The bucketful of very hot, faintly sulphurous water thrown over me only comes as a mild surprise. Several gallons more flood across me as I lie in the steamy hammam grotto on an unyielding bed of mosaic tiles.

The generous dousing is a precursor to a vigorous all-body scrub by a man wearing a rough mitten glove (and little else!). Next comes the soaping phase using a blanket of bubbles to lather the body, including a head wash. This was followed by yet another semi-drowning experience as I was rinsed with more buckets of water decanted over my head.

Taking on the colour of beetroot, I am left to soak a little longer at leisure in my private bath of mineral waters, heated to a (just about) bearable temperature. After this pummelling, the subsequent cold shower comes as something of a relief. Feeling ultra-clean and smooth-skinned, it was time to soak up the relaxing ambience of the decorated 16th-century bathhouse with a glass of chilled pomegranate juice.

I bathed alone, but the tradition of visiting a local communal hammam in the Islamic world offered not only the opportunity for personal hygiene but also a social venue. Business deals were struck, gossip was exchanged and reputedly on ‘ladies only’ days, prospective brides could be interviewed by prospective mothers-in-law!