Going Bare!

by John David Harding

  Just like in the pool, swimming without anything on is so liberating; I felt the effects of the waves so much more and swam out until my feet could not touch the seabed; I had not done this for over 18 years! I was not alone, and was buffeted by the water and the currents, but it was addictive.

  I stayed within forty or so metres of the shore and came more inland as the afternoon wore on to join the rest of the naturists in the water. We would stand in the water and just have the waves crashing over us, but they were not uniform in strength and every so often, a larger and stronger wave would send us tumbling if we were not prepared. I saw many of them coming, and although I was pushed back to the beach, I normally stayed upright, but a few of them knocked me over.

  The first one, I was trying to convince my son that the sea wasn't too strong, only for him and I to be sent flying; he stayed away from the surf for the rest of the day at that point.

  The rest of the times, I just scrambled back to my feet, including once when I only narrowly avoided landing on a pretty and naked young lady who had been knocked over; I am not sure my wife would have seen the funny side of it and the young lady gave me a smile as I got to my feet. I wouldn't have been the first person that day to have been swept into someone else but there wasn't any awkwardness to it; there was a finite amount of beach space and we were all getting thrown into each other by the waves. It was an inevitability that some naked people would collide with other naked people.

  I returned to my family and got the camera, placing three shells very strategically and photographing my sunbathing wife. She had already photographed me in the water, and my children then wanted to bury Daddy in the sand.

  This proved to be the most interesting bit of naturism – sand gets everywhere! I washed myself in the sea, and then later at the showers at the top of the beach but my body hair captured quite a bit of sand that, even with soap and endless showers it did not want to let go of!

  For the first time my wife walked naked back through the camp. I never understood why women were so reticent about being bottomless (or should that be bottomfree?) Every part of a woman's anatomy is hidden – especially when they are walking – but my wife just pointed it out to me as we walked back that she was completely nude for the first time.

  I had teased her a bit about her see-through sarong, although I was keen not to push her. We were at La Jenny for me, but it was still the family holiday and there was little about the break that she would have chosen: she doesn't like flying, she doesn't like being exposed in public and she is certainly not fond of France. However, while she might not have chosen the holiday, she was certainly enjoying it.

  We had a tea of burger and chips, and then, after a quick drink at the bar terrace, we made our way to the amphitheatre-style outdoor area and sat down on the sandy steps near the front: there was a cabaret on at 9:30pm for all the family and I wondered what to expect.

  Of course, we expected everything to be in French and were not surprised when there were several announcements that we only caught the odd word of; my GCSE French had left me woefully unprepared for coming to the country, and I got a “B” grade!

  There were easily over 500 people at the show, and around forty children sat on mats at the front; we were expecting a family show and waited expectantly for it to start.

  The Cabaret commenced a few minutes after half-past and five very toned young ladies dressed in black Moulin Rouge style outfits – complete with the basques, suspenders and fishnet stockings – danced onto the stage. If it had been in the UK I could easily see someone doing an undercover expose of what the children were being “subjected to,” but as I looked around the audience there was just wry smiles; it really was just harmless fun. The saucy Moulin Rouge routine was followed up with more scantily-clad women in red outfits and then a Swedish-inspired routine with the man asking what girl should he have?

  The Cabaret was well over a dozen acts – some of them comedic, some salacious and some just entertaining with songs taken from Grease, ABBA and Dirty Dancing. It was good, and the risqué dancing returned nearer the end; it was not “dirty” or overly sexually provocative but as they pulled a gentleman from the audience to be sat in the chair and surrounded by half-naked ladies it was not what the British would do as a family show.

  These bits made only a small part of the Cabaret, and my children found it funny as much as anything. My four-year-old daughter's attention was captured throughout and she danced along to the big number at the end; it was light-hearted fun that didn't take itself too seriously.

  My memory of Cabaret nights at holiday villages come from the 1990s in Britain with the likes of Warners (and once Butlins) in the UK. They could learn a lot from the little naturist resort in France as for the first time in my life I can say I truly enjoyed a variety-type show. It was fun instead of cheesy and corny.

  As I reflected on the day, I realised that the problem with British holidays for me was that we are almost told to enjoy ourselves; they seem regimented and orchestrated where life just appears to happen in this corner of sunny France. The pace of life is different and we can just float around the place doing our thing, enjoying what we want to do.

  My wife didn't disagree with my assessment and we sat down with a cup of coffee in the evening, just enjoying the peace and quiet. “Why can't the British do Cabaret like that?” I asked and she gave me a dry smile.

  “I know why you like it,” she teased, but what man wouldn't? Suddenly, for the first – and indeed only time – in the resort, there was salaciousness. And they had to put some clothes on to do it!

  Chapter VIII: Wednesday

  There is a disadvantage to naturism at La Jenny and it had irritated me all week. Not the being white when everyone else is supremely tanned, the having to always have a towel with you or even not having anywhere to keep your wallet, but pine needles.

  We all had open-toed crocs or sandals to walk around in and the forest is full of pine trees. No matter how careful you are at walking, after twenty or so metres the needles get into the shoe and pierce the skin. It is the only thing to stand on that I have found to rival children's Lego in the pain stakes!

  My children suffered less from it, but I am a size twelve feet so that must have something to do with it! My French was definitely improving and managed to complete an entire transaction at the little shop in the language, until I mistakenly said “Bye” instead of “Au Revoir” and they replied in English. Grrr!

  Our breakfast of croissants, jam and fresh coffee was well received by my children and wife who were just waking up. E asked if we could see the local area and after breakfast I reluctantly got dressed to drive to a neighbouring town of Ares.

  I had wanted to “work on my tan,” which for someone who abhors vanity is a statement I thought I would never utter. As I turned my arms over and looked at my body, it was clear I was still a lot whiter than the other residents of the resort; I wanted to be browner.

  This onset of vanity caused a degree of amusement with the wife, telling me that parts of me were starting to tan, but with only two days left I needed to put in some serious work if I was not going to return pasty white.

  Ares is certainly not too much of a tourist town, and we did get some supplies from the local supermarket before walking down towards the sea front from the town centre.

  As we reached the beach of Ares and my wife turned to face me and the kids with her camera and smiled. “Just you three,” she called and held it up. My first reaction was one of reticence and I stopped myself from shouting out. I do not like my photograph being taken, hence the reason I am normally behind the camera and suddenly all the relaxed attitude I had had at the nudist resort disappeared.

  I gritted my teeth and let her take it but I did wonder why I was so happy at being photographed naked at the resort when I was usually so unhappy at being photographed? Was I really just an exhibitionist?

  The answer was much simpler; I can get stressed easily and my children messing around
have the ability to make my very het up. While they had not done anything wrong, escorting them through an unfamiliar town in an unfamiliar country naturally had me subconsciously tensed and I did not want my photo taken. In La Jenny, it was so much more peaceful, there was a tranquil air to the place.

  I was glad when I got back to the resort and was naked again within seconds of parking the car. Having spent most of the previous 48 hours bare, it felt almost uncomfortable to be so restricted again. I enjoyed the feeling of freedom and was already dreading Friday.

  E complained that most of the pictures taken on the holiday had not included her – and the ones that did were not the sort she wanted to show her family. I conceded on this point and we did take some before she got undressed, but there was very little I could do about pictures in the pool or the beach when we had to be naked.

  After lunch, I strutted out naked onto our little patio and covered in suncream by my wife, before we went back to the village centre; the Chess tournament I had been considering had been in the morning, but the kids just adored the water and begged us to go to the pool.

  The pools were freezing; it was around 24 degrees Celsius and even as our bodies became attuned to the water temperature, it did not make it any more bearable. It was surprisingly warm outside the pool and my wife and I could have a chat on the deckchairs as my children played in the water, but they were clearly braver than we were.

  My little daughter must have found the only other British family at the resort as she played in the water and I went over to speak to the lady; they were experienced naturists and we had a nice little chat until she left to take her daughter – who was cold – out of the water.

  My children were clearly made of sterner stuff and my daughter gleefully took delight in playing with her inflatable crocodile with a couple of French children for another hour – and even then we had to offer ice creams to tempt my children complainingly out of the water.

  My son had the experience of trying to converse to a local lad when neither of them spoke a common language and then moaned about it (although my daughter managed it with her newly-acquired friends), but as we settled down in the café they then began to complain that they were “cold!”

  We had a simple dinner of cheesy pasta and the kids were happy to go to bed at a reasonable time, having been up until gone eleven the night before with the cabaret.

  My wife teased me later as we sat down with a glass of French wine. “I turned around and there you were, talking to another a naked woman,” she said with a smirk on her face and raised eyebrows.

  If it had been any other holiday, I don't think it would have been a smirk!

  Chapter IX: Thursday

  Thursday was our last full day on the park and unfortunately the weather was somewhat overcast. I had hoped for bright blue sunshine so we could go to the beach or the pool, but it was scheduled to be cooler, with a chance of showers.

  I had spoken to a friend of mine earlier in the week from University who was staying in his parent's villa an hour's drive from Bordeaux, and we had arranged to meet on the Thursday when the weather was predicted to be the most inclement. We could not complain too much about it though; we had had three days of 25 degrees or greater and the afternoons had been relatively cloudless and completely rain-free.

  In the morning, we pottered about. I played football with the kids on the decking and we went for a short walk but after lunch I had to get dressed. I had been dressed every day for a couple of hours – Monday for the meal, Tuesday for the cabaret and Wednesday for the trip to Ares – but it still felt a little weird to be wearing underpants, jeans and T-Shirt. I felt ever so slightly stifled.

  My University friend, N, was originally going to meet us in Le Porge, but he was running late so I drove in his direction to a quaint town called Castelnau, parking my car in the little town plaza. Once again, we had coincided with the lunchtime and nothing was open, except for a couple of little cafes which is where we had a chat and a drink. N, and his girlfriend, are typical British conservatives and he screwed up his face when I mentioned the pictures on Facebook.

  “It's fun,” I told him but he didn't believe me.

  “It's not that bad at all,” my wife added and then proceeded to explain about the villa, the naked lifeguards, the resort and the beach. My children chipped in with some comments, much to my friends' amusement.

  “It's just the English,” I told him. “We have this mind-set about always being covered up but being nude's good. Well worth a try.”

  “Well not all the French try it either,” he reasoned. “Even loads of French people don't do it.” This may have been true, but it seemed a slightly fatuous argument. In fact, a study had around 10% of the French having tried nudism at some point in their lives which is an incredible number. However, there was no way he – like a number of my friends – would ever entertain the idea of trying the holiday I was on, even if it was given to them for free; they were too English – for want of a better word.

  By the time we were heading back to La Jenny, the weather was perking up. It had showered slightly while we were in Castlelnau and I had picked up some petrol for the car, but the Sun had burnt through the cloud cover and was shining brightly – and warmly – on our corner of France.

  I almost raced down the familiar drive to get back to the little resort and dragged my children off to the pool where the water was surprisingly warm.

  E sat with a sarong over her and read her book while I played in the water with the children; it would be my last time in the naturist pool on the holiday and I just needed to take advantage of it while I could.

  One thing that I was teased about before I left Britain was getting erections while at La Jenny and as any man will testify they can occur when they are least wanted, needed or stimulated. It really can have a mind of it's own. However, apart from in the privacy of our villa bedroom I never had this problem – and there were plenty of girls on the beach or in the resort that would have given me problems had the situation been different. In truth, at La Jenny, there are no sexual overtones or undercurrents; it appeared to me, to be purely about smiles on faces which was exactly what I expected and hoped for.

  We had our second meal in the restaurant and was served by a girl who had just starting working there. Her English was fabulous, she was friendly and I was minded to leave a tip when I paid the bill. It was a world away from our first night at the restaurant when we felt like naughty children for not remembering our GCSE French well enough.

  We were going to watch the Karaoke but by the time it was due to start there were very few people around and so we slouched off back to the villa. I had been dressed for almost four hours at this point and it felt unnatural; I wanted to sit naked on the patio with a glass of wine.

  Within twelve hours we would be leaving the site and it all felt too soon. The naturist resort was a completely different universe from the stresses of everyday life and I had not worried about e-mails on my Blackberry from work all holiday.

  I felt, more than ever, that it was a lifestyle I wanted to adopt. I often had trouble switching off from everyday life and relaxing, but the only worry I had now was how easy I would find it to switch back on again.

  Chapter X: Departure

  Unfortunately we had to be out for 11am as we had a long drive and we ate breakfast au naturel on the patio. My wife cleaned the chalet as I loaded the car (still naked) and even took the rubbish down to the recycling point with nothing on.

  My children and wife were quiet and understanding; they knew how much the week had meant to me and how much I had liked it. I took the white, cheap towels to throw away before getting dressed. We had certainly got our use out of them; they were always on chairs or benches, or around waists when in the shop. For the sake of £3 each, they were brilliant.

  I waited until we had done literally everything before getting clothed as I knew it would be several months before I would get the opportunity to experience being naked in such an env
ironment again and wanted to savour the freedom for the last few moments. In addition, my skin was woefully untanned; there is no justice in the world!

  We left the sheets on the bed, and checked out, passing the key and key card for the gate to the receptionist. He asked if we had enjoyed our holiday which we obviously did and I got back in our car; it really had been near perfect.

  As I started my marathon drive to Paris on a multitude of roads, I had a tear in my eye. I loved the feeling of being nude and the holiday had opened my eyes to a way of life I guessed I would enjoy but never expected to be able to experience. There was something so magical about being completely free and I had a feeling of missed opportunity and annoyance; I could have done this years ago, why didn't I?

  I asked my family if we should go back next year and the kids faces lit up. “Yeah,” my son cried. “But only if the waves don't knock me over again.” Even E was talking about coming back – and although she wouldn't have come if I wasn't around, it didn't spoil or dampen her enjoyment from the holiday by being nude all day; she didn't feel uncomfortable.

  That said, she did say that next year she would definitely buy a couple of shirts for her shoulders and another sarong. She was happy swimming with nothing on, but she did like to have something around her waist when she was walking.

  When we arrived in Paris after our arduous 9 ½ hour car journey I sauntered into the hotel lobby and glanced over at the pool tables. My eyes lingered on a young lady taking her shot, as any guy would do, taking a moment to admire her tight, white trousers as she bent over the green baize. If I was at La Jenny, then I probably would not have looked twice. So quickly had I reverted to “normal” behaviour!

  After a meal at the restaurant, my wife went to bed to read and I was left alone with the hotel Internet and my laptop, and I began looking. I was naked in the apartment – of course – and stumbled across British Naturism before getting permission from E to join us both as a couple.