It’s like an old folks’ home,” my husband muttered as we were taken down the plush but low-ceilinged corridors of the new garden wing at Champneys in Tring. My own initial impressions were more Footballers’ Wives, having spied a scarily made-up woman gasping down a fag as she sped off in her silver BMW convertible.

But then we passed a figure in a towelling robe. Gazza! Looking small and desiccated, but trim and well, obviously off the sauce, he returned our curious looks with anxious, hunted eyes. So, to be precise, Champneys is an old footballers’ home.

The owner of the luxury spa chain has a soft spot for old sporting idols: George Best lived almost permanently and free of charge at the cheaper Champneys at Forest Mere, Hampshire. And after we surveyed our room — oppressively overheated with a calming view over the grounds adding to the geriatric ambience — we headed for a swim. Whereupon my husband came across Frank Bruno in the changing rooms: “Hiya, champ,” said Frank, effectively silencing any further conversation.

And Champneys is a marvellous halfway house for celebrities who’ve done battle with their demons — or the demon drink — post-Priory but before they are released back into the community, as it is safe, soporifically calm and with booze strictly available only at mealtimes.

For the rest of us, it provides an opportunity, in pleasant surroundings, to do whatever you need to drain the work-day adrenalin from your bloodstream. For my husband this involved lying around watching Football Focus. But I headed for the surprisingly small but well-equipped fitness centre, the star machine being a Vibrogym which Madonna uses, apparently, and claims to burn thousands of calories in ten minutes of idleness. I plugged it in and stepped on- board. It was like standing on top of a spin drier at full throttle. But then the gym attendant came over and unplugged it crossly. You can’t use the Vibrogym unless you pay £25 for a half- hour session.

Champneys has spent £10 million refurbishing Tring, its flagship spa, and the complex, which extends out of the original mansion — once owned by the Rothschilds — is huge and labyrinthine. The general vibe is Kelly Hoppen-esqe Eastern luxe: dark wood, orchids, leather seating, tinkly temple music. There is a new top-notch 25-metre swimming pool besides the existing leisure pool, which is surrounded by porn-movie palms and two hot-tubs, one outside on the terrace.

Having only ever visited Eastern European spas before, I have a beef with British hot tubs, which are too lukewarm to merit the name, and in Champneys case only half full. I want to luxuriate in muscle-easing heat. But there was no proper pore-flushing, wrinkle ironing steam room or sauna either, only feeble ones attached to each changing room, so you can’t sit and sweat with your husband.

But if you were able to lounge around improving your complexion with free steam you wouldn’t be so bothered about treatments, which are the engine of the Champneys economy. An hour-long facial costs around £65. On special sofas, each with a flower name, you wait to be called. My husband blushed to be addressed as “Rose” by a woman in a white coat who then made him put on paper boxer shorts for his firm but girlie sports massage.
I had a reasonable massage: less time spent twiddling my toes and more unknotting my computer-screen shoulders would have been useful. Then I had a Champneys facial which, well . . . I’m not the best person to ask about facials, since I find them deathly dull, but in this case a nice lady applied a variety of unguents and removed them for an hour, something I could probably manage myself. My husband did not notice any discern ible improvement when he looked up from the half-time scores. ()

It was around 5pm, a time on holiday when one seeks out the shortbread biscuits supplied with the tea and coffee-making kit. No such luck at Champneys. Snacking opportunities are, quite rightly I suppose, kept to a minimum. So we hung on virtuously until dinner.

The food at Champneys is delicious. I could eat their lunch buffet of salads, dips and hot dishes — mackerel and lamb curry on this visit — every day of my life. The breakfasts err on the über-healthy side: a selection of grains, seeds and stewed fruit to unblock an elephant’s alimentary canal. Fry-ups — or rather grill-ups — were available on request. Dinner, however, was proper restaurant food — my husband had beef, I had bream — it just came in rather teeny portions. My lemon tart was a sliver: I nearly ordered cheese as well. We were the only diners to order a whole bottle of wine. Most people sloped off to bed by 9pm or headed for a “musical soirée” in the main house.

Mealtimes gave us chance to examine our fellow guests most of whom were eating in towelling robes, which is at once oddly intimate and dehumanising. There were lots of mother and daughter combos and a few Bridget Jones types, such as one who placed on her table a packet of Marlboro Lights and a self-help book, then ordered pickily off-menu.

Helicopters are permitted to land in the grounds, and the TVs contain several Arab and Russian channels. It is opulent but with odd parsimonious touches: they take a £30 deposit if you hire one DVD and electronically tag the towels in case you pinch them. Supermodels and London media types head for Babington House: Champneys is for the uncool rich.

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