I have one superpower. I can shop — anywhere. For example, I once went to the quaint Bavarian town of Berchtesgaden and took a stroll around the limpid Königssee. On return from the Malerwinkel — the painter’s corner on the Bavarian mountain lake — I happened across a stall. Well, I had to stop. After all, here was a picnic table covered with white plastic tubs of varying sizes. “What’s in them?” I asked, as my husband collapsed onto a rock. “Aber es ist Murmeltier Salbe,” the woman in a dirndl said, as if surprised I didn’t know this famous local product. She mimed slathering it on her arms. Then she said in a louder voice, “Cream from the FETT,” she said, “of the marmot! Murmeltier Fett!”
Need you ask, reader, whether I wanted a small, medium or large pot of marmot fat ointment? Nein! I went large.
My husband’s superpower, on the other hand, is sleep. He can sleep anytime, any place, anywhere. So annoying. I take ages to nod off, as my mind takes me to dark places, such as why wasn’t I invited to the V&A Summer Party this year, and then I wake on the dot of 4am. I also have that particular nocturnal pleasure of being kept from sleep by someone else’s full-throated snoring.
So when I was invited to a five-day sleep retreat in Croatia — on the pristine, lavender-scented isle of Hvar — I studied the schedule with keen interest. We would fly to Split, then take a speedboat to Hvar and then reside at the Maslina Resort, set in hills minutes from the port of Stari Grad — literally “Old Town” — one of the finest and oldest towns in Europe. They had me at speedboat.
Everything was lavender-themed (the fragrant plant has noted soporific properties, even more powerful than reading a long blog by Dominic Cummings, or listening to an audiobook). There were to be lavender baths, lavender infusions, lavender dinners, hilltop meditation, sunrise yoga, foraging, sound healing. Yet, when my tired eyes rested on the promise of “sleep activity with an expert sleep practitioner” on the beach followed by a “herbal pouches massage” I yelped. I knew Ivo (the husband) had to come. One, his name works in Croatia, where everyone is called Ivo, and two, he was an expert sleep practitioner already but you can teach an old dog new tricks, etc, so I would take the coals to Newcastle. And I would learn how to sleep better.
Fast forward. We are both on a bespoke wooden speed boat passing Split on the port side while a school of dolphins is jumping in and out of the glassy waters of the bay yards from the boat. We have left a cold June dawn in Gatwick and the air is like champagne. “Look,” says the captain. And points at an unspoilt island ahead, where a low-slung structure hangs in the green olive and pine slope. We sliced through waters that the word “turquoise” barely does justice to, and within a few minutes were sipping our welcome drinks of ginger, lime and lavender in the most gorgeous hotel: all open to the weather, rugged surfaces, neutral tones, and supermodel-level staff padding around in cream and brown linen.
This is Maslina, the “mindful luxury” resort where our five-day slumber party is taking place — and it is dreamy. Yards from the sea with an insanely glamorous spa with black polished concrete walls, a hammam, and therapists so professional and practised that mine told me after my first massage that she’d had three offers of marriage that day already, from whimperingly grateful married men, of course.
The days were busy but packed with healthful wellness: our arrival day ended with a sunset dinner on the beach and then retiring to discover deep baths had been drawn for us and sprinkled with lavender and essences. The next day was strenuous: a pumping e-bike ride via Stari Grad to a secret lunch at an outdoor kitchen on a hilltop. After platters of octopus carpaccio, we watched chefs stuff a huge tureen steaming with onion and potato and olive oil and herbs first with langoustines and then a whole sea bass — a Croatian speciality called “gregada” (a sort of Balkan bouillabaisse). After this feast, we were invited to recline on cushions under a cherry tree while Damien, the resident guru, led a “guided meditation” session as we lay on our backs in the dappled shade. I mentally counted the minutes — no, seconds — until Ivo started snoring, which he did punctually within a minute of lying prone, as is his wont.
The rest of our little group maintained a tactful silence as they were asked to check in with the toes, ankles, ribcage and so on during Damien’s full body-scan designed to lower our cortisol levels for the rest of the day while Ivo’s little oinks and snuffles rent the air.
At this point I should probably confess that I was sleeping very badly thanks to a heavy cold, but I was relying on the “therapeutic power” of lavender to get me through. On day three I had to cut short a tour of the organic gardens and a chance to forage for my own herbs for my spa treatment later (the one with the herbal pouches) as I suddenly needed to go back to my room and have a nap. I’d had sunrise yoga followed by a beach picnic of baked goods and fruits and ham and cheeses all packed into wooden bento boxes, eaten as we sprawled in an olive grove, and I was frankly exhausted.
After that, I was revived enough to make my full-body Adriatic rejuvenation treatment in the wellness centre. But I did decline the offer of having a couples massage with Ivo, as I knew he would fall asleep and start snoring seconds after he’d spread himself on the table wearing his paper G-string pants. As he did at the “sunset sound healing session” in the garden later, while Damien tinkled chimes and struck bronze Tibetan bowls to make the music of the spheres and I gazed at the green pine trees rustling overhead and the blue, blue sky and felt restored in body and spirit. I learnt how to rest deeply to “honour every aspect of myself” and relax each body part so that when the therapist told me to “send loving attention” to my jaw, I could.
Just as I was beginning to relax into days of spa treatments, taking the wooden e-bikes into town for some urgent shopping, sleep activities — which Ivo continued to smash, dropping off minutes before his nearest challenger achieved unconsciousness — it was time to head back, and do it all in reverse. Come off the hillsides fragrant with thyme and lavender, with the seas flashing blue between the pines, stow the wooden bike, pack away the lavender bags and olive oil into our carry ons, leave our fabulous room with a view of the Adriatic for the claggy grey skies of the English summer, and hop into a speedboat to Split.
Since I’ve been home I’ve been using lavender oil and working on my breathing — filling my belly deeply for five, holding, and then releasing for five, and trying to breathe through my nose. I’ve been trying to be “present” during the day and off my phone at night, in bed. So far, so good — but I still wake on the dot of 4am. I’m counting the sleeps until I can come back.
