‘A seven-day bootcamp? That’s intense.” When a Dublin county footballer sounds alarmed at a fitness plan, doubts set in.
Some friends had visions of a freezing army barracks: “If you need rescuing, text and we’ll kidnap you.” “Oh God, will they take your phones off you?” Another is more optimistic: “It’s run by a celebrity – it’s probably more of a retreat.”
The celebrity is Operation Transformation's force-of-nature Kathryn Thomas.
And her Pure Results bootcamp happens to be located in the magical surroundings of the Inish Beg Estate near Skibbereen in west Cork, a place some might know as a wedding venue.
It’s a long way from an army barracks. Throw a log on the open fire in your cosy cottage of an evening, catch the sun in your little private garden, swim a few lengths in the pool, meditate on the deck overhanging the water while gazing on the gorse-covered hills where cattle graze and the only sounds are the baaing of lambs and birdsong.
Probably not quite what the Dublin footballer had in mind.
Or the three thirtysomething women, including two insomniacs, who arrived late on the Friday night, all of us wrecked and wired from work and an ill-considered Big Mac meal at Junction 8 on the journey down.
One sleepless night later, it was 7am on a dull Saturday and time to meet the 12 neighbours, workout partners, confidantes and motivators we would have met the night before if we’d bypassed McDonald’s.
Our ages ranged from early 30s to late 60s. We came in all shapes and sizes.
By 7.15am, the Pure Results team – Kathryn Thomas, Donncha O'Brien, Niall O'Callaghan, Jen O'Callaghan and Robyn Fitzsimons – had divided us into walkers, joggers and runners for a Kenyan running session around the gardens and woodlands.
It was early. We didn’t know each other. It was kind of cold. It was Saturday.
Was everyone thinking the same thing? “Was I mad to do this?”
Two women were worried about whether they were able for this at all. At least someone had said it.
By 8am we were back at the boathouse and it’s safe to say that none of us had ever encountered a breakfast like it.
One protein ball and a thick, nutty green smoothie for those on the weight-loss programme. Three protein balls for the fitness maintenance programme.
Flopping down on giant beanbags, staring silently at Skibbereen’s early-riser rowers cutting through the water, we filled up on herbal tea (the redberry one became a sad little treat after a while). Kathryn bid us farewell until Monday and we were reminded what to expect from caffeine withdrawals.
People started talking. We were from all over the country. Some came alone. Some with cousins, sisters-in-law, friends, and a husband and wife.
Everyone was anxious and nobody knew what to expect. It was difficult to imagine remembering everyone’s names.
As the first day dragged on in stops and starts, the following Friday felt centuries away. We were groggy, slow and still plugged into our real lives. By 11am snack-time (a dollop of hummus with raw veg made by in-house chef, New Zealander Michelle) it felt like 6pm.
And that was before the first proper bootcamp sessions had even started.
Burpees. Push-ups. Squats. Lunges. Boxercise. Core. For some it was the first time they’d ever heard those words. For others, it was at least 10 years since they’d worn lycra. A few thought their existing fitness would carry them through.
Little by little, everyone in those three categories learned something new about themselves. Resistance to team-building exercises eased slightly when the point became clear. During one such frisbee-based session, everyone had to reveal an unknown fact about themselves. One woman had three county medals; another won the Great Irish Bake-Off.
Sunday was a turning point. After a 6am start, the sun was out, our surroundings were even more spectacular and people were chirpy. But sore.
A yoga session and muesli (or porridge with coconut milk) breakfast had some healing powers.
Abs work on the deck nearly did us all in again. Running intervals provided the all-important “I really didn’t think I could do that” moments. The motivation and “you can do this” encouragement was mighty.
But the sight of ‘Sunday Service with Donncha’ on the day’s schedule was enough to make us jump in the car and not slow down until we crossed the Kildare border. If only we weren’t so exhausted.
It turned out group leader Donncha was a genius. He asked everyone to rate their energy levels out of 10. The average was five.
Discreetly ditching the pack of markers he had in his hand (part of the original, more active plan that might have triggered a mutiny), he led us outside for a walk and told everyone to talk to someone new.
The conversations were the start of an openness you don’t find with people you meet in the gym. Everyone had a reason for being there and all were about more than protein balls and how many burpees you could smash out in 30 seconds.
Arriving at our destination – the bridge connecting the island to the rest of the world – instructions were simple: stop talking, lie down, feel the sun on your face and listen to the sounds around you.
During those 20 minutes, a breakthrough was reached. Here we were in the sunshine, lying barefoot on the grass surrounded by bluebells and primroses with nothing to do or think about for the next four days except what we were told to do. All of which would only make us feel better and stronger. Even the assault course. It was time to give in.
By night two, we were falling into deep sleeps at 9pm. On day three, we had tanned faces, sparkly eyes, felt energised and clear-headed. There was agreement on day five that we’d be sad to leave on Friday. Deep fears of starvation weren’t realised (for most). Tuna quinoa patties for lunch and turkey curry for dinner kept us fuelled. We identified that cravings were mainly psychological and based on the fact that you were restricted to three meals and three snacks per day.
And you couldn’t access seven digestives or a bag of Tayto when you were bored for three minutes. Still, you’d miss the few biscuits after dinner. Or a mid-morning slice of apple tart.
Salt, sugar, (real) tea (with milk), coffee, eggs (no point without salt or pepper, see) were longed for. By the end of the week I committed to never looking at another nut or seed again.
The three of us escaped one night and went for dinner at a local hotel where we ordered a much less tasty version of the fish dinner that Michelle had cooked our comrades back at the Big Brother house. Realising we had been institutionalised and felt a bit sick, we resolved never to escape again.
Nutritionist Jen did food and juicing demos (now we can make our own protein balls). Her husband Niall, a trainer who we were all convinced had been a zenned-out, clean-eating, long distance runner his whole life presented his story. He’d only changed his static, pint-drinking, chip-eating ways 10 years ago aged 30. That was all the motivation you’d need to kickstart a new chapter.
Trips brought back memories of school tours and the Gaeltacht. A hike and night kayaking around Lough Hyne proved another level of challenge for some.
Whether it was a fear of heights or water, low energy levels, aching muscles or disbelief by one woman that she was in public wearing leggings, the old self-doubt nugget niggled. Not to be defeated though, all emerged triumphant. With no better reward than gazing out to Cape Clear or up to the stars from the middle of a pitch-black lake.
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” said a grandmother whose strength and wicked sense of humour grew by the day. “I never thought I could.”
A group of women, the Lough Hyne Lappers, went swimming in the marine lake every morning. We thirtysomethings decided we couldn’t leave the area without doing the same. Jumping in – copying our gurus in their woolly hats and socks– the shock of the water made us simultaneously laugh and grapple for breath.
The whole week was almost worth it just for the sleepful nights and day-long high we got from that dip.
On another sunny day, the ferry pulled up outside the boathouse and we sailed to Sherkin Island. The whoops of delight when we arrived at Silver Strand quietened slightly during a Plyofit session (different types of jumping up and down). We were told to write a feeling in the sand and words like “happy”, “high”, “free” and “childlike” appeared.
Those feelings made us leg it, shrieking into the ice-cold sea. No better remedy for aching muscles and we couldn’t believe we were lying on an Irish beach in April drying off our salty skin in the sun. Then it got cold again.
Maybe it was because the end of the week was approaching – and Kathryn the ultimate motivator was back– but people gave it their all (and then some) that day. Everyone was surprised at the power of their punches and jabs during boxercise.
During chicken pesto salad lunch on the beach and on the ferry back, more stories were shared between people who didn’t know each other a week before. Everyone knew each other’s name by now.
They talked about a time when they were at the highest levels of fitness, of children and families, businesses and hometowns, of the profound personal tragedies that drove them to find new ways of living.
As we got closer to the last day, real-life worries started to creep back into our rested minds. But we became more aware of the laughing from the other cottages during the day and the washroom in the evenings. Heads stuck out of windows to say something funny.
On Thursday night, we sat down for our last meal in the boathouse. For everyone – the team and participants – it was the end of a long and extraordinary week.
People shared their highs and lows. The high that encapsulated most of the stories was “I got my fight back”.
It’s hard to exaggerate how moving a statement like that was and how much it resonated among everyone.
Nobody came expecting miracles but everyone came to make a change. The added bonus was the beauty, isolation and very rare opportunity to switch off from real life that we all need now and again. The cost is €1,199 per person sharing or €1,399 single occupancy.
Oh yeah, and the group’s overall weight loss was 5st 3lb.
