During his time at Barberyn Waves, Spanish writer Juan Manuel Pardellas found inspiration in the gentle rhythm of daily life at the resort. Surrounded by tropical greenery, the sound of the ocean, and the quiet, attentive care of Ayurvedic healing, he experienced a rare kind of stillness, one that invites you to slow down, observe, and reconnect with yourself.
The Thirty Pitchers was born from that space. In his words, he captures the small, intimate moments of the healing journey, the rituals, the sensations, and the subtle transformation that takes place when body and mind are given time to rest.
We are delighted to share his piece with you, a glimpse into the atmosphere, care, and quiet magic that so many guests experience during their stay.
The Thirty Pitchers
Her right hand—soft, almond-skinned, with white palms, small, with very slender fingers, as fragile in appearance as the girl she had only just ceased to be—gripped the handle of the metal pitcher she dipped into the hot water, infused with dozens of medicinal herbs.
She poured hot water thirty times over each key point of the body of that mature, European woman, wearing only minimal panties, half-submerged in a huge marble tub where she imagined two people and their wildest fantasies could easily fit.
Yes, she was past fifty—so what? She was still alive, she still felt beautiful, still had dreams, and yes, she carried a heavy backpack of responsibilities. That’s the price of being a high-ranking executive in a large corporation, a mother, a wife, a daughter… a woman in a man’s world. But right now, here, she was simply herself, and all the time and care she received were for her alone.
The patient, lost in her thoughts, gave a slight start at the first contact of the steaming hot water, only to welcome the next twenty-nine streams as a soothing balm.
Thirty pitchers over the left thigh, thirty over the knee, thirty over the ankle. The small, fragile girl-woman of barely twenty-one, with wide, pure eyes and a constant smile, was
methodical—each stream poured at the same rhythm, without looking at her, focused, dressed in a school-like uniform: white shirt and blue smock, barefoot, as the house rules dictated.
Then came the thirty hot pours from the pitcher on the right thigh, and on the knee, and on the foot… followed by the final thirty along the back.
This is how every morning in the sanatorium’s busy schedule ended. Since six o’clock, when she had, still sleepy and heavy, greeted the dawn with yoga sessions, then continued with the doctor’s consultation, acupuncture, massages that left no muscle untouched (whether with hot oil, clay, or an herbal ointment), strikes with burning pouches filled with medicinal herbs and garlic, hot oil head massage, steam baths and inhalations of aromatic herbs, hot herbal and clay poultices following the body map set by the doctors, hot showers, and finally, the thirty-pitcher bath.
Those were her mornings. A schedule more packed than her office on the other side of the world. But now this schedule was entirely for self-care—finally, thinking only of herself. The same each day, a blessed routine, the homage she needed.
The millennia-old Ayurvedic treatment also included a controlled diet for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, along with the daily intake of two syrups and four doses of herbal blends—some hard to swallow, as they were new and strange flavors to her palate.
Her feeling in this hotel was of a complete disconnection from her daily routine, from all that noise and pressure.
This woman—like many others, mostly middle-aged, arriving from anywhere—was captivated from the moment she stepped off the transport that had picked her up from the airport two hours earlier, when a young man placed a garland of white, fragrant flowers around her neck.
Welcome to a retreat in the middle of the jungle, inhabited by giant iguanas, monkeys, and all the birds on Earth, with flowers in vivid colors everywhere, fountains of fresh water, statues of Ganesha, views of the sea, and direct access to beaches where palm trees bow in reverence to the vast, warm, emerald Indian Ocean—where local families and far-off tourists
splash happily together, the same sea that, years ago, had brought death in the form of a giant wave.
These postcard-perfect beaches, with fine, golden sand, where giant turtles come to nest and fishermen climb slender poles, defying all laws of gravity, spending hours upon hours gathering their daily catch of sardines and other small fish.
This was a special place. Of indecisive skies—sometimes overcast, sometimes deep blue, sometimes with cinematic sunsets where the orange sun seems only to await Coppola’s helicopters crossing the horizon as Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries plays.
Women from all over the world come each year to the Barberyn Resort to cleanse body and soul, each driven by her own doubts, her hectic, suffocating daily life, her personal crossroads—travelling thousands of kilometers in search of herself, an answer, or simply to lose weight, purify, heal, and find the path to a better life.
Now our protagonist returns home, thousands of kilometers away—rebuilt, reclaiming herself as the confident, powerful woman she truly is. Free, purified, at peace.
And with her eyes closed on the plane ride back, she feels comforted as she recalls the soft, warm, motherly splash of the stream from the thirty pitchers of water.
Juan Manuel Pardellas
