By day four I had got used to leaving a shovel of mud behind me in the toilet pits, an embarrassing effort at leaving no trace of myself for the person coming next.
We showered using buckets of ice-cold water filled from the nearest river or spring. We shivered through the nights because the sleeping bags that we had thought might be too hot turned out to be too thin. Myself, the boyfriend and nearly 200 others were on a week-long "yatra", a spiritual walk, in France. As holidays go it was different. Good different. I swear.
We walked in silence and in single file all day, bunking down in a different farmer's field each night, feeding the body with delicious vegetarian meals and the spirit with meditation sessions and dharma talks. Our colourful crocodile wound its way through corn fields and forests and villages. Lunch was a cheese baguette with a tomato eaten whole, the way you'd eat an apple. I am happy to report that the magic Quechua tent that practically pitches itself - thanks, Mr and Mrs Cleary - didn't let us down.
The yatra was a great experience, but by the time it ended, at the Buddhist centre of Tapovan, near Périgueux, we were ready for 10 days of chilling out in San Sebastian, Biarritz or whatever sun-drenched beach resort we were having ourselves.
Then I saw a poster on the yatra noticeboard, advertising a "deep rest and relaxation retreat", a week of silence high in the Pyrenees, two hours from Barcelona in the forest-filled grounds of an ancient stone farmhouse. Cocktails or quiet, suntans or spirituality, swimming pools or a swim for the soul? As far as I was concerned there was no contest.
The boyfriend took a little more persuading. "I'm on my holidays," he huffed before conceding that the yatra had, as promised, got us back on the spiritual path. Then he found out that "deep rest and relaxation" meant lots of lying down, meditating, and decided that catching up on a lifetime of lost sleep could be just what the doctor ordered.
In India and Ireland, my brother Brian had prepared us well for these retreats, taught us that getting sorted out early in the day, with sleeping arrangements and a place in the meditation hall, is no crime. When we arrived up at the farmhouse we spent a few minutes getting our bearings and locking eyes with the old white stallion that stood like a statue at the diningroom door. Then it was down to business. I was the first visitor to fill out a registration form and, therefore, the first to pick a bed in the female dorms. I decided I'd had enough of camping. Within a few minutes I had identified a lower bunk beside a large window in the corner, which had the bonus of being the only bed without an upper bunk.
It had my name written all over it. After checking that the boyfriend was ensconced in an equally well-appointed bottom bunk, I unpacked and had a lie down. I was very pleased with myself. Perhaps a little too pleased. I knew my rush to nab the best place to sleep conflicted with the philosophy of "not grasping" that I was here to embrace. I was pondering this when a lovely young girl came to ask a favour. She had epilepsy. She was afraid she would fall off a top bunk. Could she have my bed? Hmm. I was non-committal. My conscience eased as she began to chat to others in the room. Someone else would help, I reasoned - loan her a tent, perhaps. I've never slept in a tent in my life, I heard her say in a small voice.
By teatime she was still looking for a bottom bunk, and another woman came to ask on her behalf for my bed. I mumbled a maybe, still hoping I wouldn't have to give up my comfy domain. Later, in the meditation hall, a storm began to break. Thunder rolled; lightning flashed at the windows. Wondering at the selfish need that had held me back from doing the right thing, I turned and mimed to the girl that she could have my bed.
In the lashings of rain and the darkness I pitched my tent on a sloping patch of nettles that stung my sandal-clad toes. That night and all the other nights, listening to the crickets and the storms that wrestled elegantly with the tent, there was nowhere else I wanted to be.
I slept for three days. Meditated on my side, my stomach and my back for a few more. Each night we heard precious things from our teachers, Jaya and Gemma. In one talk Jaya read a quote from Rilke, the German poet, which went something like: "I was looking for a shop where the shopkeeper said: 'There is nothing here of any value.' I found it, and I did not leave. The richness of not wanting wrote these poems."
I would like the "richness of not wanting" to write these columns sometimes. My boyfriend would like to go to Disneyland next year.
