Deep Tissue Massage

As for me, on the third day of a silent retreat (during which my daydreams were becoming increasingly vivid) the Russian deep tissue massage was just about the perfect treatment. After long runs and walks on the beach previously, this 1.86m (6ft 2in in old language) bloke was not just soothed by Mardi’s opening and closing gentle strokes but also invigorated and smoothed by the sports massage techniques used for the interim sixty minutes.  It felt gorgeously indulgent and languidly slow, seeming to last twice the time.

What’s great about this combination is that the opening really prepares your body for the more vigorous strokes that are to come. You’re just seeping into the table in a bodily sigh when kneading fingers start to find their way deep inside your shoulder blades and into those twisted sinews in your neck and shoulders.  Oh, the burden of all that money, I kept imagining, as Mardi’s healing hands glided over my back, tackling one vertical side at a time.

Before long her sterling work had even erased my fictional worries and as the sun set behind the southern Gold Coast, I began to drift into a place of warmth and darkness not dissimilar from sleep. This was deep tissue work of the highest calibre, the sort of touch that releases weeks of stress and floods the muscles with such a strong feel-good factor that they’ll be good for weeks to come. As the back work continued it was fast, direct and utterly rejuvenating. Finally, this part of the massage drew to a close with feathery touches that settled everything down again.