★★★★★
“The passion for healing and the skill in facilitating treatments was unbelievable — and then came the massage of the century. I highly, highly recommend it.”
Read on Google ↗Beyond the Treatment Room
A quieter page — for anyone curious about the person behind the hands. Nothing here is needed to book a session; it's simply the fuller story of how I came to this work, in three chapters.
Why this page exists
The part that doesn't fit on a CV
My About page covers the practical things — my engineering background, many years of hands-on practice, and my Diploma in Osteopathic Manual Practice. All of it is true, and it matters. But it isn't the whole reason I do this work. Some people just want a good practitioner and a calmer body, and that's completely enough. This page is for the others — the ones who sense there's something more personal underneath the way I work, and like to know a little about it first.
The beginning · a rugby pitch
Where the hands began
Long before any of this, there was a rugby pitch. I played for my high-school team, and in those days we had no physiotherapist and no medical staff — just each other. We learned to warm up one another's muscles before a match and to ease the knocks afterward, and we taught ourselves to work on our own bodies too. I had no name for it then, but that was the start of everything: the first time I understood that warm, attentive hands could change how a body feels and moves. Every year of practice since has grown from that simple discovery on the field.
A turning point · the mountains
A season of stillness
Years later came the most significant spiritual experience of my life: twenty-one days without food. Not alone, and not in silence — it was a guided course, under the care of a physician, a yoga teacher, and a spiritual teacher.
The first seven days were mostly physical: the body protesting, then slowly adjusting. After that it turned into something quieter, and more inward.
I won't pretend I passed every part of it with top marks. But since that time, words like universal energy, the noosphere, the body in tune with the cosmos have stopped being abstractions for me. They became personal experience — the kind that doesn't fit into words.
When I hear other people describe experiences like this, I find them hard to believe. And when I try to put my own into words, the words feel false in my own mouth. So I've stopped explaining.
The only honest way I've found to pass any of it on is through the hands.
I don't call it healing, and it isn't shamanism. It sits inside the ordinary idea of osteopathy — a way of seeing the body as a system. The only difference is that here I treat that system as part of a larger one.
A note: this was done under experienced medical and spiritual guidance — a personal path, not a health method, and not something to attempt alone. I share it only because it shaped how I work.
Now
Where it all points today
Everything above lives in my hands whether I speak of it or not — the rugby-pitch curiosity and the stillness I found in the mountains, settled over the years into a single unhurried way of working.
Away from the treatment room, I write. Not manuals about the body, but fiction — lyric stories and a strand of mystical realism. My work has appeared in respected literary journals, and two of my novels were brought out by a publishing house — on their decision, not at my own expense. I mention it only because the two lives are really one: the patient attention a story asks for is the same attention I bring to a body on the table.
The literary world has shifted these past few years, and for the last five I've written mostly into my own notebooks. I expect to return to publishing once I've had time to make sense of what these recent years have taught me.
And I still carry a quiet dream — a place built entirely around this idea: warmth, authentic care, and the older, holistic understanding that a body lets go most easily when it feels safe and unhurried. Part of it I already offer here; the rest, I'm still working toward.