How a deep-dive into Austrian sauna culture cured me of my nudity hang-ups

I’m going to come right out and say it: British people are weird about nudity. We just are. It’s one of our fun “quirks”, along with mainlining tea and forming queues.

Ask us, though, and chances are we have no idea our attitude to naked bodies is anything other than the norm. After all, we’re the nation that came up with Naked Attraction – a dating show format where contestants choose a prospective partner based on their genitals – and clung onto Page 3 as a concept for far longer than appropriate. How could we possibly be accused of prudishness? I never even realised it myself until a recent holiday to Austria, where my deep-dive into sauna culture finally opened my eyes to the truth: we’re pretty darn weird.

Austrians love to sauna. They love to sauna the way that Swedes, Finns and Norwegians love to sauna, despite being hundreds of miles away. This land-locked country in the heart of Europe at some point got hold of the concept of sitting in a really hot room and ran with it in a way that most of its various neighbours – Germany, Italy, Switzerland etc – can only wonder at.

Everywhere you go, whatever the size of hotel, you can be sure there’ll be at least one sauna and steam room. Head to a special wellness centre and this number may well rocket up to double digits. But here’s the rub (or lack thereof) – swimwear is, much of the time, strictly verboten. Trunks or bathing suits can only be kept on in limited areas where “textiles” are permitted. Everywhere else, get your kit off or get a stern talking-to about hygiene.

I’d been to Austria before on a number of ski trips, and so wasn’t quite as blindsided by the rules as my partner. “Just keep a towel on,” I hissed during our first toe-dip into the spa at our chintzy-cute hotel in the Salzburgerland town of St Gilgen. “Towels are fine! No one can force you to take your towel off.”

We sat there primly in the completely empty wooden box, sweat rolling off our skin and immediately soaking into said towels. Of course, there was no way around baring all when it came to jumping into a cold shower afterwards; but the second the shrieks and the “brrrs” were done, I wrapped myself up like a parcel again, cheeks flaming from more than just the heat.

This went on for a few days, me feeling foolishly coy yet overly exposed in equal measure – until we fell down the sauna rabbit hole. My revelation took place on a day trip to the nearby Wellness-Alm, a sprawling collection of four indoor pools, three outdoor pools and eight saunas spread over three floors.

There was a door in this emporium of hot rooms. The door that separated the clothed (mainly families, hanging around the main pool) from the unclothed (everyone else). Through this door was where they kept the good stuff: the saunas of various temperatures; the ice cave; the infrared chairs; relaxation rooms with swinging hammocks and waterbeds; even workshops with the in-house “sauna meister”, who knew just how to whip a towel around to create almost unbearably high temperatures that left participants feeling close to euphoria.

There was no point in coming here and not going through the special door. And so I did, prudishly clutching my towel around me as per usual in a PG parody of sauna culture. I was, quite literally, the only one. Every other spa dweller was stripped bare, regardless of gender, body type or age. Whether reclining on loungers while reading a book, sipping beers by the bar or nonchalantly strolling from the steam room to the shower, they all had one thing in common: a totally chilled out attitude to nudity. I didn’t know where to look (anywhere but down seemed best).

At first I used the facilities in my tentative British way, only dropping the towel when absolutely necessary in order to shower before the next bout of heat. I felt on edge where everyone else seemed relaxed; uptight where others were genially unwinding.

The sauna meister beckoned: it was time for his next session in the 90C box. I was keen to experience it, and joined the throng heading into the small space. Participants – all, bar me, completely nude – squashed up close to each other to make more room. They clambered over each other to reach the top seats, jostling complete strangers as they went, genitals akimbo. There was no discomfort; no issues around personal space. Nothing about it was sexual and nothing about it was awkward. Being naked was just a normal feature of life, and being crammed together like sardines so everyone could join in was no big deal. It suddenly hit me how ridiculous it was that I was still gripping my towel like a fluffy talisman – nobody cared if I was naked. Nobody cared if I wasn’t. I was just another body.

I finally let go – of both my towel and inhibitions – and sat there, feeling thrillingly free and bohemian. There was no trumpet fanfare nor crack of thunder, no sign to mark my transition from uptight Brit to loose-limbed European. But, tiny act though it was, it felt momentous. Why had this been so hard? Why had it felt so risqué? As the meister whipped the room into a frenzy, adding more and more water as he swirled the searing air around, I felt as if some barrier in me had been broken. We all flowed out of the room the moment he opened the door – and I let the towel hang limply by my side for the rest of my time in Austria.

Back in the UK, keen to replicate the weightless, joyful feeling, I made the mistake of Googling “naked sauna London” – which was met purely with results relating to sex parties. I was disappointed, but not surprised.

Like I said: we’re weird about nudity.