Piestany Spa, Slovakia

The spas in Hungary and the Czech Republic went down a treat with the Oldies, so it is no surprise that our first stop in Slovakia is a spa town. Piestany  Spa is the oldest and best-known spa in the country. Humans have lived here since the early Stone Age, would you believe! Due to the thermal springs, which of course didn’t freeze in winter, there was apparently no shortage of game in the area. Making it a hot spot for hunters, I suppose.

Our campsite is in a great – and easy to remember – location, in Banka on the bank of the River Vah. In leafy, quiet surroundings, it is only a short bike ride from Piestany town centre. I instantly feel at home here as the campsite owners are big bird lovers. Their menagerie includes budgerigars, canaries, a parrot and, bizarrely, an emu. Told you they are big bird lovers. No prizes for guessing who is cock of the walk round here!

Piestany spa is located on an island in the middle of the River Vah. The symbol of the spa, the Crutch Breaker, on the Kolonádový pedestrian bridge already promises great things. The elegant Art Nouveau Thermia and Irma Hotels, the beautiful spa buildings and the large, wooded spa park immediately impart a feeling of well-being. Just being here is relaxing, though, for my liking, the peacocks in the park could pipe down a bit, the noisy …. Ooops! Peacocks also seem to be a beloved symbol in this town. They appear on everything from buildings to beer. I’d better be careful what I say about them or my name will be mud!

On that note, the Oldies couldn’t wait to give the famous Piestany sulphurous mud a try. It was the first time they’d visited a medicinal spa and they seemed bewildered by the huge range of treatments available. But they took the plunge and signed up for the receptionist’s suggestion of a combination of a mud bath, mirror bath and dry wrap. They obviously had no clue what this actually entails. I couldn’t wait to see what’s in store for them!

The next day, the Oldies turn up at the appointed time, both looking a tad nervous. On arrival, they are each given a ‘bathing costume’ – basically an elasticated tube of material – and are told to get changed. A few minutes later, they emerge from their respective cubicles. His Lordship, in his dark brown ‘skirt’ with splits up the sides, cuts a dashing figure, reminiscent of a Roman gladiator. Her Ladyship looks like a sack of potatoes.

After a shower, they slowly descend the steps into the mud pool. His Lordship slips elegantly into the murky 41°C water. Her Ladyship’s outfit, which comes up to her armpits, fills with air as she enters the pool, giving her an uncanny resemblance to the Michelin Man.

The bottom of the pool has an ankle-deep layer of the sulphurous mud, which, judging from the Dynamic Duo’s reaction, is even hotter than the water. They soon become accustomed to the temperature, however, and look as happy as pigs in muck.

After their allotted 10 minutes, the Oldies’ minder reappears, telling them to get out and have another shower. The ‘mirror bath’ turns out to be a pool of thermal water. At 39°C, it is a notch cooler than the mud bath, but from my perch in the changing rooms even I can see that the Oldies are really feeling the heat at this stage. My paint is practically peeling at the mere thought of it. I bet they can’t wait for a lovely cold shower afterwards.

Time’s up and the minder returns. ‘Out now. No shower!’ he orders. They’re sent back to their cubicles and are told to divest themselves. They are each wrapped up like mummies, first in a sheet, then in a thick blanket. If they thought they were hot earlier, this is where the real sweat fest begins. I bet the heavy breathing from His Lordship’s cubicle can be heard back in Bratislava!

Another interminable fifteen minutes pass before they are released from their bindings. ‘We can have a shower now, right?’ they pant. Their minder guffaws in derision. ‘NO shower. Get dressed. Dovidenia!’

How the Oldies manage to pull on their clothes back on over their sweaty skin, I will never know. They stagger to the nearest café – luckily only a few steps from the spa door – and order a couple of fresh lemonades.

Boy, do they look a sight. They’re like a pair of beetroots. Roasted beetroots. And, boy oh boy, do they stink! The pong of sulphur off them is overpowering. I am already getting flashbacks from Hungary (see: ‘Villainy in the Vineyards ‘). But thank goodness for small mercies. At least they are quiet for once. Well, apart from the heavy breathing and slurping noises. They are concentrating so hard on getting their body temperatures back to normal, it’s a full ten minutes before either of them can utter a word. And the verdict?

‘That was fantastic! We’re definitely going to do that again.’

I know now what my spa outfit will be from now on. Pass the clothes pegs please!