Yarns Without Threads 

Breakfasting alone in a chilled, dark bar room, I perused the spa brochures in a new light. Should I go to Baden A, the Caracella, where I would 'float on a wave of well-being' and 'share a tingly feeling with water sprites of all ages'; or Baden B, the Friedrichsbad: 'No swimming costume necessary. Creme service not available on Sundays'? If I tell you that it was Sunday, you will understand why half an hour later I was in the car park beneath the Caracella, floating on a wave of ill-being after my third encounter in thirteen hours with the exclamation mark on the multilingual 'Please pay!' displays in such establishments.

They didn't sell trunks, so I bought the cheapest pair in the gift shop: yellow and blue, more pant-like than my pants. ... and though I've been rather spoilt by regular geothermal dips in the land of my Icelandic in-laws, the hot outdoor pools were undeniably soothing and invigorating in just the right measure. ...

There was an excellent waterfall under which I stood, or rather was pinned: rather like being at the bottom of one of those rubble chutes when a labourer empties a barrow of broken breezeblocks down the spout from the fifteenth floor, but marvellously restorative on shoulders bowed out of position by a Eurohiker bag full of books, food and chromed vehicle accessories. After I'd been battered into watery submission, my place was taken by a full-chested fraulein whose bikini top was never likely to challenge the forces of gravity, motion and male willpower. It was an arresting display, but I couldn't help thinking that the target audience wasn't quite as enthusiastic as one might have imagined.

I soon found out why. Proceeding up a spiral staircase and through a steamed-up glass door marked 'Eucalyptus sauna', I found myself in a pine-benched hothouse that stank like the devil's own Sinex and was populated by very many naked people. I'd like to say I didn't know where to look, but I did, and was frankly shocked. A man with a girl I sincerely hope was his teenage granddaughter; two fifteen-year-old blokes with wandering eyes and towels rising in their laps. Not wishing to be seen to endorse such a spectacle, I almost felt obliged to castigate the benign middle-aged participants. 'You, sir - bratwurst and two veg. Should be ashamed of yourself. And, madam - turn about please . . .Yes -just as I thought: dumplings and Black Forest.' The traditions of German public nudity and hypocritical British prudery, established at least as long ago as 1608, were alive and well in one compact scenario.

There's only so much fun you can have watching sweat tributaries congregate into hairy-fleshed valleys, and when I found my overheated brain urging me to deliver a ringing tattoo of slaps upon the next fat bottom that came in through the door, I struggled to my feet, dressed soporifically and set off for the hills.