I share little in common with the royal family, but like certain members of that beleaguered group, 2024 turned out to be a particular annus horribilis for me. With sorrows coming at me, not as single spies but in bloody great battalions (I won’t bore you with the details), I decided to take action by spending a week at a specialist clinic in Austria being pickled, pricked, pummelled and poked.
It’s been 50 years since the eccentric German entrepreneur Rolf Deyhle founded a permanent centre for what became known as the ‘FX Mayr Cure’. He bought the impressive property from a golf club and a former student of Franz Mayr, an Austrian gastroenterologist who focused on the regeneration of the intestines.
Having studied the complexities of the human gut, he concluded that lasting contentment lay not in the fripperies of the outside world but deep within the bowels of our digestive system. By eating healthily and proportionately, he surmised that a happy countenance would naturally follow. The fact that so many of the great and the good still flock to this remote corner of Carinthia suggests the clinic is onto something.
The Mayr Medical Resort is a cross between an upmarket nursing home and an even more upmarket private hospital, with a preponderance of beige and acres of comfy armchairs. The unfeasibly attractive physicians, dressed in pristine lab coats, are so upbeat that they make run-of-the-mill doctors seem dowdy and inadequate by comparison.
Of course, attentive staff is one thing, but what about the myriad treatments on offer? Did any of them actually help alleviate my year-long despondency? I like to think I have a good nose for quackery, and while much of what goes on here is standard wellness fare – plenty of meditation, therapy sessions and workouts – a few of the remedies border on woo-woo excess. The hayflower detox, for instance, involved a physician wrapping bags of hay attached to hot water bottles round my chest, supposedly to ‘promote circulation and boost liver function’. Other than feeling uncomfortably sweaty and slightly foolish, I can’t say I noticed any mood-enhancement.
Similarly, being made to float in a small pool surrounded by bags of hot mud left me cold, as did being smothered in layers of scratchy sea salt. Furthermore, having allowed my face to be used as a pincushion, I remain doubtful about the efficacy of acupuncture. But like most of my fellow guests, I was here chiefly for the famously strict diet that every patient must adhere to.
At first, I balked at the thought of having to survive on tiny pots of plain yoghurt
At first, I balked at the thought of having to survive on tiny pots of plain yoghurt, slices of buckwheat bread along with various spreads, broths and supplements. But by day three both my weight and, more importantly, my mood had lifted considerably. After careful examination, the delightfully named Dr Ursula Muntean-Rock put my low mood, lethargy and inability to deal with life’s challenges down to the amount of gunk I’d been carting around in my gut – the rotting residue of a thousand ready meals.
As an ultra-processed apologist, I’d been merrily inhaling cornflakes and cupcakes with barely a thought for what it might be doing to my insides. Likewise, I had regarded booze as a legitimate shield against 2024’s sorrow-inducing hordes. So I was pleasantly surprised by how quickly my mind and body adapted to the sudden change in food intake. A week of strict portion control, free from alcohol, sugar and all those other gut-rotting nasties, left me feeling revitalised and ready to face whatever horrors 2025 has to throw at me. Other guests told me they were there for the full three weeks.
Barring the odd G&T backslide, I’ve so far managed to stick to ‘the cure’, including Ursula’s advice to chew every mouthful at least 40 times to aid digestion. I’m pleased to report that so far, 2025’s slings and arrows have yet to penetrate. As we continue to eat ourselves to an early grave, perhaps our nanny state should think about promoting the health benefits of repetitive chewing practices and strict portion control. Such simple, easy-to-follow advice shouldn’t be the preserve of wealthy types.
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