Wilbur Hot Springs is a natural spa resort a couple of hours north of us. "Since long before the days of the stagecoach, the hot springs hotel has been a source of respite, retreat and rejuvenation for weary travelers," its website states. "Throughout time, those who stay here leave feeling better than when they arrived – having warmed the body, eased the heart and replenished the soul," it continues. "Clothing is optional," it notes.
The hotel is the centrepiece of 1800 acres of the most beautiful Northern Californian countryside you could hope to find, and the centrepiece of the hotel is the fluminarium. This is where guests can enjoy the luxury of disrobing and dipping into three pools of sequentially more boiling liquid, letting the sulphur- and salt- infused waters soak into every nook and cranny, and emerging as pink and smooth as the day you were born. There's no talking, as it's a "meditative place" (the hotel receptionist said). Outside the fluminarium's large open-fronted hut is a cold swimming/plunge pool, a hot spring tub you can chat in, and a sauna.
To save money (fancy that!) Hannah and I had booked to camp, and after being read the rules - clothing is not optional anywhere but the flume area - we crossed the courtyard to get to our camping platform half-way up the hillside opposite the hotel. This took us directly past the pool, where two naked ladies on loungers smiled cheerfully at us.
The place is pretty old school hippie, with a high percentage of the clientele falling into the "gray dollar" bracket. It's not cheap, which is good as a number of other nearby spa places come with a bit of a reputation. Someone was going around on a walking stick, which is a strange site when they're nude, and a younger guy was on crutches. I know these waters are meant to heal, but that seemed a little optimistic.
Tent up, Hannah and I changed into our dressing gowns and flip-flopped down the hill again. A quick (mandatory) shower, and we found ourselves in the buff, in the California winter sun, heading to the flumes. It was a small matter of picking the least occupied, lowering yourself in as elegantly as possible (no laughing matter when you're in the squeaky) and soaking your cares away.
Doing a full monty with a load of strangers was a lot less intimidating than I thought. Unless you're going to sit and gawp at everyone coming and going, which would be fairly uncomfortable to you and everyone else, social norms do still apply. If you can defer to social norms when you and everyone surrounding you is starkers. It all felt very Roman, although that might just be growing up near Bath, and pretty soon I was relaxing and thinking of myself as a superstar gladiator of old, reclining after another glorious, rose petal showered victory in the coliseum.
All the quiet, meditative stuff did afford some time to reflect on the human condition in its purest form, and I came to observe that:
- Everyone except Hannah looks better fully clothed/in the dark/at a significant distance.
- In a quick statistical study of adult human males, I'm in quite a high percentile for hairiness (I'd like to thank my parents...)
- I don't have enough tattoos.
- Topless-with-a-pink-thong should not be the bathing attire of choice for the over-60s, even if you are French.
It wasn't physically possible to stay underwater for too long, so fairly soon we were out and cooling off, watching the sun set, exposing all, and sympathising with a lobster's last moments. When not taking the waters, the rest of the weekend was spent reading in the library, cooking, walking in the grounds, and listening to an unmistakably native Californian sitting naked in a hot tub with her husband and a guitar, singing duets. There was a designated smoking area which we didn't visit.
All too soon it was over, and we were heading back to civilisation with its cell phone reception and a society that for some reason dictates you should be fully clothed in public. We stopped at a Peet's coffee in Vacaville, and as we checked our e-mails a lady passed our table. "Hello fellow Wilburites," she said conspiratorially. I looked up with no idea who she was. "I didn't recognise you with your clothes on," was the first thought into my head, but thankfully there are some things that no one else gets to see.
Wilbur, a little oasis of tranquility.
Private, the way we like it.
The entrance to the pool and fluminarium. You see, all very discreet.
Still, it did take me while to feel comfortable with the whole nudity thing...
...but I was soon into my stride.
The amazing NorCal countryside.
Although this guy did rattle at us a little surprisingly as we wandered along, but he was on my list of wild Californian predators to see before we leave so after running crazily away we crept back. Only a mountain lion left now.
A praying mantis! He wasn't even on my list!!
This doesn't count.
Ha! I've found the real source of the springs.
Actually this is it - complete with a geyser that erupts every 45 minutes. We didn't have enough patience to wait for it.
Some of the natural mineral pools. Hot enough to boil an egg in, they claim.
The weekend's truly relaxing moment for Hannah.
A surreptitious snap of the pool area. There are naked people in there. It's true! Can you spot them?
At night, with even more naked people!
The only shot of Hannah nude she'd let me take.
I can confirm.
The most exclusive property in the place.
And we even had a Californian-style car to get us there and back!
P.S. Unless you're an agent offering a modelling contract, please send all complaints about obscene photos to Hannah. It was her idea. Honest!
