Leaning on the railing of a wooden platform in the ancient Guìhuā gardens in Xīndū, I’m surrounded by manmade lotus ponds flanked by weeping willows.

They are almost perfectly still in the total absence of wind.

Heavy summer rain is striking the exquisitely crafted pavilion roof above me and the field of leaves stretching out in front.

I watch an individual droplet strike a leaf, skitter around its surface like a little ball bearing, before settling in a trough, adding to the gathering pool.

The stems of the leaves sag under the increasing weight and eventually dump out their contents before rising back up and starting the process over again.

Together, they look like a giant flock of green birds feeding.

I'm here to recover from my dose of agonising traditional medicine called a guāshā massage (刮痧), and am in too much pain to sit down.

I endure a guāshā massage. 刮痧

I steal a jealous glance at the young woman next to me, enjoying a seat and a read, sheltered from this warm summer deluge.

Yesterday, I was elsewhere in Xīndū, partly to try as much of the local food as humanly possible, but also because I had generously been booked in for my treatment.

Guāshā (pronounced gwah-sha) is rooted in traditional Chinese medicine and documented for over 2,000 years.

The technique improves circulation, encourages tissue repair, and triggers an anti-inflammatory response, among other things.

Upon arrival, the proprietor took one look at my gangly, doughy, foreign physique and made a tactical substitution.

He proudly informed me that my new masseur was previously employed as a milkmaid, at which juncture a lesser man may have made a cheap joke.

I had been told that the treatment involved stones.

My mind cast itself to those couples' massages in the Caribbean, where masseurs gently lay smooth, hot stones on the backs of giggling honeymooners who hold hands while watching the sunset.

In reality, my experience exhibited some core differences.

What guāshā means

The first clue that my imagination had run away from me was in the name.

刮 (guā) translates to “scrape” and 痧 (shā) describes the mottled red spots that form under the skin as capillaries are broken—a pre-bruise, if you will.

That's why guāshā is sometimes referred to as "scraping therapy."

After slathering me from head to toe in a herbaceous marinade and performing a preliminary assessment, my new physician (or farmhand) informed me that my body held a tremendous amount of “moist” and that this was very bad.

The details are a little arcane, but "moist" is a term in traditional Chinese medicine that refers to a kind of pathological dampness.

A moist body has accumulated excess fluids, mucus, and metabolic waste that it can’t properly transform or move.

The symptoms of moist include:

• Heaviness
• Sluggish digestion
• Swelling or puffiness
• Feeling foggy or tired

All of which are my normal conditions because dairy, sugar, alcohol, and greasy foods increase moist. Hence, I was booked in for my high-friction cure.

Back in the massage parlour, the scraping begins.

Much to my dismay, I learned that my insidious moisture has decided to accumulate in all the areas of my body I need for dear activities such as sitting, slouching, leaning, and lying.

Yes, guāshā is very painful

In my life, I have broken limbs, trained in combat sports, and even endured Ben Shapiro lectures on YouTube, but I’ve never been subjected to quite so much acute and persistent pain as during this massage.

The same single line of my buttock was scraped with the sharp edge side of a wretched stone for no less than half an hour.

Later, I learned that the chief practitioner at the parlour believed that unless his patient was screaming in agony, the pressure he was applying was therapeutically insufficient.

Ignorant of this fact and lacking the linguistic skills to convey my pain, I had no choice but to laugh at the absurdity of the experience, which only egged my masseuse on.

Hitherto, I thought that masseurs and snooker players shared the rule that, at all times, they must have at least one foot on the floor.

At this point of the massage, she mounted the table and straddled me like a horse, choosing to sacrifice sure footing for the additional pounds per square inch.

Putting the "tender" in tenderised

Three hours later, it was decided that I had been sufficiently tenderised.

The final stage of the procedure involved pinning me to the table with an oven-hot box of herbs, thereby turning me into a fragrant, sweaty tortoise.

Consultants came in occasionally to lift my shell, examine me, mutter, and shake their heads.

I feared I might have terminal moist.

It is also worth noting that air conditioning is not allowed in the establishment, lest patients and practitioners alike get the “wind.”

My "treatment" was in mid-summer, in 35°C heat.

After completing it, I thanked my masseuse for her efforts.

She, drenched in sweat from her exertions, told me not to shower for 24 hours, before heading off to enjoy one herself.

So here I stand, the following morning, in these stunning gardens next to the young woman with the book.

Her concentration broken now by this 6'4" bouquet garni flashing her envious glances.

I hope I'm recovered by tomorrow, as I have to catch an eight-hour bus journey into the Sìchuān mountains.