The Mata Nui Nursery in Prustwell has opened the doors to their new state-of-the-art Salt Cave Therapy Centre, which they claim will help their children stay healthy and “toughen their resolve”.
Salt Cave Therapy is an ancient practice which goes back as far as the 20th century. Proponents claim that exposure to rock salt cave air aids the body’s ability to prevent and recover from respiratory illnesses.
Although this has never been proven in laboratory conditions, Lindsay DeBeer, childminder and bookkeeper at Mata Nui, is undeterred. I was fortunate enough to arrange an interview with her only days after it opened.
“No one has ever died in a cave,” Lindsey told me as she cleaned a loupe on the edge of her silk scarf.
“We started from that fact and worked backwards from there. In terms of children’s health, there’s something valuable to be found in this cave, and we want to extract all of it at any cost.”
Outside, a truckload of child-sized mattocks was being unloaded onto a patch of bare earth, hastily labelled “mud kitchen” with biro on the back of an envelope.
From here, these trucks circled round to the entrance of the cave, where they were loaded up with burlap sacks which jingled mysteriously.
“Excess salt ions,” explained Lindsay.
“We initially planned to take the kids in for a half hour or so before nap time,” she continued as she closed the blinds, “but the tykes couldn’t get enough of it. Sometimes it feels like we spend all day down there!”
To help further their enrichment, Mata Nui provide what they refer to as “Big World” toys to children in the cave to encourage role playing and gross motor skills, including fun sized wheelbarrows, touchstones and Davy lamps.
My extensive criminal record precluded me from entering the cave with the children, but I managed to get a good peer around the scree heap.
I don’t have children, and I can’t claim to understand the appeal of this therapy, but the evidence is undeniable. Hyperactive, out-of-control little nightmares step into the salt cave, and eight hours later when the foreman unchains the gate they leave as quiet, submissive sweethearts, ready for bed.
After a brief frisking and inspection of the inside of their cheeks, it’s time for nanny to collect them.
“It’s so – rustic!” declared Tarquin Windsor, father of three year old Martingay. “Life in our fourteen million pound waterfront estate is so draining for the soul. But he’s developed so many charming characteristics since coming here. Now he refuses to eat anything but small beer and pasties, and he’s developed a funny little cough.”
At the end of the day, Lindsay gave me a lift to the cabstand in her McLaren. A humble woman, with a humble message: “send more kids!”