I’m a man who can’t touch his knees, let alone his toes, without the audible twang of largely ignored hamstrings. I’m active, and fairly fit, but I’ve taken a distinctly male approach to my body: one that swings somewhere between pitched battle and willful disregard. So, what the hell was I doing heading up the M5 to a weekend yoga retreat? This sort of thing’s for the graceful (moi?), bendy (not for a while, if ever), quiet (rarely) devotee of well being, surely?

Under pressure from all sides, worn down by emails, requests to sponsor half-marathons and attend happiness seminars, we yearn for a break. The trouble is, the allotment needs weeding, the roof is leaking and the car insurance is about to expire. But so are you. So, the need for short breaks is transparent – and desperate.