Wallowing in mud is for the bovines, right? Wait till you get to the Black Sea city of Burgas in Bulgaria, which has turned this activity into a fine summer tradition. I discovered this on a recent visit to the scenic region where thousands of locals and tourists flock each year for a soak in the mud-and-lye "spa" on Atanasovsko Lake. The five-km lake -- a shallow hyper-saline lagoon peppered with marshes, reedbeds, salt pans and natural pools – is encircled by a dike and a freshwater canal. Managed by a local salt pan company, it has had a makeover with mint-fresh walkways, bolstered platforms and a cluster of eateries and ice cream shops peppering the area.
It was a warm summer day -- with candy floss clouds scudding across an azure sky – and I couldn't wait to dive into the spa's cool waters. But first, I bought a one-euro ticket at the facility's gate. Here, the official informed me that the natural spa experience involved three stages: first, floating in the pink salt water or lye pool, then slathering the healing mud and finally washing the mud off in the Black Sea, located 50 metres from the pools.
I slipped into my bathing costume at one of the booths and gingerly waded into the alfresco pool. Dozens of wellness seekers were already floating in the pinkish brown water, some reading books; others relaxing with their eyes closed. I also took the plunge, hoping my bravado would be rewarded with all my aches and pains vamoosing magically.
My hopes of rejuvenation were raised further by the locals who raved about the Black Sea Lye's therapeutic benefits. Arthritis? Check. Varicose veins? Check. Sciatica? Check, check. A chemical by-product of the salt-making process, the clay-like mud is also believed to cure skin inflammations, wounds, colds, cases of flu, tendonitis, joint dislocation and more.
A sedimentary product of the enclosed saline lake, lye has a dark grey colour and was formed over thousands of years from decaying unicellular organisms, weeds, fish, crayfish and mussels. Small wonder, the water is odoriferous, small price to pay, I reckoned, as compared to the doc's bills.
"Each centimetre of mud requires at least one year to form," informed the manager, adding that the mineral-rich water teems with silicates, sands, gypsum, and iron and aluminium compounds.
For non-swimmers like me, the lake was a paradise for another reason. I won't drown and die in it due to its high salt content. Ergo, I enjoyed a deeply immersive experience, quite literally, without feeling out of my depth even once.
"Previously, the spa was popular only with the locals, but word spread, and we are now attracting footfalls from international tourists as well," said the manager, adding that about 3,000 people visit during peak season from April to August.
As my flotation continued, I felt relaxed, a strange calm washing all over me. The experience wasn't too different from my soaks in the Dead Sea in Israel and Jordan on two different visits, I reminisced. After a 20-minute immersion, I swam to the pool's edge to gleefully slather lye on my body, avoiding my face.
Next, I laid out in the sun to let it dry off till my skin started to "feel stretched and taut," as advised. It is recommended not to stay in the pool for more than 20-30 minutes because of the adverse impact lye may have on one's heart. Soon, it was time to head to the nearby showers for a wash-off, though I saw some people heading towards the Black Sea less than a hundred metres away for their wash-off.
Hungarian tourist Andras Almasi, 58, shared that he comes to Burgas every year as "the mud helped relieve my knee pain five years ago." A pretty local, Elena Dimitrova, 30, admitted how the immersion felt like a "facial which makes her skin feel soft and dewy."
As for me, well, even though I couldn't vouch for the 'healthy' and 'healing' part of lye, given my limited exposure to it, there was no doubt about its rejuvenating qualities. My body felt relaxed, and the glow on my skin was unmistakable, propelling me to take yet another plunge before I bid a final farewell to Burgas.