I’ve always associated the practice with whale music and nothingness, but I can hear mopeds, dogs and bustle
We go into autumn unsure where the dice will land, but at the time of going to press, group exercise classes were still going ahead, with more than six people (so long as non-household groups are separate within them). Which means I am back in a yoga class, and that makes me anxious – not about the risk of infection, more the perpetual potential for faux pas; the constant sense that people with a better grip than you on the new rules are arching their eyebrows over the top of your head. Even when you’re not the object of the disapproval, you feel as though you must be because you can’t figure out what the crime was. Did I walk the wrong way through the one-way system? Was I supposed to spray my mat? Did I breathe too heavily in the heavy-breathing segment?
This is what led me to outdoor, or in the case of Yogarise, rooftop yoga, in south London. They’ve got a brilliant indoor setup as well: the largest studio I’ve seen in a builtup area, with everyone miles apart. But at the weekends they take to the roof for as long it’s warm enough (go soon). It has the slightly surreal, technicolour quality of an updated West Side Story production – an idealised urban skyscape, the city humming beneath you. Or maybe that sense of belonging is just what happens when you really concentrate on your breathing, alongside others, with the world’s best ventilation system.
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