By Rhonda Bartle

First you get your kit off, your togs on, and then you lie down on your belly on a thick orange towel draped across a wide, slightly dipped, massage table. 

Amy introduces herself, slicks up her hands and begins to work your flesh and bones beneath the 42 degree mineral water that shoots from the nozzles overhead.

To the sweet nasally strains of Dionne Warwick she kneads the stress from your worn muscles: she knows there's stress because she can feel it across your neck.

She's been doing a variety of clients this particular favour for two years and enjoys the work.

"Sure do," she says.

Amy does up to five massages a day, and some of them last 90 minutes. You comment on how hard it must be to stay on your feet so long.

Also, that Amy must have the softest hands in town because of all the oil and water.

When asked if that would be true, a light, tinkling laugh drops down as easily as the artesian spray.

"Probably!"

Despite the fingers keeping your tissues awake, it's tempting to fall asleep. You try not to, because it's your job to stay conscious and report your experience.

Randy Crawford croons out yet another familiar song, suggesting you go to Georgia, but the thought of travelling is far too difficult.

The temperature of the water, the tension-release…well, that's probably what massage is all about…a small battle fought between slumber and stirring.

The Aix massage therapy, imported from France in the early 1900s, is alive and well at the Taranaki Thermal Spa in Bonithon Ave, New Plymouth.

A smooth, flowing massage beneath jets of warm water, using grape seed oil as a medium, it's designed to compliment the relaxation factor of the hot alkaline mineral water.

But stretched out face down on a damp table, skin tingling, head in a padded horseshoe and a fragrant crystal suspended a safe distance from your nose, work seems like a distant country, a very long way away.