It’s too much for me. I rinse off quickly and head for the plunge pool. Thigh deep, edging in slowly, I’m stopped by the attendant. An English speaking staff member appears out of nowhere and explains I have to wear a cap to enter the pool. “I can bring you one from reception if you like?” “It’s OK,” I reply, having no desire to tea-cosy up and not that fussed for the tepid pool anyway. “But can I have someone hit me with the leaves?” When in Rome, and all that.  “Of course, let’s go”.

She leads me back to the Russian Sauna and locates The Thrasher, a large middle aged woman with a lifetime of leafy broom beating under her modesty towel. “How do you like your sauna, standard or high heat?” she inquires. “Just standard please,” I respond nervously. She directs me in. The bottom bench is free and I grab it, thankful to have a spot on the cooler ground level.

The Thrasher comes in, grabs a couple of basins from under my bench, and starts hurling cold water at the walls on the upper level. She’d do well in the shot putt, I muse. The other sauna goers duck their heads to avoid a faceful of water. Again and again she flings the water, hisses of steam crying out, until she’s dampened every last bit of wall. Finally, she launches two bucketfuls into the furnace, steam spewing forth like an enraged dragon, before she disappears back out the door. At first I’d assumed she was cooling down the temperature after I requested a standard heat, but this seemed to be heading in entirely the opposite direction.

A few minutes pass, enough for my skin to be slick with sweat, and she returns. She’s dressed in a red fleece and black balaclava, a felt hotpot on her head and a venik in each hand. She looks like a Mexican wrestler crossed with a terrorist. What on earth have I signed myself up for? Her eyes loom large over me through the holes in her ski mask and she motions me up the stairs. Not the second floor! I’m screaming inside. I nearly choke on the hot air, the intensity of the heat suffocating me. Lie down she gestures. The wooden bench burns.

She starts to play a tune of sorts all down my back.

Shish-shish-shish-shish-shish-shish-shish-shish-shish-shish-shish-shish-SHISH, the final whack always a triumphant crescendo.

The smell of birch leaves dance around me. I was expecting pain, but instead, with each strike of the leaves a refreshing, cooling sensation spreads through my body. The only pain is the stifling heat and my burning extremities, not protected by my meagre towel. I sneak a side glance across the room and catch faces of concern, alarm, a slight smirk from the veterans.

Back, sides, front. Back again. A final SHISH signals the end.

And now I can make my escape. Whoops, stood up too quick. Gripping the handrail as my feet slip and slide in my rented rubber slippers, I teeter down the steps, feeling a rush to the head. I launch myself out the door and make a beeline for a bench. Catching my breath, trying not to faint, I curse the lack of water coolers and forgetting to bring my own bottle. Then The Thrasher is back, de-masked and looking altogether less threatening. She’s prepared two buckets of cold water, ready to throw over me. Deep breath she mimes. Instant relief.

One more for good measure, an extra splash on the face, and she’s on to her next victim.