Forget ‘Eat, Pray, Love’. My holiday mantra is ‘Dance, Drink, Shag’

The trouble with “finding yourself” is that by the time you do, there’s nobody home. At least that’s been my experience. Nevertheless, inspired by Elizabeth Gilbert’s book Eat, Pray, Love, I ventured into Asia to get in touch with my inner self.

Well, I tried, I truly did. My first foray was to a yoga retreat in Bali. I was pretty sure I’d take to yoga. I mean, what’s not to like about an exercise regime which allows you to lie down and go to sleep?

Eventually, I did find self-fulfilment in Asia... lounging in a Sri Lankan beach bar, drinking cocktails, interspersed with occasional dancing.Credit: Getty Images

But as I sat cross-legged on the mat, the beaming instructor began to chant. When I rolled my eyes, he lectured me about the importance of creating harmony between mind and body through the power of prayer. My heart sank. “I’m not sure I can work on my inner thighs and my inner child simultaneously,” I grumbled.

“Just listen to your body,” he purred between oms.

I explained that my body and I are not exactly on speaking terms. “If my body does get back to me, I’ll let you know, OK?” I muttered, skulking exit-wards.

The instructor immediately pounced, contorting me into positions even Houdini couldn’t get out of. It was like the Kama Sutra – only without the sex. Still, being folded into human origami was a breeze compared to the compulsory aura-cleansing.

An hour later, the instructor admitted that I suffer from a third eye infection and gave up.

My meditation is more accidental than transcendental – a coma of boredom which overtakes me in bank and loo queues. But if meditation retreats were not my cup of chai, what about a nice relaxing spa resort?

In Thailand, there’s a menu of massage therapies designed to de-stress you. Ah, it’s so nice to feel kneaded. But what I hadn’t gleaned is that “wellness” spas are also dedicated to “clean eating”.

At my Ko Samui eco lodge, the hills were alive with the sound of muesli and the only protein I consumed was from the bugs and slugs lurking on the underside of organic lettuce leaves. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t like anything eating my salad before I do.

After a few monotonous days munching on a bale of hay washed down with a cup of skimmed air, I screamed, “My name is Kathy and I am not an aqua-holic.” When a concerned therapist proceeded to stalk me wielding a colonic irrigation nozzle, I broke the land-speed record getting the hell out of there.

OK, if yoga, meditation, chakra-balancing and detoxifying weren’t for me, what about an intrepid escapade? It was time to build some character by facing my fear of ocean swimming. And what more adventurous setting than the sheer limestone islands of Phang Nga Bay, made famous in the James Bond film The Man with the Golden Gun.

I call it the disco diet because one morning I woke, looked at my Fitbit, and discovered I’d clocked up 12,000 steps the previous day.

As soon as our boat dropped anchor, I plunged into the tranquil sea. The limestone makes the water milky, so I was basically swimming by braille. But, fully committed to the Eat, Pray, Love mantra of self-improvement, I kept stroking strongly. All was going well until I felt the brush of something muscly on my leg. I swam on, thinking it was just a current. But there it was again – an exploratory nudge from something big beneath the water.

There’s a reason fish never look truly relaxed: because something much, much bigger is always trying to eat them. James Bond may be a death-defying hero, but I doubt he can walk on water the way I did – I was back on that boat in a nanosecond.

The Captain laughingly maintained that it was probably just a Komodo dragon. “Did you say ‘just’!?” I stammered, quaking. From then on, I embraced my preferred holiday activity – reading, in which there is not much potential for death.

Eventually, I did find self-fulfilment in Asia. Not with any hippie-trippy mumbo jumbo but by lounging in a Sri Lankan beach bar, drinking cocktails, interspersed with occasional dancing. It proved quite slimming, too.

I call it the disco diet because one morning I woke, looked at my Fitbit, and discovered I’d clocked up 12,000 steps the previous day. At first, I was perplexed. Had I bonked the bartender up and down the beach? My tired tootsies then reminded me that I’d been busting out ABBA dance moves until dawn.

So yes, do visit Asia. But not to eat mung beans and pray to health gurus. Forgo “Eat, Pray, Love” for my life-enhancing mantra: “Dance, Drink, Shag”.

Oh, and by the way, Asia also affords the best photo opportunities. Being photographed next to elephants is not only sensationally slimming, but those pachyderm wrinkles will take years off you.

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