga, as just beautiful curves of pale green and purple.

Yogahikes basically does what it says on the packet. You do two very long yoga sessions per day, and in between you go for very long walks. Yoga was taught by Alexa, the doyenne of the Notting Hill Life Centre. She was fantastically bendy, bossy and kind; like being taught by an elastic Mary Poppins. For an hour and a half we were twisted and stretched in ways I didn't know I could be. Then breakfast - surrounded by bottles of wine, still reassuringly unappealing at this point - of fruit and bread and the most extraordinary homemade muesli that Alexa had brought out from England in a sack. After 90 minutes of yoga, it was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten. The food in general was superb. One veteran of these "holidays" said the previous day, "Lunch is quite exciting", and she was absolutely right. It was even more exciting after an hour and a half walk (surrounded by vines) - vast frittatas and plates of grilled vegetables, pecorino and fontina cheese, huge salads, chickpeas pungent with oils and herbs, different types of honey.

The afternoon was spent lolling by the pool, reading a book and looking out at the Tuscan hills in the distance, little realising we'd have to climb the bloody things the next day. Alternatively there was another walk (optional) then more yoga at 5.30 pm. By the time dinner came (something hot and light, such as fish and spinach) the wine racked on the walls was infinitely more appealing. It took a great deal of self-control not to just walk over, wrest one from its shelf and say to the waitress, "Put it on my room". Day two was the same, but with a detox headache (so easily cured by just one slug of wine). We were told that our mornings were to be spent in total silence, up until the finish of the first walk. It felt bossy, but actually it was a complete relief.

One didn't have to make conversation to a lot of strangers, just wander up Mrs Tiggywinkle rocky paths beneath dappled trees and think deep thoughts about all the reasons why you thought your life needed a yoga-retreat. It also, conversely, provided a topic of conversation, as in: "How did you find the silence?" "Oh, it was fine!"

Slowly, as on all group holidays, details of the other guests began to trickle out. It was supposed to be mixed, but actually, apart from Ian who runs Yogahikes, everyone else was female, ranging from midtwenties to the upper end of a certain age. Most of them came twice a year. There was the resting actress (a lot of Midsomer Murders) and her sister, the high-powered literary agent, all jangly with stress, who had quite obviously been tricked into going on the retreat by her boss who pretended he was coming too, and then pulled out the day before.

There was the former ballerina with the Royal Ballet, the film producer; the woman who ran her own publishing house, married to the man who produced U2. It's quite weird going on a yoga-retreat where everyone else is much more successful and famous than you.

Not that I think I'm successful or famous at all, but at least most other people aren't either. It was like constantly having one's face rammed up against one's own mediocrity, nose squashed against the glass looking at a better life. And the ones who weren't amazingly successful were incredibly good at yoga instead. Some, like a corporate lawyer, were both. It was all rather stressful really.

By the third day the detox was kicking in. Some people (I can't name names) were having withdrawal symptoms not only from alcohol, chocolate and friends but also from stress itself. There was only one internet point, and mobiles were supposed to be switched off. A few mutterings could be heard about running away, but the relentless routine nailed us all in place.