Vamanos a Espana 2: ESPA and CAVA

Nants ingonyama bagithi Baba, Sithi uhm ingonyama...

No it's not the Lion King, but my first full day in Murcia began thus: I rolled over in my delicious bed post disruptive wake up call from the obliging concierge, opened my eyes and saw what, in my as yet uncaffeinated pre 9am daze, I mistook to be a full on Sahara style, Circle of Life changing blazing sunrise shining out through the clouds amidst a flush pink sky. So sure it was actually the moon setting--moon, sun, same thing--but still, a pretty unbeatable start to a day promising everything from massage to cava uncorked.

It began with the ESPA. A Moroccan-themed tranquil recluse complete with mosaic steam room, sauna, ice fountain, lifestyle showers, a "vitality" pool as well as a gorgeous properly heated indoor lagoon perfect for a post-treatment dip. Split into two groups of three, we descended to the minus 1 level of Mar Menor and braced ourselves to make the ultimate decision: massage or facial? Three massages assigned later, we found ourselves, whisked into the locker room so as to tuck into luscious terry cloth robes and peruse the spa's offerings before our masseuses came a-calling.

The first feat of relaxation which greeted us (myself newly changed into "Auntie Rita" i.e. the PR's bikini which she had to lend to me on account of my foolishly neglecting to pack one) was the "vitality pool:" aka a jacuzzi with a vengeance designed to "cleanse the body and skin, relax and sooth aching muscles." Indeed. Basically akin to a stove top in which you are supposed to immerse yourself, whence fiddling with the buttons to activate the various cavities meant to pump water strategically aimed at particular body parts in need, poor Sophie had the misfortune of standing beneath this previously unnoticed enormous spout which, when activated, essentially sent forth highly pressurized and particularly violent deluge, knocking the unsuspecting journalist right off her pretty feet. There was also no obvious way to shut it off.

An hour or so later, when we were in our massages and group two was investigating the facilities before their treatments, we heard an explosion of water and the shrieking of writers reverberating through the spa. Giggling to ourselves, I know what's going on, we all thought. One girl later described the experience as a "rhinoceros pissing" down on her. Pretty close.

Ice fountain: you're meant to crush ice in your hands to cool down your body temperature in between sauna/steam room stints. Improves circulation

Upon escaping the violent pool with our vitality still somewhat intact, we fled for the sanctuary of the steam room and/or sauna. Unfortunately, the steam room was fairly un-steamy, so sauna it was. But what a sauna. The light in the delectably hot wooden box morphed from yellow to blue to green to red...color therapy, allegedly. Whether or not it worked? I can't say for sure it was the color flicking sauna or the fact that my email had remained unexcavated all morning, but whence I emerged from the treatment area post-massage, my spirits were undeniably elevated.

Then the clock nearly stroke midday, so it was back to the locker room to prepare for treatment time. Going into our lockers, we pulled out our intended outfit change--a lovely paper half thong. And just to make you feel extra special, the lovely folks at ESPA found it in the goodness of their fashion conscious hearts to add a frilly little ruffle trim round the edge of said offending paper garment. Not one to bite that hand that massages me, I slipped it on with pride and made my way back to the waiting area.


Treatment time. Beckoned down the dimly lit corridor, I soon found myself sitting in a chair in a sort of patio area outside my treatment room being given some serious reflexology, complete with warm and fragrant foot soak. And I have to say, being Asian and addicted to Tui Na and rest, this was the best damn reflexology I have ever had from a blonde haired and blue-eyed technician. "Are you having problems with your tummy?" she asked me. Yes, yes, a few days earlier, I'd come down with some form of stomach flu. You're good, you're very good.

Then it was time for the true magic to begin. Headed back inside, I climbed up on that table and allowed for an hour of complete relaxation to ensue. Medium pressure, the technician was skilled and soft-handed, and the treatment a traditional massage with the odd Asian twist thrown in (i.e. a pressure point here, a bit of head scooping there).

And while she didn't mount me and begin to violate my spine the way I like it in Chinatown, I have to say, when I felt the treatment was moving towards its closure, and the technician leaned over and softly whispered to me that now it was time for the "specialty," that she would just go and prepare it and then return, I bristled with extreme disappointment when she returned bearing a small tray con tea cup. Oh, I thought. Special tea.

Good thing there's also a massage in store for tomorrow.

Me and my "special tea" post massage

Post treatments, special tea and the rest, it was time to emerge from the soft tune-filled and gently lit spa into the glorious Spanish sunshine. Sandwich lunch in the hotel's Club House to be followed by a trip into the city of Murcia for site seeing (i.e. shopping).

View from my balcony

So we loaded our relaxed selves into the back of the Scooby Doo van and trekked into Murcia. To our delight, upon arriving in la ciudad, it was smack dab in the middle of siesta (god I love a country that siestas in the winter when the heat can't be claimed as explanatory) and, sadly, the cathedral was closed.

Despite Auntie Rita's best attempts to make a special exception in the case of the "British Press," walking up to the enormous (not to mention fast-bolted) double iron doors and banging on them, God did not fall victim to her PR moves and his house remained shut to the British press until after siesta. Por favor, he has three incarnations, after all, let the Almighty have his midday nap.

I guess that means we have to go shopping! Conjectured the six fashion journalists. And shop we did. Though we had to circumnavigate this whole siesta thing (convenient for avoiding cathedrals, not so good for exercising the wallet), we managed to unearth a few gems from the city's local shops. The triumph of the excursion was a quaint little boutique called Bimba & Lola. Though closed when we first walked past, what I saw in the window spoke to my gut and I knew we had to return whence they reopened at four. And return we did. And shop we did. I, in particular, took home a sweet little shaggy cream cardigan with black piping and a little bow. Kimberley from the Telegraph scooped up a massive black cocktail ring.

Eliisa and Sophie

Then it was off to another one of Intercontinental's massive properties in Murcia: La Torre. Whence we arrived at Mar Menor's slightly more corporate hermana, we were greeted by smiling sommellier Jose Carrasco of the restaurant La Vinoteca with five bottles of Cava lined up juicily in front of him, just waiting to glide down a journalist's throat.

Jose explained to us about how cava is made, what kind of grapes, the process--what makes it different from Prosecco or Champagne, how to drink it, with what kinds of food to prepare it and so on. When Jose asked what we smelled in the fifth and final cava, which was a strange hue of orange, Sophie piped up: you know when you throw all your veg and leaves into a pile outside and let them rot? Eeeew, it did smell like compost. Can we switch to wine now? Jose, more than happy to oblige, rolled out some tasty riojas to accompany our ensuing four course meal at Vinoteca.

Considerably stuffed, cava'd and ESPA'd, it was time for six sleepy and content journalists to Scooby Doo it back to Mar Menor and back into that jet bath from which you can watch tv. Another day's hard work.

Jennifer and her adorable little vintage-esque camera

Sally scopes out the cava's bubbles whilst we explore the importance of yeast

mmm, mmm tasty. Kimberley takes a big whiff.

I match the cava!