Austrian physician Dr Franz Xaver Mayr was way ahead of his time in the early 1920s, when he claimed the root of good health lay in the gut. Many scoffed at his diet of dry bread and milk; his massaging of the abdomen was alleged to restore gut tone; his insistence on rigorous chewing (30-40 times per bite). And yet modern science has proven that a robust microbiome really is the conductor of the good health orchestra and that good digestion starts in the mouth.
The Mayr system is in vigorous good health, too. Today, there are more than 600 certified practitioners, according to the International Society of Mayr Physicians, across 27 clinics worldwide. Nicole Kidman, Rebel Wilson, Rita Ora and Victoria Beckham all espouse the benefits; influencers regularly pose at Lanserhof Tegernsee and MAYRLIFE Altaussee.
I feel as if I’ve been chewing stale spelt rolls for a lifetime. I first encountered the Mayr method back in the 1990s, when clinics began transitioning into medispas. Over the years, I have tripped to various centres, a week here, a week there, to be ‘Mayred’. I’ve had some great experiences (and some best forgotten), but I’ve always wondered: what happens if you commit to the long haul – the original, and supposedly optimal – three-week ‘cure’? So, I went to Park Igls, above Innsbruck, to find out.
The approach to Innsbruck never gets old: the awe of flying through that stern Alpine corridor; the snow-dredged mountains, the pine-pricked gullies. Innsbruck itself often has a cloud sitting above it, but after a winding 15-minute drive, I broke through into sunshine and the village of Igls.
I arrive recovering from a bout of flu, with lingering sinus congestion, headaches, dizziness, and a persistent cough. My skin is blotchy, and I’m so tired I could cry. In other words, the timing couldn’t be better. I’m greeted like a long-lost friend (my last visit was in 2019, but the staff has barely changed, always a good sign) and shown to my room. It won’t win prizes for its décor, but who needs epic design when your room has a 180-degree view of the mountains?
It’s short on luxury accessories (just soap and shower gel), and there’s certainly no mini-bar, just a phalanx of lightly sparkling and still water – a stark reminder that this is serious business.
Dr Elias Hinteregger is my lead physician for the duration. Like all the doctors here, he radiates health. He’s also kindness incarnate. “Just rest,” he says. “Relax. Do nothing for at least three days – you’ve got the time.” And, for once, I do precisely that, only leaving my bed to pad down to the dining room. When you know you only have a week or even less, the urge to do everything all at once all the time is real. Three weeks take away the urgency. Time really may be the greatest luxury of all.
Routine is key here: monotony is celebrated, and the schedule is sparse, verging on bald. On the detox classic programme, you see your doctor twice weekly and have five full-body massages a week, always with the same massage therapist. That’s it. At first, I find the swathes of free time irritating – I always feel a little short-changed if I’m not padding from appointment to appointment. There’s a massive roster of group classes and activities, from guided walks through targeted gym, pool or sauna sessions, to talks and film showings – but right now I don’t have the energy.
Everyone starts their day early, at 6.45am, with a glass of lukewarm magnesium sulphate, known as ‘bitter water’, designed to stimulate detox via the liver and gallbladder. It also has a robust laxative effect. I pace my room until everything that needs to emerge has emerged and the gripes have settled.
You sit at the same table for every meal and, ideally, eat the same thing every day. My first breakfast is the infamous stale roll, used as training food to get you chewing, and a lopsided pyramid of thinly shaved Alpine cheese. The next day I switch to scrambled egg on gluten-free toast and settle there for the duration.
Lunch and supper always comprise soup (an absolute revelation of taste explosions) plus a delicate pile of one protein-rich food: it feels as if they’ve raided the local deli with a wide selection of cheeses, smoked meat or fish, and the occasional vegetable spread. Being vegan here would be incredibly dull. Mayr clinics used to be very strict about eating in silence, and the dining staff would loiter while you stoically masticated, wagging a finger if you talked. Here you’re left to your own devices and, while the dining rooms aren’t exactly buzzing, there are plenty of couples and groups of friends chatting over their curd cheese, bresaola, or smoked salmon.
It seems a curious protocol for detox, particularly the insistence on dairy; however, after years of being vilified, the cheese cohort is fighting back. Recent research shows that lactic bacteria in cheese microbiota can be transferred to the human gut, with very beneficial results. Cheese also contains the highest levels of C15.0, a good-guy saturated fat dubbed ‘the longevity molecule’. Once again, science may vindicate Mayr.
There’s a definite hint of the Wes Andersons in the Kneipping area. Up to eight of us sit in a semi-circle with our feet in basins of warm water. Every so often, an alarm clock pings, and someone pads into the circular pool and marches stoically three times around in the frigid water. Up and down, back and forth for three circuits.
Next up is the liver pack. We lay, in a row, like pupae, hot compresses over our abdomens, swaddled in towels. Nothing to do, nowhere to go – it’s weirdly comforting and swiftly becomes a highlight of my day. This could be because, unusually for me, I feel a little lonely. People are polite – we nod, we smile, we “guten morgen” each other, but it rarely tips into conversation. I start to understand why people come here in couples or groups.
My dedicated massage therapist is Patrick Bernhaupt, a total delight who does a mean, deep-tissue massage. However, it’s not really tackling my chronic back problem, and we both agree I could do with a different approach. Shifting therapists is tricky as schedules are drawn up far in advance, but towards the end of my first week, I managed to secure appointments with a few other specialists. I also start seeing physiotherapist Gert Konigsrainer. “You have visceral fat – the worst type.” I know, Gert, I know. He puts me on the Kybun treadmill, a soft, uneven surface that engages far more muscles than the standard type and scrutinises my gait. “You walk like an ancient person,” he says, doing an alarming impersonation. Ouch, but he’s right. There’s a lot of tough love at Igls but I come to adore Gert for his straight-talking and solid bodywork.
As the days flop by, I find my rhythm, shifting from the gym with its 60-degree views of the mountains, to the blissfully warm pool, then to the wet spa area, which does its job without any extraneous flourishes. Familiarity breeds shared intimacies, even amongst the emotionally cautious middle Europeans who make up the majority of guests. A couple from Zurich shares horror stories of clinics that are still run like military boot camps. Two English friends in their 60s tell their stories. One has come through breast cancer treatment and is paranoid there might be other tumours, so she came for the advanced diagnostics, including a full body ultrasound check. “Very reassuring,” she nods with a shy smile.
A patrician octogenarian Swiss woman, never a blow-dried hair out of place, confides that she defected from Lanserhof when her favourite doctor came to Igls. “I come every year for my MOT,” she asserts.
As always, it’s horses for courses. Igls has a ferociously loyal clientele – over 70 per cent return and many have been coming for 20-30 years. However, as my Swiss friend suggests, it’s not beguiling the younger market and it’s easy to see why. The infrastructure is staid, old-fashioned almost, the ethos quietly conservative. It eschews the biohacking staples of HOBOT and cryo, although innovations are there and, if medically necessary, you’ll be hooked up to an infusion or have your blood zapped with a haemo-laser. Igls doesn’t believe in change for change’s sake and holds no truck with what it sees as trendy fads. It’s quietly confident with what it does, and anything new, has to undergo intense scrutiny.
By the end of my stay, my blood pressure had dropped, and my cough, headaches and rash had all vanished. The major benefit, however, is mental. I’m feeling less jumpy, far less reactive and can see my life with greater clarity.
However, are three weeks really necessary? “Oh absolutely,” insists the restaurateur from the Philippines who swears the long ‘cure’ is “a game changer”. Research is sparse, but medical director Dr Peter Gartner says that medically measurable parameters such as blood laboratory values improve in the long term after a three-week treatment. He also claims that three weeks gives more time for the key ‘training’ part of the cure to become embedded. “No other method teaches you as much about eating properly as Mayr,” he says. “If you incorporate even a little of what you’ve learned into your daily life at home, you’ve already won.”
Healing Holidays (healingholidays.com/condenast; 020 7843 3592) can arrange a 4-night Detox Short Break programme from £1,899 per person sharing, including transfers, full board accommodation and inclusions of the programme