I ditch the drinks for a few downward dogs in Ibiza during my first yoga break.

I arrived in dreamy Ibiza for my first yoga break, full of trepidation, and with horrifying images of the sleazy yoga instructor from the film ‘Couples Retreat’ running through my mind. Actually, it was novel to see Ibiza airport through sober eyes for a change. Clutching the bottle of Evian that had been my only refreshment during the flight, I gazed slightly green-eyed at the hoards of young ravers already well into party mode.

One stone down, though (and counting!), since I first started this yoga malarkey, and sporting some pretty hot new yoga pants – which weren’t about to split as I attempted a downward dog, for once – I fought the temptation to stop at the nearest bar and headed straight for the day’s introductory class, which was due to start.

Very relieved to find that the mature, respectable-looking, and more to the point, fully dressed, teacher, Catherine, bore no resemblance at all to the dry-humping, half-naked lothario in the afore-mentioned movie, I took my place along with eight or so others, on a quiet beach.

With the evening sun beating down on us, and the smell of the Mediterranean in the air, I went through a few well-practised moves with relative ease, and found myself completely relaxed and chilled.

What a glorious way to spend an evening, a far cry from the island’s noisy nightclubs. As this was just the introduction, I was sure there was harder work to come. But for now, I was happy and looking forward to waking up in Ibiza for the first time ever, hangover free. Just a few hours from the hustle and bustle of London, this will be my life for the next couple of days. And what a great life it will be too.

It’s more about the sunbathing than the sun salutations. But heck, it’s still a yoga break.

I’m amazed at how much more I seem to be enjoying this yoga thing now that the weather’s warmed up a bit. I have to admit, it was arduous dragging myself away from the comfy sofa on really cold nights but now summer’s here I’m starting to feel much more motivated. I think I’m finally starting to ‘get it’.

Remarkably, I even found myself turning down a boozy weekend with the girls in Malaga, and booking a yoga weekend in Ibiza online. Now that really is progress. Although to be honest, it was more the lure of a quiet Spanish beach alone, away from the kids and noise, than the early morning sun salutations. Still, don’t knock it.

Of course, I’ve no idea what I’m letting myself in for, something about Ashtanga, but naturally all I really saw was the Ibiza bit: the sunshine, pristine seas and beaches. Haven’t tried Ashtanga before but if it’s good enough for Madonna, then it’s good enough for me. Don’t know if I’ll be able to keep up with the others but well, I’ve kind of got used to that by now.

As the weekend approached, and the girls were choosing their evening dresses and bikinis, I started to wonder if I had made the right choice after all. Have I lost my mind? Turning down a weekend of hard-partying, great gossip and a cocktail or 10, for a few very early-morning stretches on the beach. Hmmm. But it’s too late now. I wave my friends goodbye with a heavy heart, and throw a small bag containing my designer yoga wear (that’s actually starting to fit!) over my shoulder. Ibiza, here I come.

Not even trashy TV can make up for the loss of a precious, chill-out-inducing yoga class

I have to admit: when my husband sent a text saying he was sorry but wouldn’t be home from work in time for my Wednesday night yoga class, I wasn’t too devastated. It had been a hard week after all and I was suffering with a streaming cold. Hurriedly exchanging my yoga pants for some baggy PJs, I poured myself a huge glass of chilled Chablis, and settled down with my feet up, ready to watch some trashy TV.

Ten minutes into an extremely addictive and highly thought-provoking documentary about celebrity kitchens, I found myself wondering which poses I had the luxury of missing out on this evening. Smirking to myself as I dipped into a box of Maltesers, I hazarded a guess that those upside down movements would not have been good for my cold at all. No, I was much better here, wrapped up in my blanket, in front of the telly.

I figured that one night off the yoga wouldn’t be too much of a setback. I also thought that it probably wouldn’t tip the scales too much when the dreaded ‘weigh in time’ came around on Sunday morning. After all, Maltesers have to be one of the ‘healthier’ options if you are going to throw the boat out and dive into a box of chocs.

The trouble is, I kept going back to the programme after getting distracted, pondering the moves I couldn’t properly do yet, and the people I was missing at class, now becoming good friends. I really tried hard to concentrate on important things like Victoria Beckham’s dish drainer but it just wasn’t happening for me.

Eventually I decided to head off to bed, and do a spot of reading before hubby arrived. Thing is: once I turned off the programme, and stumbled upstairs, I realized that I felt nowhere near as calm and relaxed as usual on a Wednesday night. I was missing my post-yoga bliss feeling. Next week, I can’t wait to miss the rubbish TV.

Andrea Levy discovers that yoga takes a little longer than a few weeks to perfect

It’s been a few weeks now that I’ve been attending my beginner’s yoga course. I was just starting to think I had got the hang of it. The results are there to see: 3lbs lighter (which doesn’t sound much, but if I’m honest, the takeaways washed down with Rioja aren’t helping), plus I feel just a bit ‘lighter’.

My mother, impressed with the mere fact I have stuck at something for longer than 10 minutes, announced she was going to start coming too. So this week, I marched in, lay my mat down at the front of the hall, and gave her instructions to “follow my lead”.

When our instructor Judy walked in and revealed, in an even louder voice, that my usual teacher was off sick this week, and that she would be leading the class, I didn’t think it would be a problem.

 On my mat, breathing deeply, she announced we would begin by gently raising up onto our hands and knees. Giving my mother reassuring nods and winks, I took a deep breath and started into downward dog, confident. I was right: I am a yoga pro, a yogi, a guru perhaps. I have at last stuck with something, I know the moves, I’m sure I can handle this class.

 But hang on, why was everyone else doing something different? What had she said? I leapt up onto my feet to try and catch up. “Extended side angle pose,” called Judy. Eh? What was that one? Do we even know that one? “Garland pose, breathing deeply, going straight into the pyramid pose.” WTF?

How did everyone else know these moves and why was she going so fast? I smiled weakly at my mother, and winced at the ‘pain’ in my back that had just started out of nowhere (ahem). I’ll have to go a little slower, I declared to the rest of the class, not quite so loud, this time. Not that they were listening to me anyway. All deep in meditation, and sailing aimlessly through the poses, with my mum keeping up with ease. It’s a humbling thing this yoga business.

Not even designer clothes can mask the embarrassment of non-pedicured feet

After an enjoyable but hyper-indulgent, comfort-eating winter, I found myself 22lbs heavier, and reluctantly facing up to the thought that something had to be done before I go up a third dress size in as many months.

Having exhausted all other options of exercise (well I was exhausted just thinking about them) I had decided that my way forward was a far gentler approach, combining some sensible eating with yoga. How hard can that be?

Full of enthusiasm, and kitted out in my new designer gear (Lulelemon, imported direct from the USA), I dragged my reluctant and long-suffering pal Sam along for support at Wednesday night’s beginner’s yoga class.

Content in the knowledge that it would be a breeze, and that in little over an hour, we’d be well on the way to a trim size 8, we arrived early and were ushered into the intimate, warm, candlelit room. Liz, our very softly spoken, and extremely slim (Sam and I noted with encouraging nods to each other!) teacher showed us to two mats at the front of the room. We were advised to take off our shoes and socks and to lie down on our backs on the mats, and to practise breathing deeply – so far so good.

It was at this point, however, I wished I had gone for that pedicure after work that day. Just as the rest of the class began to file in, a subtle whiff of fromage feet took over where the jasmine incense sticks had once dominated. At least the pedicurist would have given me a warning. As we lay on the mats, taking deep breaths, I felt confident I had made the right choice in my quest for a slimmer me, the gentle, chilled out approach far more ‘me’ than the high octane environment of the gym. As I heard the disgusted sniffs of people still entering the room, not sure everyone would agree with me.

Going to your first yoga class can be a daunting experience, even if you don’t get there.

After plumping for yoga as the ideal way to shed a few unwanted pounds (and stone!), I emailed my local yoga studio, to ask about classes. When I recieved the reply, listing at least 10 different yoga types, I almost gave up there and then: Hatha, Iyengar, Ashtanga, Jivamukti, Vinyasa, Bikram, Anusara, Kundalini. Where to start? The list seemed endless. I couldn’t pronounce them, let alone do them. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. At least there is a simplicity to the gym: the swimming pool; the sauna – the spelling.

Luckily, as I read down, my saving grace was in the form of a small paragraph added at the bottom. Katherine – who was soon to become my new guru (whether she knew it or not, or even liked it or not) – was advising me to start off slow, perhaps with an introduction to yoga class, or ideally even a 121. Hmmm … a 121? Another, easier to pronounce form of yoga, I suspected. I crafted a reply (giving the impression I knew exactly what I was talking about), stating that I would probably stick with the introductory class for now, as I didn’t feel up to the 121 type of yoga just yet. But – just ti refresh my memory – would Katherine mind giving me a brief description of what this entailed? It wasn’t until I read back through the email in her reply, that I realised what a 121 was (say it out loud).

When I had recovered from my embarrassment (although Katherine needs to get used to this sort of thing is she is to be my guide and guru; best throw her in at the deep end, I say), I booked myself in to a simple beginner’s class. Next step, full of enthusiasm and mildly spiritually-awakened, I got back online to order myself the latest kit, ready for my first real yogic adventure – in a slightly larger size than I will be needing in the futire – obviously!

A pancake and maple syrup-fuelled trip to Canada leads Andrea Levy to her first yoga class

After a long, eight-week summer holiday with the kids, it was with some trepidation that I finally stepped onto the scales. We’d taken them out of school two weeks before they officially broke up for a long overdue visit to relatives in Canada. It was on our very first morning there – as we staggered bleary-eyed and jet lagged into the breakfast room, and was confronted by mountains of croissants and waffles – that I realised I would be flying home twice the woman I had been on the flight over – literally! After 17 days of pancakes (all smothered in pints of maple syrup, of course), popcorn, french fries and fizzy drinks, I sat on the plane home, in the comfort of my elasticated pyjama bottoms (the only item of clothing to still fit me). I sat back with a large G&T and a pack of peanuts and decided I’d worry about it once we returned to blighty. But another six weeks of picnics and ice cream in the sun followed. Enjoying every mouthful, I assured myself I can’t be doing too much damage, and that anything that goes on, can just as easily come off. And so the day came when I finally dug out the dusty scales that had been hiding under the bed. Gasp! 22lbs on! In eight weeks! Surely that’s impossible? Three more weigh-ins just to make sure, and two negative pregnancy tests (there had to be another reason for this!) later, I was online, researching my local fitness centres. But which class to do? Reading through the various descriptions, as I

munched through one last packet of chocolate hobnobs, I tick off each and every one: Swimming: don’t like chlorine in my eyes. Salsa: got no rhythm. Cycling: after four kids – you’re kidding? Running: don’t like sweating. And then, last but not least….yoga. This looks good, I thought. Strengthen my core stability; calming; stress-reducing; muscle toning; aids weight loss. Perfect. With that, I gulped the last hobnob (whole) and picked up the phone to book my first class. Wish me luck!