Skiing first time? Well yes, me too. I was never a what you might call a sporty kid. Netball was a no-no due to my challenged hand to eye co-ordination. I was always stuck in goal on the hockey field, decidedly ungainly in gait as I staggered around swaddled in thigh-high leg pads. My tennis style was described as ‘wild’ – and not in a good way.

Cross country runs were spent bunking off at a fellow failed jogger’s gaff who just happened to live en-route, and I distinctly recall being told by the games teacher that no athletics discipline would ever be ‘my sport’. I wasn’t fussed. I was good at other stuff, and positively distinction level when it came to sneaking a crafty fag behind the back of the bike sheds.

I distinctly recall being told by the games teacher that no athletics discipline would ever be ‘my sport’

There was, however, one sport that my teenage self always secretly longed to try. Skiing. To be honest, I think it had more to do with imagining myself hanging out with the beautiful people on some snow-capped mountain – 1970s and 80s Martini advert-style. That and the vision of a 19th century me channelling my own inner Anna Karenina. A vision moving silently across a moon-lit snowy landscape in a horse-drawn troika while swaddled in rugs and blankets.

Or in another incarnation, I resembled a nostalgic Christmas card as I perched, in full Edwardian period garb, primly on a sledge as I prepared to launch myself down a snow-covered mountain. And then there was all the yummy Alpine food to sample – fondue, raclette, goulash, and schnitzel with noodle.

Help! I need the slopes

I could have hit the snows in my 20s, 30s, 40s… but life always got in the way, somehow. And besides, whenever I thought about a winter holiday, sunshine always won over snow. But then, at the end of last year, I happened to watch the Beatles’ film Help. The sight of the Fab Four, or rather their stunt doubles, swooping down the oh-so-picturesque Austrian Alps to the strains of Ticket to Ride picqued my interest enough to finally try the ski and snow thing.

I read up on where Help was filmed, and discovered to my delight that you could stay in the hotel in the ski resort where John, Paul, George and Ringo had performed an impromptu gig for a crew member’s birthday party. Their only ever gig in Austria, incidentally, almost 60 years ago… Well, it was a done deal!

Summer travel more your thing? Read – Jacqui’s Cyprus trip honouring her mum

The Alpine comforts

While my retro ‘rubber’ soul longed to stay at the Marrietta (the name of the hotel where the Fab Four performed) circa mid 1960s, my 2024 body was highly delighted that in the early 2020s the hostelry had been extensively modernised, having been taken over by the Croatian-based company Valamar group and renamed ‘Places’.

No doubt the Marrietta was the place to be in its prime, but as we approach the end of the first quarter of the 21st century, Places ticks all the right modernist, style, and creature comfort boxes. The interior has been redesigned with a vibrant yet minimalist aesthetic. It feels luxurious but in a chic, funky kinda way. However, it’s touching that Places hasn’t forgotten its unique place in music history. There are several signed photos of the Beatles, in situ on the snowy set, in the lobby. Even more impressive is the fact that the drum kit actually used by Ringo Starr for the concert is on display in a corridor behind the lobby, along with more fascinating mop-top memorabilia.

When it comes to the bedrooms, think traditional alpine with a modern twist that feels like a warm cuddle. And, should you be in the mood for rather more than a hug, the complimentary pleasure boxes containing condoms and lubricant could well come in handy. On the other hand, should you be sharing the bed with a snorer, the complimentary earplugs will come as a godsend!

Not just a snowy landscape

Obertauern, which lies 5,708ft above sea level and is 55 miles south of Salzburg, is the winter holiday resort with the best snow record in Austria. But the skiing, the frolicking amidst the flurries, could wait. I wanted to explore Places.

There’s a stunning, subterranean indoor pool – kidney shaped rather than rectangular. Fine with me. I wasn’t planning on doing any laps. We’re talking serious unwind time, here. The lights are low, with loungers positioned on several levels. Plus, there are star-shaped floating bean bags! A first for me. Nearby is the stunning spa area and sauna, and the massage I treated myself to certainly didn’t disappoint.

The hotel boasts a trendy lounge and bar, think posh private members’ club vibe, and probably the smartest self-service restaurant I’ve ever been in. Guests are able to eat as much as they like in the evenings. Meat dishes, fish, salads, fab veggie options including gourmet handmade pizzas.

Opt for the ‘Places Flexi’ package and dinner is free, with each person given a 30-euro (£26) allowance a day to spend on food and drink at the bar as an alternative. Payment is made via wrist-worn electronic ‘watches’, which also open bedrooms and doors to various public spaces. Hi-tech or what?

But Place’s ‘piece de resistance’ is to be found on its top floor. There’s a seriously fun 400-sq-m (4,305-sq-ft) top-floor gaming area complete with a soft-play complex and all manner of computer games and consuls. Next door is a rooftop bar with jaw-dropping valley views. I enjoyed a Campari-spritz on the balcony while taking in the vista, warmed by a table-top open fire. Now, that was a Martini moment for sure.

So. . . what about the skiing?

Well, I got myself decked out at the Freudenaus Sport Rental next door to the hotel. Skis, helmet, sticks, ski boots… you know the drill. Except that, er, I didn’t. Not really. In all my ski-land visualisations, I’d never pictured myself actually skiing. The nuts-and-bolts stuff. And if I’d thought hockey goal keeping garb was stagger-worthy, blimey, I didn’t know the half of it. Give me thigh-high, Michelin man-like leg pads over ski boots any day! Clomping about, I felt like a clone of Frankenstein – and that was just outside the hotel.

Prep for your skiing trip with a quality pair of waterproof boots. Like these tactical boots which are even up to military standard!

I had a lesson on the nursery slopes with an instructor from the Obertauern Frau Holle ski school – he was very patient but by the end of the session, he gave me a broken English echo of my school games’ teacher’s words. Skiing clearly wasn’t ‘quite my sport’.

Alison (far right) and friends before heading down the slopes

The sledging fantasy

So let’s try sledging or sledding. Arranged by the uber efficient Valdermar folk, I pitched up at dusk at the Gnadenalm Alpine experience, about six km from Obertauern.  The toboggan taxi – a snowmobile with old-fashioned wooden toboggans attached to the side – zipped us up to the top of a mountain. At least it felt like the top to me, and the start of the flood-lit 1.5km long run. We were dropped off with the sledges. ‘Now what?’ I said, somewhat naively. ‘You go down,’ came the reply. As the driver sped away, there was no option but to follow his instructions. Reader, it was the ride of my life. Scary, yes, but incredibly exhilarating.

Zooming down snow-covered peaks and mounds, I felt more Bond girl in the Spy Who Loved Me than lady on front of an Edwardian Christmas card. But no matter. I had a real sense of achievement on reaching the bottom. My Anna Karenina fantasy followed as I climbed aboard the troika or carriage, attached to two massive cart horses, and made myself comfortable against the cushions and under the blankets. Sleigh bells rang out as we wended our way across the snow-covered countryside by moonlight while sipping on shots of Schnapps. It was possibly one of the most romantic moments of my life!

Great grub, to top it all off

It had been an incredible evening but it wasn’t over yet. A full-on Alpine feast comprising of fondue, raclette and cheese dumplings followed at the Restaurant Wirtshaus Gnadenalmin, the most Heidi-esque eaterie imaginable. All roaring fires, pine wood panelling, red and white check cushions and table cloths, and heart-shaped dining chairs.

Skiing may not be for me but this trip made me realise that I have fallen for the snow in a big way. Next visit I intend to channel Julie Christie in Dr Zhivago – but I guess I’ll need to find my Omar Shariff first.

Going on your own Alpine adventure

Getting There

Wizz Air – return flights in January 2025 from London airports to Salzburg from £57.00
Easy Jet – return flights in January 2025 from London airports to Salzburg from £54.00
British Airways – return flights in January 2025 from London airports to Salzburg from £139.00

Taxi transfer from Salzburg to Obertauern – approximately €165.00, good value if there’s four of you

Accommodation

Places by Valamar – from €316.00 per night/double room

Ski Stuff

Ski Equipment Hire from Silver Ski Equipment

Boots – €27 per day
Helmet – €16.20 per day
Skis and sticks – €34.50 per day

Ski pass – €65 per day

Ski lesson for beginners at the Obertauern Frau Holle ski school – €121.50 per day, €252.00 for three days

Carriage Ride and Sledding

One hour carriage ride for four people – €90

Toboggan rental: € 9 per toboggan
Toboggan taxi: € 8 per ride & person

Alison James

The post Winter wonderland – skiing for the first time appeared first on Silver Magazine.

It is perhaps serendipity that what was once the Raymond Revuebar is now the setting for Bernie Dieter’s Club Kabarett. Back in the 1970s, Raymond’s club hailed itself as ‘The World Centre of Erotic Entertainment.’ And several decades on, Club Kabarett may just be the sexiest show in London town right now.

Even the brand spanking newly refurbed bar/club – all polished concrete, smooth surfaces, glass walkways and flashing scarlet neon – is pretty darned seductive. But then production company ‘Underbelly’ – they of the big purple elephant fame – always go that extra mile, as anyone who’s seen their award-winning shows at the Edinburgh Fringe or on London’s Southbank will attest. The company has taken over the former Revuebar, sprinkled stardust over it, and renamed it Underbelly Boulevard.

It’s a rainy autumnal night when we pitch up at the UB in Walker’s Court, Soho. After a glass of bubbles, our sense of excitement is also fizzing as we queue up to get into the theatre proper. There’s already an element of wondering just what will await us on the other side.

Rows of seats circling a small, round stage, that’s what, with a punky three-piece band playing at the rear of the venue. And also a balcony offering a great view of the stage. The balcony is where we are seated. It’s a plus for two reasons. A) The view of the stage is excellent. And B) there’s no chance of being selected as an audience participant. While I enjoy a bit of AP, I don’t if I’m one of the chosen few.

I’m also loving the low lighting, bathing the mini-arena in reds and blues and purples. It feels intimate and, yes, sexy. Especially as ‘down below’, girls in PVC and lads in Lycra strut up and down like a kind of slightly kinked warm-up for the first appearance of MC Miss Dieter herself.

Miss Dieter herself

Bernie Dieter’s Club Kabarett is the very first show to take to the stage at Underbelly Boulevard. Born in the former east Germany, Dieter has been described as ‘the first lady of Weimar punk cabaret’ and is a cross between Lady Gaga, Marlene Dietrich and Frank-N-Furter from The Rocky Horror Show in sequins. Let’s just say she’s sure as hell no shy, retiring type.

Bedecked in tassels, feathers, a Westwood-style kilt, ripped fishnets and sparkly stilettos, she struts onto the stage like she owns the place. Which she kind of does for the next few months. She’s seductive, sultry and velvet-voiced but also a bit scary – a tantalising combo of allure and menace. Within minutes, she’s straddling a male audience member in the front row before enlisting the help of two others whom she dubs ‘Shaven Haven’ and ‘Silver Fox’ to carry her back to the stage, legs akimbo.

Once back-on-the-boards, she announces that what we are about to witness is all about ‘letting loose, letting go, and getting a little bit intimate.’ Aided by the ‘punky, freaky and weirdo’ acts she will introduce us to over the next 90 minutes. This is interspersed at interludes with the lady herself taking to the stage in an array of different costumes and singing songs with racy lyrics, such as one which regales the tale of how she was fed gin by her Oma (granny) when she was just knee-high to a stiletto.

First up is Blue Phoenix, who twirls his unbelievably flexible and barely-covered body, complete with sky-scraper 12-inch heels on his feet, around a mid-stage, hastily-erected pole. It’s muscle town, sinew city – total brawnsville. And, yeah, we can see why he won Mr Pole Dance World last year.

It’s a real heart-in-mouth moment – several of ‘em actually – to witness aerial duo, The Seifart Sisters, contort and bend around each other with sublime skill and subtlety. This would be impressive enough on terra firma, but they do what they do mid-air. And without any kind of safety net.

A very different aerial act arrives in the form of the balletic Joe Keeley whose body weaves in and out of attached-to-the-ceiling, stage-trailing silks with such grace it’s as if he were another piece of fabric. The act of muscley drag queen Adam Malone, who apparently ran away to join the circus at a young age, is one of a kind. Let’s just say, I never imagined that a teabag and teaspoon could be used in such an inventive way. Looks a bit painful to me but Adam doesn’t flinch.

Then there’s high-octane, highflyer Bella Diosa. She contorts her amazing body into some eye-watering positions, she eats fire, she hangs by her hair… just one of these would do for me! One can but dream.

So, to conclude, if you happen to be in the Smoke, I can think of no better way to spend a pre- or post-Christmas cold winter’s evening than being warmly and weirdly entertained by the magnificent Miss D and her troupe of remarkable ‘reprobates’. I run into our hostess on the way out and ask her if the gin thing is true. ‘One hundred percent,’ she smiles. ‘Proof!’ Rather like her show, then!

To have your own night at the Kabarett…
Tickets from £25
21st November – 6th January 2024
Get your Kabarett tickets today

Alison James

The post Oh Kabarett, oh Kabarett! A sexy Soho show to remember appeared first on Silver Magazine.

Until very recently, there was something I had to address as a single woman. Whilst I was happy to go to the cinema solo, take in an exhibition on my own, or eat out at a table for one, I’d never found myself taking a holiday alone.

Since the demise of my long marriage, I have discovered that I quite like the single life. Not having to explain myself, or answer to anyone. Doing exactly what I like, when I like, and with whom I like. I’ve made new friends, taken up new interests and, I suppose you’d say, reinvented myself. Maybe not quite to the heights of a phoenix rising from the ashes. But I’m definitely in the fledgling category. 

I’m happy with all this, but the possibility of time away – a singleton holiday, if you will – remained on my ‘to do’ list. So, I decided it was time to do something about this. 

Where shall I go?!

It was already July but I didn’t want to hang about. I wanted to go soon. But before I did, I made another list of what exactly I was looking for. 

A short break in Europe, I reckoned, was the way to go for this first solo outing. I wanted to go somewhere warm but not too hot. A destination that combined a bit of beach life with a side helping of culture and history. And an aura of old-school glamour would not go amiss, either. Plus, the kind of destination where I might even try something else way out of my comfort zone. A new activity of the sporting kind, perhaps?

A short break in Europe, I reckoned, was the way to go for this first solo outing

While browsing on the internet for the place that would hopefully tick most of my boxes, I happened to chance upon the Portuguese coastal town of Cascais. Only half an hour from the capital, Lisbon, I gleaned that this picturesque former fishing village appeared to retain much of its maritime charm while combined with fabulous beaches. And also a noble, almost aristocratic feel, as befitted the go-to destination of many dethroned European monarchies during the first half of the 20th century. 

Cascais

It sounded right up my ‘rua’. When I read on one site that ‘It is not necessary to bring company to explore the wonders of this unique resort’, I felt myself warming to the idea of a short break in Cascais. And then when I noticed that one of my musical heroes, Van Morrison, just happened to be headlining at the Cool Jazz festival the very same weekend I planned to take off, well, it was pretty much a done deal. A triple-day trip, I reckoned, would be just the ticket. Three days would be just about right, with Van-the-Man playing on my final night. 

Getting there

Taking the early afternoon TAP Airways flight from Heathrow to Lisbon, I was excited yet apprehensive. I had never done anything like this before. What if I hated being on my own when everyone else seemed coupled (and loved) up? What if I felt like the ultimate Billie No-Mates? What if I felt unsafe at any point? What if my voice-box seized up due to lack of use? What if? What if? What if? 

I told the mad voice in my head to shut the f**k up. It. Was. Three. Days. That’s all. Three days was nothing. If the worst came to the worst, I could treat the break as a silent retreat. Or plot out the novel I’d always promised myself I would write. Or even read all the novels I’d downloaded onto my kindle.

I told the mad voice in my head to shut the f**k up. It. Was. Three. Days. That’s all.

Plus, I had my own bespoke tour guide. I had written myself a fairly detailed itinerary before setting off. I reasoned it would be good to have a set schedule so that I wouldn’t, at any time, find my mind wandering as I people watched, causing me to think, ‘Look at all those couples and happy families seemingly having the best time’ (even if they’re really not). 

I was picked up at the airport, having already arranged a transfer with my hotel, the almost-on-the beach Vila Gale. Something of a last-minute booking, the four-star hotel was a good choice being just a matter of seconds from the marina, just 10 minutes-walk from the historic centre of Cascais and also close to the Marechal Carmona Park where the Cool Jazz festival was taking place. I was delighted with my spacious third floor room and balcony. 

Exploring the locale

Cascais Marina

Strolling into town for dinner was a feast for the eyes as I passed the marina with its resident fleet of swish-looking yachts, the imposing 16th century citadel, and the literally-on-the-beach, fairy tale castle-like Condes de Castro Guimaraes Palace.

Never once did I feel unsafe as a lone woman. I had pre-booked to eat at the Lota da Esquina, a restaurant housed in the former fish auction house. 

Read more: are retreats calling you?

Condes de Castro Guimaraes Palace

The setting was stunning – as was the repast. The tomato and strawberry gazpacho, tuna ceviche, and sauteed fresher-than-fresh fish will remain in my memory food bank for a long time. 

…never once did I feel unsafe as a lone woman

As for the dining solo thing; or ‘comendo sozinho’ as they say in Portugal? Well, I’ll admit to feeling quite self-conscious when my fellow diners were made up of mostly two, three, and foursomes but I found that a couple of stiff G&Ts pre-dinner made this dissipate in a rather dreamy kind of way. Besides, the waiting staff were lovely and chatty, and didn’t once look at me with pity! 

And I had company. Not my ubiquitous smartphone – I purposely left that in my bag – but a book. 28 Portuguese Poets: A Bilingual Anthology, which I’d ordered online before travelling. A tad pretentious? Perhaps, but just the thought of that made me laugh. The poems were generally absorbing, and turning the pages between forkfuls of delicious food made me feel like the lead in a moody foreign movie.

Day two – heading out

Day two of my solo short break was spent in Sintra, a historic, Unesco World Heritage site about 45 minutes-drive from Cascais. As per my bespoke itinerary, I had pre-booked an organised tour of this magical kingdom – think fairy tale, pastel-coloured-palaces set amongst lush, undulating emerald forests in the foothills of the Sintra Mountains, with Shortcuts Tourism. 

Did I arrange to meet up any with my lunch companions again? Er, no. While I’d had fun in their company, when you know, you know

A good choice, even if I do say so myself. We were a group of six in all and our guide Andre was everything you could wish for in a tour guide. Full of information, very funny, and his English was probably better than mine. The fantastical Monserrate Palace was a particular highlight. Beloved by romantic poet Lord Byron and featured in his poem Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, this Taj Mahal-like edifice in miniature, combines gothic, Indian, and Moorish influences. While the gardens are spectacular, and home to species of trees and plants from all over the world. 

Sintra, Cascais – Pena Palace Turismo

We ended up in the very picturesque if rather touristy town of Sintra itself. Where we, as a group, sat down for a light lunch at a café by the main town square. It was nice to chat to the other members of the group – although it was the hugely entertaining guide Andre who did most of the talking. Did I arrange to meet up any with my lunch companions again? Er, no. While I’d had fun in their company, when you know, you know. And I felt extremely OK about dining solo again that evening.

Monserrate Palace

Returning to by mid-afternoon, I spent a couple of hours on the beach, braving a dip in the bracing but not overly rough Atlantic, before eating that evening at sublime seafood restaurant Marisco na Praca at Cascais Marina. 

Meeting new friends

It was here that I happened to get chatting to a group of uber-friendly women on the table next to me who were in the area on a golfing trip. I don’t know if it was because I’d already chatted to strangers earlier in the day – or because the Sangria I was drinking gave me a bit of Dutch courage – but I had no qualms about starting the conversation off. 

Tiger Woods I most definitely wasn’t but I did enjoy the experience

The woman sat nearest to me was wearing a lovely necklace which I complimented her on. Within minutes, they’d asked me to join them for a nightcap. My meeting with this group of girls led me in turn to decide on just what my aforementioned sporting activity would be – a category left blank on my itinerary. Why not take a shot at the game my late father had been obsessed with? 

The next morning saw me on the driving range of the nearby Quinta da Marinha Golf Resort, taking an hour-long ’taster’ lesson, alongside another single lady. Tiger Woods I most definitely wasn’t but I did enjoy the experience. Especially when our teaching pro informed us that golf was as beneficial to the body as Pilates.

Time for Van Morrison

After an afternoon people-watching and sunning myself by the hotel pool, it was time for Van the Man at the Cool Jazz festival in the park. I’ve done some festivals in my time, but I can honestly say I have never attended a gig in such a stunning setting. We’re talking palm trees, grassy knolls, evening sunshine and an altogether languid vibe. This was cool with a capital C. 

Van Morrison playing at Cascais – photo: Alison James

I’d spoiled myself with a VIP ticket which included wine and delicious canapes – such a treat but I am worth it, I’d decided. As was Van himself. At an amazing 77-years-old, he sounded as good as ever – even if he hardly said a word between numbers and didn’t perform any of his hits! Not that I’d really expected him to. He is, by all accounts, famous for this. 

I was happy just to watch him perform but I found myself chatting to a group of Portuguese fans, who looked a good decade younger than me. No matter about, that, though. Experience and a growing confidence that maybe only comes with age – in addition to surviving a ruined marriage – has taught me that if you are open and interested in people, it’s not hard to get talking to them. My night ended at the festival’s 80s disco with me and the Portuguese 40-somethings getting into the groove. 

So how do I look back on this foray of stepping out on foreign soil for the first time on my own? 

I can honestly say it was one of the best short breaks I’d ever had. In a relatively short time, I’d done so much. I travelled solo, but I never felt lonely; I also felt a massive sense of achievement. 

Taking a break after a break-up? Intrigued by the idea of a solo trip? Just do it. Pack an open mind and a spirit of adventure in addition to a micro-holiday wardrobe. You have nothing to fear, and only exciting new experiences to look forward to. 

Alison James

The post My first time taking a holiday alone appeared first on Silver Magazine.

A childhood donkey ride on a seaside beach, the odd clumsy attempt at pony trekking, an occasional day at the races. . . I’d never had much to do with animals of the equine kind. They scared me to be honest – all flying hooves, huge teeth, flaring nostrils and unpredictability. I’d certainly never connected horses with any kind of healing power but then what did I know?  

I’d also never expected to find myself after 30-plus years of seemingly happy marriage, starring into an abyss no longer knowing what my future held.

All images: Tania Araujo

A marital curve-ball

In 2019, I discovered that my husband and the father of our three grown-up kids had been having an affair for over a year. As infidelity goes, this was pretty standard fare, I guess. His lover was younger than me, fitter than me, more exotic than me. 

But there was an added ‘extra’. A sting in the spousal tail. My husband’s lover was another man. 

“Yeah, I’m gay,” was my husband’s frankly flippant explanation. “I think I’ve been gay since I was 12 years old. I hadn’t acted on it before. I just didn’t feel ready.” To say I was shocked was the ultimate understatement. My whole world suddenly collapsed around me. My life was a like a demolished building – and my once much-loved husband had pressed the detonator. 

I needed to rediscover my own identity, after decades of being a wife and mum and putting my own desires and needs at the very bottom of the list

Fast forward three-and-a-half very difficult years and the beginning of 2023 saw me attempting to seriously move on. I wanted to put the past behind me and look towards the future – a future I knew I was going to have to rebuild. 

I also needed to rediscover my own identity, after decades of being a wife and mum and putting my own desires and needs at the very bottom of the list. I’d had some therapy and, although this had helped, I’d found it to be a long, drawn-out process. I needed a stark reboot – a kind of caring and nurturing short, sharp, shock treatment, if there was such a thing. And this is where the horses come in. 

Equine therapy? The healing power of horses?

A friend told me about a new week-long equine therapy retreat she’d heard about taking place on the remote Indonesian island of Sumba. The brainchild of Professor Dr Andreas Liefooghe, a chartered psychologist and psychotherapist of many years standing in addition to being an equine expert, he founded Operation Centaur in London in 2005 after witnessing how well soldiers with severe PTSD responded to horses. Now 18 years on, he was launching ‘Retreat and Conquer’ – a holistic, five-day, four-night retreat in which horses would play a central role.

Professor Dr Andreas Lifeooghe, the organiser of the retreats

“When we connect with a horse, we don’t just connect with an incredible animal – we also connect with a disavowed part of ourselves,” the Professor was quoted as saying. “In traditional therapy, this can take a very long time. Horses, however, do in therapy what they have always done for us: help us get there faster.”

In traditional therapy, this can take a very long time. Horses, however, do in therapy what they have always done for us: help us get there faster.

Having read from former participants that just five days of equine therapy had achieved more than several years of weekly therapy and that there was no requirement to be an experienced rider, I was sold. This sounded like just what I needed. It was time to treat myself and concentrate wholly on me. A once-in-a lifetime trip that would push me out of my current highly uncomfortable comfort zone. And hopefully enable me to start seeing the world in glorious, positive technicolour again.  

Sumba is a paradise

The word ‘paradise’ tends to be bandied about with casual abandon, but the island of Sumba truly is a Garden of Eden. Carpeted with lush rice terraces and tropical forests as swaying palm trees cast a silhouette against a cloudless blue sky, white-gold beaches run around the island like a ribbon. The resort of Nihi Sumba, situated on stunning Nihiwatu beach and tagged the ‘Edge of Wildness’ was a lesson in understated luxury. 

I settled into my truly heavenly accommodation – complete with white-linen canopied king-size bed, massive balcony overlooking the Indian ocean, and outdoor bathroom. The first evening saw us sat in a circle with Andreas and his fellow psychotherapist, Raoul Aparici, embarking on a session of group therapy. 

Minus the two professionals, we numbered eight and were all there for different reasons – burn-out, grief, the breakdown of a relationship, depression, anxiety, exhaustion, or a combination of all six. There was little small-talk. The object of the exercise was to open up. 

For some, this proved difficult but I had no problems.  Think the proverbial dam overflowing its banks, the metaphor being doubly apt as the tears flowed as profusely as my words. Afterwards, I felt a sense of relief and a letting go of anxiety. It would be the next day before we even encountered the horses. 

Meeting the horses

Perched on a hillside above the beach, we heard the thunder of hooves before these magnificent animals came into view. What a sight they made as they galloped, free as the day they were born, across the sands. Sumba’s horses are at the heart and soul of the resort – and indeed the island as a whole. Numbering 22 in all, the herd is made up of ponies native to the island, former racehorses, and equines that have been rescued. 

After their run, the horses roamed among us. We had been instructed to ‘buddy-up’ with the animal we felt most connected to. For me, there was only one contender – a beautiful, sleek chestnut mare who went by the name of Bindi. I approached her and tentatively stroked her nose and patted her neck. To my surprise, I wasn’t scared. She towered over me, big and beautiful – a bit like Beyonce in equine form – and when she looked at me, it felt like a little she could see inside my soul. 

The horses galloping along the shoreline

Having bonded with our horses, we took them for a walk and then a ride along the beach. I found myself singing to Bindi but felt liberated, rather than foolish. More therapy followed that evening. While some of our number struggled with notion of what the horses were actually doing for us in a therapeutic sense, I instinctively felt that I ‘got’ it. 

Bindi’s reflection 

Bindi was my mirror image – or rather the reflection of who I wanted to be, who I could be. She was confident and wouldn’t be cowed. Nobody puts Bindi in the corner! She was just herself – there was no other creature she could possibly be – and that was more than good enough. She lived in the moment. For her, the only reality was the here and now. I longed to be a version of Bindi in human form. I had been once. I was determined to be so again. 

Sitting on Bindi’s back on day three as she swam in the warm waters of the Indian ocean is a memory I shall cherish forever. It was scary but exhilaratingly so. If I could do that, I could do anything. That afternoon, following another session of group therapy, we were divided into pairs and instructed to tell our life stories to our partner as we sat on the beach. I was coupled up with a girl I had not immediately bonded with but by the end of the session, I felt very close to her. 

Swimming with the horses

Moving forward

As day turned to night and a bonfire blazed on the beach, we wrote individual postcards to ourselves which we then consigned to the flames. My message said goodbye to the old traumatised me – or at least the one from the past three-and-a-half years. It was a symbolic gesture, but I could feel it working. I felt free. A formal one-to-one therapy session took place before we embarked on a couple of days R & R. Once again, the tears flowed, but these were different to the ones I’d shed at the beginning of the week. I could see a future I felt positive and happy about. I felt calmer and more at peace than I had at any time since life, as I’d known it, had imploded. 

Last night reflections by the bonfire

It had only been five days but felt much longer. I am still a work in progress as I get to grips with a life I neither chose nor envisaged. But I’m getting there – and that is due, in no small part, to ‘Retreat and Conquer’ and my beautiful Bindi.

Details

Alison James was a guest of Retreat & Conquer Nihi, which has four nights’ full-board from £8,295pp, including all equine therapy and activities.

Retreat and Conquer

The next one runs from 25 – 29 November. Fly to Tambolaka airport via Bali.

Retreat and Conquer are planning retreats in the United Arab Emirates and Scotland in addition to Sumba where the next five day retreat takes place in November 2023.

Read more: Recovering from injury is about more than the physical

Alison James

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