There was something essentially frivolous about Doctor Buoncuore. He was too tanned, his teeth too square and white, his brows too beetling. He informed me, in a seductive Italian accent, that I would be covered in hot mud every day. And then I would be hosed down and placed in a bubbling tub. Then I would take to my bed for an hour, after which the day would be mine - fashion shows, exfoliations, excursions... I would, he soothed, soon feel the benefit. "Perhaps lose a few kilos, no?" Another flash of the Persil teeth.

I had come to the town of Abano Terme with a back injury, having heard about the magical curative properties of its thermal waters. I imagined sulphurous corridors, spartan regimes and gaunt inmates in dressing gowns. But, I reasoned, with Venice just an hour away, and the gorgeous city of Padua right on its doorstep, I could always escape if it got too depressing.

But I had got it wildly wrong. For as I soon discovered, this elegant little spa town with its clutch of fancy hotels is almost entirely given over to pleasure. Street stalls stock paperbacks on erotic massage and horoscopes for your dog. Full-fat ice cream parlours proliferate, spangly boutiques line the streets.

There are evening concerts, waltzes, elaborate aperitifs and courteous waiters; the leafy boulevards encourage short strolls in pretty frocks. It is an intensely sociable place - as it was in its heyday, when Europe's glitterati took the cure in one of the most fashionable spa resorts of the Belle Epoque.

In such a determinedly hedonistic atmosphere, it is easy to forget the the real business of Abano Terme. And after a fabulous five-course dinner in the five-star Hotel Trieste e Vittoria, I, too, had forgotten what I was doing here. My timetable, however, decreed "fangotherapy" at 9am the next morning. There was no getting out of it.

So I donned my white robe and shuffled along to the mud suite. Men wheeling trollies of what looked like steaming potter's clay - "fango" - trundled up and down the corridors. A whiff of bad eggs hung in the air. Algae-rich and warmed by thermal water, this was no ordinary mud. The Romans swore by it. Madonna swears by it, too. Many of Abano's clients spend a fortnight here twice a year. But to mud virgins like me, the prospect was faintly terrifying.

"Signorina, please, it's good for you." White-coated Bertilla, grandmotherly and reassuring, propelled me into a cubicle and eased me backwards onto the bed of steaming gunge. Naked. Oof! It was hot - 40 degrees, according to the doctor's prescription - and squelched horribly.

Having wrestled my shoulders, one arm, hips, knees and ankles into 45kg of mud, Bertilla wrapped me in grey linen, set a timer and left the cubicle. I felt like an Egyptian mummy in a furnace. The heat fought its way to my core, needling stiff joints, penetrating to my bones. Alarm gave way to exhaustion. Beads of sweat trickled down my chin.

I was woken by Bertilla tenderly wiping my brow and loosening my wrappings. "Piano, piano, signorina." The mud was prised off, I was heaved upright, hosed down and guided into my ozone bath, where I floated groggily for 15 minutes.

For the first two days I fought the system. I felt over-pampered, guilty, lethargic. My mind was vegetating. I had to escape. Padua was a 10-minute bus ride away, and ploughing into the rush-hour traffic of vespas, vegetable vans and Alfa Romeos, I felt myself wake up again. A lively university city, Padua is big enough to be interesting - Giotto's frescoes in the Scrovegni Chapel were worth the trip alone; there was also a Baroque music festival in full swing.

Then it was back to the cossetted world of the spa where, by day four, I was contemplating liposuction for the simple reason that the food was exquisite; Italy's best, served with great speed and silver-domed ceremony by a personal waiter. Sparrow-like ladies, dressed as if for a Cannes film premiere, ate their way through five courses twice a day without batting an eyelid. Their husbands, magnificent paunches straining through jacket and tie, did the same without reproach. Often no word would pass between them, the ladies' eyelids lifting only to flutter, coyly, at passing waiters.

Before dinner, the ritual stroll was a fashion parade without any concession to subtlety - handbags, sunglasses and sandals all flashed with gold. But it was more entertaining than intimidating, and before long I was competing as best as I could despite my pitifully un-spangly wardrobe. Next year, I told myself, I would pack far more outrageously.

Next year? Yes, I admit it. I was utterly seduced. Italy is, incurably, a pleasure-loving country - whether expressed through exuberant architecture, spangly boutiques, or simple physical pampering. It is hard not to give in to it on every level. After one week, I truly felt a new person - but couldn't put my finger on the precise nature of the "cure". Was it the mud, the thermal waters, or the general atmosphere of happy indulgence? Sometimes a little frivolity is just what is needed.

The practicals

Thermalia Travel (020-7483 1898, www.thermalia.co.uk) offers one week at the five-star Grand Hotel Trieste e Vittoria, Abano Terme near Padua, from £1,025pp, including scheduled flights, full board, plus daily fango, ozone bath and massage. Two and three-star hotels in Abano Terme also available from £836pp.