Many activities are (falsely) wrapped up as ‘fun’ and ‘zany’, such as rock climbing (exhausting), zorbing (over in 30 seconds) and indoor skydiving (expensive and uninspiring).
Activities sold through outlets such as Wowcher and Groupon have shifted in recent years, with vendors often only turning to such platforms out of desperation, and then treating one-off customers like something they’ve found on their shoe soles before spending the rest of the visit trying to upsell a repeat ‘experience’ at several times the original price.
Two such ‘fun’ activities are the spa day and the massage.
The spa day, which is essentially a flat-roofed hotel with joss sticks, some potpourri in the communal area and Enya drifting through reception, offers very little beyond the chance to waste your money and convince yourself you’ve somehow got value after dropping 200 notes on supposed relaxation.
There’s a sauna which, although it sounds romantic in theory, usually involves worrying about verrucae and trying to find a space on hot slatted wood while breathing like an asthmatic pit pony.
Someone inevitably stretches too far, knocking into you, before edging closer than is comfortable and pouring yet more water on the coals.
Now struggling for breath, you weigh up your options: stay and hope for improvement (unlikely), stay and suffer (likely), or leave and find something marginally more relaxing.
You opt to leave, ignore the signs about showering, and drift towards the jacuzzi.
There is always an older couple in the bubble tub. Always.
They exchange knowing looks perfected at dinner parties while shifting around.
Before long, you find yourself in awkward proximity, trying to avoid accidental foot contact while keeping an eye on an unappealing layer of froth drifting just a little too close.
That feels like enough relaxation.
You head for the pool for a few lengths, but the same noisy family from earlier is there, clipping you ‘accidentally’ with foam floats.
Cold, irritated and fairly certain young Timothy has misjudged something nearby, you decide it’s time to get changed.
Then comes the highlight: the swimming costume spin-dryer.
A genuinely marvellous piece of engineering that briefly restores your faith in the experience.
After only half an hour, however, you feel obliged to get your money’s worth, so you book a massage, not realising it isn’t included.
Forty-five minutes later you wander back to the car park, lighter by another hefty fee and possibly clutching a ticket, still faintly coated in a mix of oil and chlorine.
But of course, you can’t seem ungrateful. So you send the inevitable message: “What a relaxing day.”
And with that, you ensure it all happens again next year, still wondering when the fun is supposed to begin.
- Brett Ellis is a teacher who lives in London Colney.
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