Although we were fasting, there were still mealtimes and we would sit around the table, talking about nutrition, life, our health and habits. The group was mixed, 10 women and one man, from places as diverse as Afghanistan and America. Health and nutrition knowledge ranged from ignorance (me and a Portuguese couple) to the extremely conscientious. Meat was generally considered the anti-Christ; when I mentioned that I had done the Atkins diet, a hushed silence descended on the table.
There was no television, no newspapers and little word from the outside world, as mobiles did not work. There was one temperamental telephone, and although I managed to phone home every day, it was only through persistence.
Lunch started with a blessing for the juice - as did every other meal - followed by the vile bentonite clay, then a litre of vegetable juice of varying awfulness, made from veg grown organically at Moinhos Velhos.
Supper was a broth in which a selection of vegetables had been cooked, followed by evening meditation. Bed was ridiculously early.
We had a couple of trips to the local town of Lagos, where we could gaze wistfully at tourists tucking into sardines and carafes of vinho de mesa, and squeeze into various outfits at clothes shops that we wouldn't even have considered at the start of the fast. Unlike everyone else in the town, we had our lunch at the local juice bar, where, after the monotony of orange and vegetable, it was really exciting to be able to tuck into strawberry and kiwi fruit, and other such exotic combinations.
My own physical journey over the two weeks went from fine and dandy on day one to tear-inducing agony from my kidneys on days two to five - only alleviated by scoring a few "illegal" painkillers from one of my fellow fasters. To make matters worse, I was briefly concussed and tearfully sorry for myself after whacking my head on the minibus on the way back from a day-trip to Lagos.
In the second week, I was hideously nauseous as my liver went through its paces. Every day brought new horrors in terms of spots, foul breath, headaches, tears and all-round grumpiness.
Then on day nine I had a breakthrough and started to feel amazing.
From that point on, I would wake in the morning and pound up the hills to use a surplus of energy before lemon tea and yoga. Moinhos Velhos is set in a glorious valley within walking distance of the majestic barragem (dam), and the surrounding hillsides are criss-crossed with sandy paths lined with eucalyptus trees.
As I walked, I felt I had reached a sort of health nirvana, flooded with energy and looking better than I had for years.
They say it's not the fasting but how you break it that's the important thing, and Moinhos Velhos was pretty spot on.
We came to breakfast on day 11 to be confronted by an exquisite platter of fruit. Although I wanted to gorge, a breakfast of one apricot, a small slice of melon and a couple of cherries was enough.
Lunch that day was salad, and our evening meal was broth - with the vegetables left in. By Saturday we were eating delicious quinoa porridge, lunching out at a fish restaurant and sharing a farewell vegetarian feast with the staff in the evening. Without exception we were sleeker, prettier and healthier than when we arrived.
Three months later
I'd love to say I have joined a yoga class, and have the skin of a 14-year-old and the body of a gazelle, but nothing so dramatic. I am, however, far more in touch with my body, what it needs and when. Nor do I reach for a glass of wine every evening - boringly a cup of herbal tea is more satisfying. And hell though it was, I felt much better after the two weeks than after any real holiday.
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