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Various sizes and shapes and levels of hairiness and wrinkliness and tan, but, basically all the same. And once you’ve been naked on a beach, why not at a bar, or in a corner shop, or a swimming pool? We’re all just people. No swimsuit for sand to get all caught up in, no tan lines to worry about. On a beach, being naked just makes good practical sense. It has nothing at all to do with what you look like. Within seconds the moment had passed and I was just one naked person on a beach with a lot of other naked people. I took the shorts off and nobody looked, nobody pointed, nobody laughed. As it turns out, when it comes to public nudity, cross one bridge and you’ve pretty well crossed them all. Although, as with most things in life, I’d taken a cross-each-bridge-as-I-come-to-it approach. At least, not unless you’re very stupid and/or exceptionally culturally insensitive. You don’t check into a naturist resort without expecting to take your clothes off. “Excuse me,” he said, gesturing at my shorts, “Please, is it possible?” He pointed to a very large sign that I’d somehow missed, in French it read “Beach 100% naturist.” The shorts had to go. Carrying our towels and parasols down the walkway to the beach, a friendly resort rep had jogged after us. This was, to be fair, the opposite (and therefore, I suppose, equal) faux pas to one I’d committed myself earlier that day.
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In the evening, you’d generally dress for dinner, an item of etiquette Steve learned the hard way on our first night, after walking through a crowded restaurant wearing a t-shirt but nothing else, meat-and-two-veg hanging free roughly at eye level for the dozens of people seated, enjoying their wine and moules mariniere. For being a naturist, I mean.Īround the resort, friendly signs featuring a cartoon family romping naked through the woods ask visitors to “Respect our values”. To be honest, after a four day stay at a naturist resort, I’m still not quite sure what the criteria are, really. Or, at least, I wasn’t, until a couple of weeks ago. I am not a naturist, I suppose is what I’m saying.
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I don’t hate my body, but that doesn’t mean I want strangers to see it either. But nowhere near enough to do a juice cleanse, or hire a personal trainer. I’ve gained a bit of weight since quitting smoking and I care about this enough to occasionally order a salad, enough to join a gym. I’d describe my body as almost exactly average. I live in Shoreditch, where it’s fair to say appearances do count for something. It’s worth pointing out that normally I’m the kind of woman who sunbathes in a one-piece swimsuit and would rather die than take part in naked yoga. There is a corner shop, a boulangerie, a newsagent, a hardware store, a bicycle rental, several bars and restaurants, two swimming pools, a spa, an archery range, tennis courts, a cinema and a hairdresser. There are around 1000 private bungalows on site, some of them owned by families who live there permanently, others let out to tourists in the summer months. Today, the resort is 175 hectares set in a pine forest and bordered by a huge section of white sand beach on the Atlantic coast. We were at CHM Montalivet, the world’s oldest naturist resort, founded in 1953. We shook hands with our rescuer and he continued on his way, white bottom vanishing into the sunset. The French man and Steve pushed, I put my foot down. Luckily, at that moment, a naked French man appeared from around a corner and offered to help. No amount of angry revving or sweary reversing had succeeded in dislodging it. My boyfriend Steve and I stood, naked, hands on our hips and stared hopelessly at our hire car, its back wheels buried into about a foot-and-a-half of sand.