The water began to churn as soon as the young woman pushed the switch on the control panel. A white foam, fuelled by a vial of essential oils, gradually started to build as jets of water pummelled my body from beneath. They kneaded my torso and almost tickled the soles of my feet, but still managed to create a curious sense of weightlessness.

When I first stepped into the bath, the water had been sur-prisingly cool. Not quite warm enough, in fact. I hadn’t known what to expect from the hydrotherapy treatment, and the tepid water had seemed like a bad start. One of the brochures had referred to “underwater massage”, which had conjured up images of ladies with strong hands wearing scuba gear. There wasn’t room in my bath for a diver, and the slender attendant was professional in a calming sort of way. She read my thoughts and told me not to worry.

The woman left, and slowly but surely the temperature of the water increased. After just five minutes, the small of my back was numb with satisfaction, an emotion that had tiptoed up and taken hold of my entire being. I could feel the tension draining from my shoulders and a comforting, jelly-like sensation building in my legs. Little by little, the white foam rose, and the tiny bubbles fizzed in my ears. It was the closest I’ll ever get to floating on a fluffy white cloud.

The decision to come to Italy for a bit of pampering stemmed from my having spent the previous month roughing it in Tibet. Lorraine, my girlfriend, had helped to choose the hotel on a hill in Lombardy. She’d been excited by the prospect of a regenerative spa on site. I’d been more interested in the award-winning restaurant, but now I could see what she meant.

We met up again after our treatments to float around the garden that gazed down over the plains of Franciacorta to a shimmering Lake Iseo. We’d both followed our baths with a mud treatment that involved being basted like a turkey and wrapped in plastic and blankets in a dim cubicle for half an hour. I felt like Tom Kitten after the rats trussed him up in a pudding, but the warmth seeped through my pores and into my bones, sinking me still deeper into a profound sense of calm and relaxation. Lorraine thought it had been a little like going five rounds with Mike Tyson, but in a nice way.

The L’Albereta hotel caters for two basic categories of guest. There’s the type who checks in for medical reasons, complete with a detox diet and sessions down at the wellness department, and there’s the type who prefers just to dabble at the spa and receive most of their wellness in the restaurant.

MEMBERS OF the health brigade were easily identified. They wandered along the corridors of the converted 19th-century villa enveloped in white dressing gowns and a haze of essential oils. Most appeared to be feeling rather sorry for themselves. As a saying in my family goes, they looked as if they’d just tossed up for a good dinner and lost, which was very fitting under the circumstances.

These residents sipped their filtered carrot juice in their own dining area, while we got to enjoy the real thing. When first reading about the restaurant, I’d been impressed by mention of its two Michelin stars, but more intrigued by one of the chef’s signature dishes. Risotto alla milanese is one of my all-time favourites anyway, but Gualtiero Marchesi’s version came with a glamorous twist. It was served with gold leaf.

After I’d fenced with the world’s longest grissini, loosened up with a cocktail glass of cucumber-and-tomato yoghurt eaten with a light almond biscuit, and nearly passed out over luscious Mediterranean tiger prawns and asparagus tips flanked by thick slices of black truffle, the illustrious dish arrived.

The rice was very orange, thrown into relief by its round, black-rimmed plate, and emitted a strong smell reminiscent of my mother’s saffron buns. Positioned delicately in the middle of the sea of risotto was a large square of pure gold. It shimmered in the way that Shirley Eaton shimmered in that Goldfinger scene with James Bond.

Perhaps because I had the gilded death of the Bond girl in mind, I asked if it was safe to consume. Lorraine cast her eyes to the heavens, being better versed in matters culinary and golden, but the waiter was polite about my lack of learning.

“It is 24-carat gold,” he told me, “but sure you can eat it.” I can report that the risotto was delicious. The gold leaf wasn’t. It didn’t taste of anything. It didn’t have a smell, either; nor did it have any texture that you could feel with your tongue. All I could do was see it, but boy did it look spectacular.

THERE’S SOMETHING distinctive about a hotel that makes you feel as if you’re at home. Although we’d been in residence for less than a day, in a funny way it already felt as if we’d been here for ages. It wasn’t just because this place seethed with essential oils, their aroma even penetrating up into our bedroom. The hotel also oozed sophistication, exhibiting modern sculptures among its antique furnishings, but did so without the stuffiness that so often accompanies such establishments in northern Europe.

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