http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/ Wed, 22 Feb 2012 17:28:38 +0000 43200 http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/LongSummer
People often ask if I get lonely travelling on my own but I have never found that a problem in the wilderness. On your own you actually talk to people you meet rather than pass them by which usually happens with groups. I find I often spend a few days with another individual or group before going our separate ways. For someone on their own the loneliest place is in a crowd!

In 2001, I split my time between canoe-touring and backpacking. Paddling a Canadian canoe through lake and river systems in uninhabited countryside gives plenty of opportunities for the naturist. It is almost always possible find places to swim and camp without clothes and in remote waters it is possible to paddle naked (provided that water conditions don’t require buoyancy aid to be worn!). In hot weather backpacking in the mountains can also provide plenty of naturist opportunities with bubbling streams with rock pools to cool off in, sandy beaches by distant lakes and wild campsites miles away from the nearest house. There is a tradition of skinny-dipping in the mountains and when both canoeing and mountain walking I find I meet plenty of people who wouldn’t call themselves naturists, but who strip off to swim or sunbathe.

Shortly after Easter I took my Canadian Canoe down to Portugal and spent 12 days canoeing down the Tagus from just west of the Spanish Border to just east of Lisbon. For the first few days the paddling was along reservoirs through wild uninhabited gorges. The seclusion was only broken by an occasional fisherman, from the portages past the dams and from the trains that crawl along the rail-line, which follows the river; rail but no road!
Once past the last dam the river flows freely to the sea. The flow varying from a trickle to a flood depending on the amount of water allowed through the reservoir dams. The first time I had paddled this river I had camped on an island about 3m above the water level and was woken in the night by water flowing through my tent!. Gradually the country became gentler passing through farmland with the occasional small town. As the coast is approached there are increasing signs of industrialisation but the only thing impacting noticeably is the extraction of gravel and sand extraction from the riverbed.

The main canoeing problem can be fighting your way into the prevailing westerly winds but on this trip the winds were light and plenty of sun gave ideal conditions a naturist canoe trip. The power of the river was brought home to me when I found that winter floods had washed almost all of a tree-covered island where thousands of Little Egrets, Cattle Egrets and Spoonbills used to roost away.

Before returning home I spent another week exploring a large reservoir higher up the Tagus in the Extramadura region of Spain. In this remote area I saw at least ten different species of Bird of Prey. On my own you saw a lot more wildlife than I would if I was in a group and the canoe is a particularly good platform for bird watching.

A period at home marking GCSE exams was followed by four weeks in Sweden. Sweden has an extensive system of lakes and rivers, which are ideal for canoe-camping trips. I spent two weeks in the Dalsland area of Sweden close to the Norwegian border. This beautiful area of large lakes and connecting canals is popular with German, Dutch and Danish canoeists. Although there are few official naturist beaches in Sweden there are numerous small beaches and rocky bathing places where naturism seems to thrive. Camping is allowed in the woods along the lakes and on the many small islands dotted around the lakes and many idyllic spots can be found. With long sunny days punctuated by the occasional thunderstorm, air temperatures reached 30°C and water temperatures approached 25°C. It isn’t always like this in Sweden but you get good weather more often than not in mid summer.

My remaining time in Sweden I spent in the area southwest of Stockholm. Here it is possible follow small rivers and lakes which are joined by tracks where it possible to wheel your canoe on a trolley. Because of these portages these routes are less popular than the Dalsland area and few canoeists are met on the water. With the heat wave continuing conditions for swimming were still perfect and I was able to paddle naked most of the time. At the end of this trip I spent a couple of days on an official costumes optional beach on a small island on one of these lakes. Surprisingly this was much less used by naturists than the many unofficial sites I came across.

After a few days back in England I headed off to the Pyrenees where I intended to spend about six weeks walking from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea. There are three main walking routes along the Pyrenees: The GR10 which remains in France and the GR11 in Spain are on well marked and maintained footpaths which generally stay below the highest peaks. I had decided to attempt the High Level Route, which follows the main ridge of the Pyrenees where possible, and remains above 1500m over most of the route. The route scrambles up airy rocky ridges, crosses high-glaciated passes and traverses rocky pathless terrain. In these remote areas it is necessary to camp wild and often to carry a very heavy pack. I spent a few days dropping supplies along the route before starting walking from Hendaye-Plage on the Atlantic Coast near the Spanish border.

Through the Basque country the route mainly follows the border ridge and is a gentle introduction to the walk before reaching the alpine slopes of the High Pyrenees. Lakes and streams along the route provided some rather cold swimming. Tea breaks and camps often provided opportunities to top up on the tan gained earlier in the summer. Eventually Andorra is reached and the route again becomes somewhat gentler but the shorter days meant that I had to keep going and was not able to spend as much time lounging around in the sun. On the last day as I approached the Mediterranean Sea near Banyuls-sur-Mer the generally good weather I had enjoyed for most of the summer ended with storm force winds blowing me off my feet and making progress very difficult and dangerous.

Please feel free to contact the author at ancientbritbrian@btinternet.com]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:50:10 +0000 c6036a69be21cb660499b75718a3ef24 http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/CanoeingInSweden2003 along the beach and have a final swim before setting off for the ferry from Frederikshavn to Gothenburg.

Sweden is a land of lakes and rivers. Most of these lakes have small sandy public beaches, often with swimming jetties and some with diving platforms. In addition to these official “Bad”, when canoeing there were many places where you could swim. The laws in Sweden allow you to camp, for one night, almost anywhere away from houses, as long as you do not damage crops or cause disturbance.

The weather during my stay in Sweden was not as good as I have become accustomed to in Sweden, but the lakes were still warm enough for swimming and as it warmed up towards the end of my stay the water temperature was approaching 25ºC. Despite swimming several times most days, I didn’t need to use a swimming costume at any time. The beaches were usually deserted in the mornings and in the changeable weather only became busy during the
afternoons. When there were only a few people around, I always asked if they minded me swimming naked, and I as only refused 3 times in 6 weeks. In the early morning or in the evenings it was common to see others swimming without costumes.

My first canoe tour was in the area of lakes near Linkoping to the SW of Stockholm. This was a 200 km round trip. I set off up a stormy Lake Sommen and had a hard struggle as I paddled into wind and waves. I was pleased to reach the Svartan, a small river, which I was to follow to Linkoping. I now faced a 6 km portage as the river dropped down impassable rapids. Portages along roads are easy as I can pull the canoe on a trolley. For the next few days I followed the Svartan down towards Linkoping. The paddling was easy, but there were a number of portages past dams, which were difficult as the paths were overgrown and often muddy and appeared not to have been this early in the summer. Despite the changeable weather with frequent storms, there were enough sunny periods for me to do plenty of swimming. In better weather these bathing places might have be too busy to use naked in the afternoons, but
in this weather it was always possible.

At Linkoping I entered the Kinda Kanal. I had expected easy paddling in this deep wide canal, but I found I had to paddle against quite a strong current. I had a number of sets of locks to portage, but this is made easy for canoeists who were provided with low jetties to lift their canoes and relaunch. At one lock I was allowed through free with a motor yacht. Unlike in England, I would
have been able to use all the locks on payment of the lockkeeper’s fee. At one time this canal would have been busy with commercial traffic, but now it was only used by pleasure craft. The canal joined up a series of small lakes, again with numerous bathing places, all of which I managed to use.

After the canal I entered a series of big lakes. One of these, Asunden, had an island with an official naturist beach. I took a rest day there, but spent most of it in my tent in thundery weather with very few visitors. In the evening a motorboat appeared being paddled onto the beach. The boat had broken down and I had to give the owner a lift to the mainland in the canoe. Not as easy as it sounds in a one man canoe!

From here I had a number of long portages between small lakes to get back to Sommen. The poor weather deteriorated further and I had an enforced rest day because of heavy rain and gale-force winds. A long day’s paddle across Sommen got me back to my starting point at Blavik. I later learnt that this area, normally one of the driest and warmest parts of Sweden, had received one third of the annual rainfall in 4 days!

I took a couple of days off, by which time the weather had started to improve and then set off on an even longer canoe tour on the rivers and lakes to the north of the industrial town of Karlskoga. Karlskoga is well known as the home of Alfred Nobel who made his fortune manufacturing explosives, munitions and armaments, but is now better known for the prestigious Nobel Prizes for Peace, Science and literature.

I started up the Svartalven, about 100km to the north of Karlskoga in hot sunny weather. The water warmed up rapidly and the main beaches on the route started becoming crowded in the afternoons. Fortunately there were plenty of smaller beaches, often only accessible by boat, which were suitable for the naturist and most of the time I was able to paddle naked. In this weather naked bodies were a common sight away from the main beaches. After I left the
Svartalven I linked up a number of medium size lakes with long portages, before following a big lake system south towards Karlskoga. This was an area popular with motorboats and the wilderness was rather spoilt by the number of holiday homes bordering some of the lakes. It took me about 9 long days to reach Karskoga. I was caught in the big (Lake) Mokeln by a torrential thunderstorm, not surprising after a week of hot sunny weather. I now had to paddle up the Svartalven back to my van. I was surprised how strong the current was in the first few kilometres and I found that in places I had to get out of the canoe and pull it upstream against the current. There were then three difficult portages along rough forest paths until I reached the point where the normal canoe-tours along the Svartalven start.

Several canoe hire firms operate on this river so it was popular with canoeists. The river was now controlled by small dams, which meant paddling was easy. Fortunately, there were very few holiday homes to spoil the wilderness. The river was broken up with a number of small lakes. The weather continued hot
and sunny with the occasional thunderstorm and I got back to my starting point after 16 days of hard paddling.

I then had a few days on another short tour, before heading for a couple of days on the Danish beaches and then the ferry back to England.

Please feel free to contact the author at ancientbritbrian@btinternet.com]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:47:23 +0000 8597a6cfa74defcbde3047c891d78f90 http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/CanoeingInSweden1997
My small Canadian canoe is light enough to handle easily on the land but big enough to carry camping gear and provisions for a 2 week trip. It took quite a long time to organise the canoe as I was carrying most of my food for the trip as there were few places to re-provision en-route.

The pattern for the trip was set as I stripped off for a swim from the small beach where I launched the canoe and didn’t need to dress again until the sun set. I was delighted to find that the water was already above 20°C and by the end of my trip some of the lakes had got up to 25°C. As it was already early evening I just paddled for an hour before camping in the woods beside the river.

The next 2 days were spent paddling down 2 long narrow lakes separated by a short stretch of river with three small dams. At the dams the canoe had to be “portaged” which was not as bad as it sounds as I was able to pull the canoe along on small trolley. With the continuous sunshine in these remote waters the only time clothing was needed during these land portages.

The third night was spent at a beautiful little beach with a jetty to allow diving into deep water. This was surprisingly deserted most of the time despite being at the weekend. I stayed there most of the next day as well waiting for a strong southerly breeze to die down as it usually does in the evening. With the weather so hot I often just paddled in the early morning and evening and found a nice bathing place to spend the bulk of the day.

The next few days were spent on a section of small meandering river, joining up many small lakes. The sixth night was spent at one of their bigger beaches with a 3 level diving platform. This was about the only time during the trip apart from at the land portages, and the occasional afternoon cloudy interlude, when I had to wear any clothes.

The second half of the trip was through a series of much bigger lakes. At times quite large waves can develop on these lakes, making the canoeing rather exciting, but on this trip the conditions remained tranquil and I was able to enjoy the sun. One afternoon it clouded over and there was a viscous thunderstorm but fortunately I watched this from one of the shelters scattered along the route. I did have to bale about 8 gallons of water from my canoe after only about 20 minutes rain! Most nights I camped on sandy beaches. I was surprised how few canoeists there were on this part of the trip. It seems to be mainly Danes and Germans on the water.

For the ornithologist there is plenty to see. The black-throated diver is common and among the many birds I saw were osprey, crane and 4 species of woodpecker. Moose and beaver were also seen but they tend to be shy at this time of year. I am told there are wolves and bears in this part of Sweden but I think you would be very lucky (unlucky?) to see any.

I was expecting to reach Karlskoga but a leak in one of the dams in the final section of river meant that the water levels were too low and I had to complete my journey by road. Karlskoga is best known as the home of Alfred Nobel and the industry of the town is still dominated by the chemical works he founded. The problem of getting back to my car was easily solved, as one of the canoe hire firms will transport you and your canoe back to your starting point for a very reasonable price. I went on from here to follow other canoe trails but it would only be about a 4-hour drive to Gothenburg for those needing to rush home.

In the good weather I had for this trip, which is not unusual at this time of year, it is difficult to imagine a better holiday. Although there are always some youngsters trying to disprove it, Canadian canoeing is a leisurely activity, and is within the physical capability of most age groups. The canoes you can hire are big enough to take younger children as passengers and, unlike kayaks, it is very difficult to capsize a Canadian canoe.

Please feel free to contact the author at ancientbritbrian@btinternet.com]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:44:20 +0000 c60d060b946d6dd6145dcbad5c4ccf6f http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/ExploringSwedenLakesAndRivers
The best way to explore the countryside is by open canoe. Sweden is covered with ‘kanotleden’, canoe trails ranging in length from a few kilometres to several hundred kilometres. On the kanotleden, occasional sections of track where you can pull your canoe on a trolley link lakes and rivers. The trails often have designated campsites with shelters and barbecues, but you can camp virtually anywhere beside the lake or river.
There are countless spots where it is possible to swim and by July the water temperature will be 20-25°C. In addition there are many official bathing places with sandy beaches and usually pontoons out to deep water, often with diving platforms. Although these are ‘textile’ they tend to be deserted in the mornings and available for unofficial naturist use. As these kanotleden are in remote countryside and surprisingly little used by the Swedes it is possible for the naturist to spend most of their time canoeing, swimming or sunbathing without clothes. Towards the end of July and in August, with the Swedish holidays ending, the main users of the canoe trails are German and Dutch.

The kanotleden are designed for family use. Canadian canoes are so stable that trips would be suitable for beginners. The canoes are designed to take two or three adults with camping gear and would be big enough for two adults and two younger children. There are plenty of firms, which hire all the canoeing equipment (and also camping equipment) that is needed and who would be able to give tuition. Tourist information offices have details of canoe trails and canoe hire companies.

Please feel free to contact the author at ancientbritbrian@btinternet.com]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:40:38 +0000 0eec27c419d0fe24e53c90338cdc8bc6 http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/Canuding
My canoe is so stable that, as an experienced canoeist, I don’t need to wear a buoyancy aid unless I’m in white water or rough conditions. This means that in calm conditions, when it is warm enough, I am able to paddle completely naked.

It is possible to use canoes for day trips, but they are ideally designed for longer trips as you can accommodate plenty of camping gear. I also carry a small trolley making it easy when I have to portage the canoe between lakes or round obstacles such as locks, dams or weirs.

In Britain there aren’t a lot of rivers suitable for a long distance canoe tour, the Wye, Severn and Thames possibly being the best. The extensive canal system is usable as long as you don’t mind fairly frequent portages of the locks. The best canal tour in Britain is the Caledonian Canal, taking you through the heart of Scotland from Fort William to Inverness. This canal, with few locks, includes the well-known Loch Ness as you paddle through the magnificent scenery of the Scottish Highlands.

Canudists who want a high chance of warm weather should head south to France, Spain or Portugal. The Dordogne in France is an extremely popular river for canoeists with many companies offering canoe tours for those who don’t own their own canoe. The Tagus reaches the sea near Lisbon and the Portuguese section is free-flowing, except for two dams near the Spanish border. There is relatively little activity on the Tagus and it only passes through a few towns, so in good weather, you can paddle naked throughout its length. It is also possible to paddle on the Tagus in Spain, but here the river is largely dam controlled and you will be paddling on reservoirs.

However the Mecca for canudists is Sweden. Most of my canoe tours have been in Sweden. Here there is open access to all the rivers and lakes, canoes are readily available for hire for day trips or long tours and portages are generally organised so that they can be easily performed using a trolley, rather than having to carry the canoe. Nudity is generally accepted in the wilderness in Sweden, so there is no problem paddling naked, or remaining naked at the small bathing places that you come to on the waterways. In Sweden it is legal to camp on any wilderness land (without asking permission) so you can always find somewhere to camp. Because of the long hours of daylight in summer, if the weather is good you will find the temperature of the lakes can reach 25°C and it is warm enough to be naked for most of the day. Obviously you aren’t guaranteed good weather, but in summer the weather does tend to be more reliable than in Britain. I have certainly done tours where I have been naked for 90% of the time.

Canoeing is much easier for the novice than kayaking, both in terms of required skills and physical demands so you don’t need to be an expert to do a canoe tour. Most of the canoes that you can hire are designed to be paddled by two people. They are often big enough to take two young children as well as their parents, and teenagers should have little problem paddling a canoe, so they are ideal for a family holiday.

Please feel free to contact the author at ancientbritbrian@btinternet.com]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:38:10 +0000 dd77279f7d325eec933f05b1672f6a1f http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/AncientBritOnTheGR11
After caching some supplies along the route, I arrived at the French border town of Hendaye on the evening of 8^th August 2003 and walked to the far end of the beach where I knew it would be possible to bivouac overnight. I should have made an early start in the morning, but I spent the morning on the beach. This was the naturist end of the beach and by the time I left at 12am there were hundreds of naked bodies enjoying the sun. It was already 36ºC (100ºF) in the shade by the time I reached the Spanish border.

During the first week the hills in the Basque country gradually increased in altitude. It was excessively hot and I had to carry many litres of water on these normally wet misty hills. There were very few walkers on the trail, but I did spend time with a number of Basques and a German couple who were also attempting to walk to the Mediterranean. The hills are a mixture of woodland and rough pasture, often overgrazed by sheep and horses. As well as the large flocks of griffon vultures, I also sighted black and red Kites, honey buzzard, golden eagle and the rare lammergeyer.

In this hot weather I took every opportunity to strip off whenever I stopped and didn’t need to wear any clothing around camp. In these quiet hills it was possible to walk naked much of the time.

As the hills started to give way to the mountains, I came across the first significant streams. At the end of a long hot day I was delighted to camp beside a stream with a swimming hole. Two Basque families were at the swimming hole, but they invited me to join them and were happy for me to strip off to swim and wash all my clothing.

The weather now turned thundery as I reached the steep limestone mountains at the eastern end of the Basque Country. It was still unusually hot, but at least I was able to cool down in the streams and mountain tarns. After two weeks meeting very few walkers I arrived in the Ordesa National Park, which is one of the “honeypot” areas of the Pyrenees and is overrun with tourists. This is not surprising since the Ordesa Canyon is magnificent, rather like a miniature Grand Canyon, with the added attraction of spectacular waterfalls. I had a 10-hour day since you are not allowed to camp below 2100m in the National Park.

I had now reached the High Pyrenees with peaks over 3000m high and the GR11 followed some extremely steep ascents and descents over high passes. The trail dropped down to isolated mountain villages with old dilapidated stone houses. Many of these were deserted, but in recent years roads had been bulldozed up to many of them and the houses restored mainly as holiday and retirement homes. Throughout the high mountains the weather was thundery with some terrific storms. Fortunately a lot of the storms were at night and I was able to stay warm and dry in my small tent.

The trail entered Andorra for a few days. Andorra can be a bit of a shock after the unspoilt mountains of Spain. The lower valleys in Andorra seem to be a mixture of building site, with many new hotels and apartments, and duty-free supermarkets attracting far more traffic than the roads can cope with. Most of the higher valleys are despoiled by ski resorts. The only compensation was the improved quality of the paths. The trail in Spain got very little maintenance and was frequently difficult to follow or overgrown.

On leaving Andorra I entered Catalonia. The weather started to improve at last after the disappointing weather in the high mountains. Catalonia, like the Basque Country used to be an independent Kingdom and the people still use their own language and are campaigning for independence from Spain. I walked up the spectacular Nuria Gorge on the Catalan National Day, accompanied by thousands of tourists and pilgrims to the old monastery, which was now a tourist centre and ski complex, only accessible on foot or by mountain railway. Surprisingly, on my last day above the 2000m contour, having left the highest mountains behind, I now climbed to the highest point on the GR11 as I passed over the Pic Superior de la Vaca at 2824m. I was met by a strong gusting wind blowing from France and was soon having problems staying on my feet.

It was hot again as I traversed the lower hills as I approached the coast, but fortunately there were a number of swimming holes in the streams for refreshing swims. The paths were still steep, with several days of steep limestone terrain. I was walking at this time with a couple of girls from Barcelona University and a couple of Dutchmen. On the last night we camped at an old disused monastery and were surprised to find a proper swimming pool, fed by spring water. It didn’t take long for the men to be stripped off and in the pool, but unfortunately the girls had included swimming costumes in their heavy packs.

To make it easier to get home, I finished at Banyuls-sur-Mer in France, rather than continue to Cabo de Creus in Spain.

While this was not primarily a naturist holiday, walking and camping in these wild mountains gives the naturist plenty of opportunities and is practised by many walkers who would not think of themselves as naturists.

Please feel free to contact the author at ancientbritbrian@btinternet.com]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:35:25 +0000 e19347e1c3ca0c0b97de5fb3b690855a http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/ThePacificCrestTrail2009
I’d through-hiked the PCT in 2002 and 2006 and was back for a third time in 2009 to check the content of a guidebook of the trail I had written for Cicerone Press.

In April and May, most days, I was able to hike naked for a few hours in the 700 miles of arid hills and mountains of Southern California. I often hiked in a 'breach-clout' (loin cloth) which I could fold up when I was on my own and pull down when meeting other hikers. I was usually able to naked at breaks and when camping.

For a naturist the highlight of this section is the popular Deep Creek hot springs which is possibly the best wilderness hot springs in the USA. Hot springs in the wilderness are traditionally costumes optional and you can expect about half the visitors to follow this tradition.

I reached the Sierra Nevada in unseasonally cold weather, and a combination of snow storms and mosquitoes discouraged nude hiking, although I did manage a couple of hours of naked hiking on Mid-summers Day, America’s unofficial Nude Hiking Day.

The Sierra Nevada is majestic with snow-covered peaks in a lake-studded landscape. The granite of the Sierra Nevada gives way to the volcanic rocks of the Cascade Mountains with a succession of towering volcanoes above the forests of northern California, Oregon and Washington.

I occasionally hiked naked in northern California, Oregon and Washington as I was little reluctant to hike naked on a well-used trail during the holiday season but I was usually able to strip off during breaks and at the multitude of lakes along the trail where skinny-dipping is traditional.

I reached Canada at the beginning of October as the first snows of winter buried the trail.

Although 200-300 through-hikers complete the PCT in a single year, the majority of hikers only attempt a short section each year. A lot of snow falls in these mountains in the winter, but the summer is the dry season and you can expect the long periods of the warm sunny weather appreciated on a naturist holiday.

Please feel free to contact the author at ancientbritbrian@btinternet.com

The author has now had a guide published by Cicerone Press to the 2650-mile Pacific Crest Trail which stretches from the Mexican border to the Canadian border through California, Oregon and Washington. See http://www.cicerone....fic-crest-trail for details.]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:30:58 +0000 d6ef5f7fa914c19931a55bb262ec879c http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/ThePacificCrestTrail2006
Part 1: Southern California

I landed at Los Angeles International on 11th April and picked up a hire car. After collecting the supplies I had pre-ordered from REI and buying food to last me from Campo to Walker Pass, I drove out to the ‘Hiker Haven’ at Agua Dulce where I spent three days sorting out food and equipment, and caching supplies between Agua Dulce and Walker Pass. I then headed south and dropped supplies between Agua Dulce and the Mexican border. I had a day to spare so I did my first training session for the hike. I hiked 6 miles to Deep Creek Hot Springs, spent the night there and hiked back to the car in the morning.

On Sunday I drove down to Escondido to stay with Greg and Irene High and did my second training session for the hike when I walked around San Diego Zoo with them. On Easter Monday, I dropped my car off in San Diego and got a lift to Campo with Ladybug. She had contacted me by email as she wanted someone to ‘hold her hand’ near the border.

It was pleasantly warm when we set off and there was plenty of water in the streams so it was a much easier start than in 2002. Heavy rains in March had filled the streams and springs were running well but this also meant a record snowfall through the Sierra Nevada and Northern California. After a couple of days Ladybug went on ahead and I did very well swapping a married middle-aged lady for a single 22 year-old girl who became known as Ladybird!

The weather was such that Ladybird even put water into a water cache rather than taking it out! At Barrel Spring, Warner Springs Monte gave Ladybird a can of Diet Soda which she started drinking and then said “Why am I drinking this, it’s got no calories”. We were meeting a lot of hikers until we reached Warner Springs, which Ladybird described as a ‘Blackhole’ as hikers seemed to go in but couldn’t get out. By now many hikers were already injured through doing too much mileage at the beginning of the hike, but many where using any excuse to delay reaching the snow.

We reached the San Jacinto Mountains together but Ladybird had to drop down to Idyllwild to resupply and have a day off with her sister. We arranged to meet up again at Deep Creek hot springs. The San Jacinto Mountains were covered in snow and any footsteps had melted away so I had to make tracks in the soft snow as well as cope with some very difficult navigation. It took me 13 hours and 2 days to cover 13 miles! The trail then dropped down to 1000ft and the temperature reached 100°F for the first time. I was mostly on my own as I hiked to Deep Creek hot springs. I had scheduled a rest-day and when Ladybird didn’t turn up I decided to give it another day. In fact she had missed the post in Big Bear City and had to wait for the Post Office to open on the Monday morning.

Deep Creek Hot Springs is one of highlights of Southern California with several hot pools to soak in and a pool which is warm enough to swim in. Traditionally the springs were used naked, but nowadays they are clothing-optional and it is a pity more through-hikers don’t stick to the traditions. I spent my second rest day with a group of locals and had an interesting time. They arranged a pipe from the top hot pool to produce a powerful stream of hot water into the swimming hole. One lady, a retired professional masseur, gave me a water massage. Later in the day she covered me all over with the fine mud from just below the pools and when the mud had dried she washed it off with another water massage.

I had arranged with Ladybird that we would meet at Walker Pass after my supply break if she didn’t reach the hot springs, so I set off the next morning. I reached Silverwood Lake in the afternoon and found a secluded sandy beach for a break and this was the first lake I had been able to swim in. As I did throughout the hike I went skinny-dipping whenever I went swimming.

I had a car booked at Ridgecrest for when I reached Walker Pass and I was going to need to maintain about 20 miles/day from Deep Creek to get there on time. The weather was generally hot and I often walked in a breach-clout (loin cloth), a garment formerly worn by American Indians and Ancient Egyptians. A short cool spell saw me through the Mohave Desert with little problem and I reached Walker Pass after 38 days of hiking.
I hitched down to Ridgecrest where hired a car for a week, resupplied and dropped supplies off as far as the California/Oregon border. On my return to Walker Pass I learnt that Ladybird had been bitten by a Brown Recluse Spider and would be off the trail for several weeks, so I was walking on my own again. I heard the injury described as “Looking like a gunshot wound” and the bite of a Brown Recluse Spider as being “Worse than a Black Widow” and “Like a rattlesnake bite, except ten times worse”. I later learnt that she had got going again and completed the trail in late October.

I left Kennedy Meadows on June 6th. My back weighed about 65lb, including at least 10 days food. I was equipped for mountaineering rather than trail walking. I had decided to use a combination of walking poles and crampons. The first significant snow was met at Trail Pass and by Cottonwood Pass the snow-pack was almost 100%. This is a good indicator of the conditions ahead. “If there is snow on Cottonwood Pass, you will be on Snowpack until you reach Donner Pass.” The hiking was relatively easy until I reached Mount Whitney. I was walking with a loose group of about 8 youngsters from the east coast of USA. They were discovering that they hadn’t got the equipment or the skills to cope with the conditions and I don’t think any of them made it beyond Lone Pine or Independence. At that time I was also meeting an experienced Kiwi, ‘Roaring thunder’, the Basque, Ynaki , both of whom were carrying walking poles, ice-axe, snow shoes and crampons, and ‘Three Gallon’ who got his trail name because he left Campo with three gallons of water despite the fact the streams were running and it was raining. These three were revelling in the conditions.

They left me as they were heading for the Vermillion Valley Resort (VVR) without resupply. I was on my own as I headed up towards the 13,000ft Forester Pass and camped in the snow above 12,00ft, so that I could go over the pass when the snow was hard frozen in the morning. The descents from Forester Pass, where ‘Gidiup’ passed me and Glen Pass are dangerous in snow conditions and inexperienced or ill-equipped hikers have died here in the past.

Scott Williamson passed me in his attempt to complete hike to Canada and back to Mexico. I later learnt he had lost about 20lb in weight in the High Sierra and was physically drained. He did manage to keep going and I saw him again on his way south in Washington.

After resupplying in the Onion Valley, over the Kearsarge Pass, I was again carrying 10 days food when I rejoined the trail. The only through-hikers I met in the next two weeks were ‘Atomic’ and ‘Subatomic’. They first passed me when I had camped at 3pm one afternoon, by which time the snow was much too soft for me to make meaningful progress. I would then set off at 5.30 am, when the snow was frozen hard, and pass them while they were still in their sleeping bags. They weren’t carrying crampons and had to wait for the snow to soften before they could safely move out. I lost them after an 11 hour day in which I only covered 11 miles. I went on that long so I could use their footprints over Mather Pass, the ascent of which, in snow, is the most difficult on the trail. However it is relatively safe as even a 500ft fall down the concave snow-slope wasn’t likely to lead to more than damage to the pride. It wasn’t a fall that damaged me but the loss of my sunhat which was blown off and away by a gust of wind and I ended with sunburn on my ears, nose and lips by the time I managed to buy a replacement.

On the descent from Muir Pass I was to be confronted with the first really serious stream crossing, Evolution Creek. This had been waist high in 2002 and I wasn’t sure I would be able to cross it at all in 2006, so I didn’t! I avoided the crossing by climbing down the crags on the south side of the river (looking back I had found the only line of weakness down the crags) and descending through the avalanche debris on the south bank of the river to rejoin the PCT after the dangerous crossing. By now it was getting warmer at day and night and the rivers were beginning to rise dangerously from the increased snowmelt. I avoided the even more dangerous crossing of Bear Creek by crossing its main tributaries high up the mountain on slippery logs. I had discovered that walking poles and crampons were a good combination crossing rivers on fallen trees. I later met four through-hikers who had involuntary swims in Bear Creek, including ‘Heike’ who was washed down more than 200m.

I resupplied at the Vermillion Valley Resort but didn’t stay long as there were no through-hikers there and it is very expensive! I took a variation over Goodale Pass, instead of Silver Pass. From the total absence of tracks I would think this was the first crossing of the pass in 2006. I approached Red’s Meadow down Cascade Valley (Fish Creek). On the top river crossing I got about a third of the way across before turning back with the water already well above waist deep and getting deeper. Again I had to descend the river on the wrong side. The bottom crossing looked totally impassable to me and I later learnt that EricD had managed the top crossing, but taken one look at the bottom crossing and turned round and headed back upstream.

With daytime temperatures over 85°F and night-time temperatures at 11,000ft well above freezing, the creek levels were rising even more as I approached Tuolumne and even creeks too small to mark on the map were becoming difficult to cross. When I reached Tuolumne the road had only just opened and the store, post office, campsite and lodge were all still closed. The Ranger office was open and I had a chat with the Rangers. They guessed the supply I had sent to the post office would be in Yosemite Valley and they said through-hikers had been turning back at the first unbridged river crossing in Virginia Canyon. I had got my shorts wet crossing this rocky stream in 2002 and wasn’t at all surprised it was uncrossable and this was just the first of a series of difficult stream crossings. I came to the conclusion that the Tuolumne-Sonora Pass section was unjustifiable in these conditions, so rather than wait for the river levels to drop I hitched round to the Sonora Pass.

Part 2: Northern California

At Sonora Pass I met EricD, ‘Scarecrow’ and ‘Bluegrass’ with whom I was to walk sections until Donner Pass. They left Sonora Pass before me. They had met up with Tony, an English section hiker, and were approaching Sonora Peak when he slipped on the hard snow, done a few summersaults and dislocated his shoulder in stopping himself on the rocks below the snow-slope. EricD was running down the hill like a maniac and soon reached the US Marine Base at the foot of the pass, from where the Marines quickly organized a helicopter rescue. I must admit I would have been scared on the steep traverses if I hadn’t been wearing crampons. From Sonora Pass to Donner Pass was mainly on snowpack, but at least we were now getting below the snowline for some sections of trail-walking. Navigation was much more difficult in this section as it was important to follow the trail, even when it was buried, whereas in the High Sierra I had taken little notice of the actual line of the trail.

At Echo Lake I met Trail Angel, Meadow Mary, with whom I had spent a lot of time in 2002.

She took me into South Lake Tahoe where I failed to find a suitable replacement camera for mine which had packed up because of condensation problems over Muir Pass. I reached Donner Pass on July 4th in time to join ‘Pooh Bear’ in his Independence Day celebrations in his lakeside house on Donner Lake. He keeps open house to both through-hikers and friends and following an excellent meal we watched the firework display on the beach at the end of the lake. Fortunately we ran out of snow-pack after another twenty miles and it was back to normal hiking.

I consider Northern California to be the least interesting bit of the trail. However one day stood out: I was woken at 4am by noises outside my tent. I shone my headlight out and picked up a pair of eyes about 30 metres away. They could only belong to a mountain lion (cougar). I quickly grabbed my walking poles and got dressed. By now the Lion was about 10 metres away and clearly visible in the torchlight. Thinking about defence, I lit my stove and boiled some water. Eventually the lion wandered off, so I used the water to make a cup of tea, then packed up and was on the trail by 5am, while it was still dark. I don’t suppose the lion was really dangerous, it was just curious. After all, it is just a “big pussy”. At 6am I saw a lovely ‘Cinnamon’ Black Bear, which, being a proper wild bear took one look at me and ran. Rattlesnakes, mosquitoes and Poison Oak were also encountered during the day. By mid-morning I reached a notice saying that the PCT was closed due to fire at the Middle Fork Feather River and giving a totally impractical 56-mile detour. I had met a southbound hiker who had told me that the fire was basically out and I should ignore the closure. He had been through the fire on the Friday, on Saturday EricD, who had also ignored the closure arrived at the fire to see helicopters dropping water and planes dropping fire retardant on the fire and the fire service were burning a fire-line down the switchbacks of the PCT! Surprisingly the senior fire officers had a meeting and decided to escort through-hikers through the fire. By the time I arrived there were still 120 firemen working on the fire. I spent a couple of hours with the fire safety officer on the far side of the fire. He said the fire had been started by hikers, later identified as a pair of Israelis who were using a leaking home-made ‘Pepsi-can’ alcohol stove. The fire service had burnt a fire-line either side of the fire and had it contained, but trees were still blazing at the heart of the fire.

I found the best bits of northern California to be the Klamath Mountains and the much maligned Hat Creek Rim. I was lucky to get through the Klamath Mountains as there were fires all around, but they didn’t affect the trail, apart from some smoke, until I was safely through. These fires had been started by lightning.

Part 3: Oregon and Washington

I reached Ashland in Oregon after 62 days without a zero day (rest day) and again took a week off, hired a car and dropped supplies up the remainder of the trail. On the way south I had time to visit the costumes optional Terwilliger hot springs and McCredie hot springs, where another lady gave me a mud bath!

In Oregon I diverted away from the PCT on many occasions to follow the old Oregon Skyline Trail. This route is more scenic than the PCT and goes past a lot more lakes and does not have so many long sections without water. The beach at the western end of the large Crescent Lake would have been top of my PCT beach guide if it had been on the PCT rather than a variation. The highlight of Oregon and a candidate for a place in the “Seven Wonders of the Natural World” is Crater Lake, the remains of a volcano that exploded about 7000 years ago. Soon after Crater Lake I lost a fight with a granola (cereal) bar and broke one of my front teeth. I hitched out from trail and discovered that dentists don’t work on Fridays because they can enough money working 3-4 days/week and they prefer to play golf or go fishing on Fridays. Eventually I found a dentist who would see me 100 miles from where I left the trail. He confirmed that the tooth couldn’t be saved and pulled half of it leaving the root to be dealt with when I got home. He confirmed my view that dentists don’t need to earn money on a Friday by not charging me fee!

Oregon is the fastest section of the PCT and even I was managing 3mph. I was slowed down a bit by finding lots of Lakes for swimming (mainly in the variations). I soon reached Mount Washington which was closed due to a fire. Two Forest Service trail workers (“I didn’t tell you this but….”) told me that the fire was more or less out and I should go through at night to avoid meeting Fire or Forest service workers as it is illegal to go into a closed area. I followed their advice and climbed the volcanic lava of Belknap Crater in the dark and started the descent. I soon ran into a wall of flames about a mile from where I had been informed was the boundary of the fire. I’d have carried on in daylight, but navigating through an area of active fire and hotspots with a LED head-torch didn’t seem to be a good idea so I turned back and bivouacked about midnight.
The next day I got a lift round to Big Lake Youth Camp to pick up my supply bag and immediately ran into the Puzzle Fire on Mount Jefferson. I spoke to some Fire Service personal and was told to rejoin the PCT by the Whiteriver Road and the Jefferson Park Trail. The road and the trail were in fact the northern border of the closure and were included in the closure. I hitched round to the Whiteriver Road, ignored the road closed sign and headed up towards Mount Jefferson. I was taking a tea-break when a Forest Service Ranger drove up the road. He asked me what I was doing on the closed road. (Technically I wasn’t in the closed area since I was sitting about 2 yards north of the road!) After a long chat, rather than giving me a citation he actually gave me a lift to the trailhead and said he would try and get his bosses to get something sensible sorted out. (I don’t think the Fire Service and Forest Service are good at talking to each other.)

The next day I took a long break at a lovely little sandy beach on Scout Lake, dominated by the view of the glaciers on Mount Jefferson. I was ahead of schedule because of the section missed round the fire so I took my time as I headed to the Washington border. The superb weather I had been having was interrupted briefly by a little snow and rain as I traversed the slopes of Mount Hood.By now I was at last beginning to meet a lot more through-hikers, mainly higher mileage hikers who had left Kennedy Meadows in late June or early July. The hot dry weather resumed as I headed into Washington. I was still in no rush and actually spent 5 hours at Bear Lake. I’ve put this top of my best beach guide. It’s a lovely little lake with good beaches and swimming. I’m sure I wasn’t influenced by the two young ladies who joined me in skinny-dipping!

I was much fitter than in 2002 and was only needing to do relatively short days to keep up with my schedule of about 18 miles/day. The weather suddenly changed and I got 9 days of wet, cloudy conditions with the temperature barely above freezing point. The rare glimpses of the big volcanoes showed that they were covered in new snow. One morning I woke up with an inch of rain under the bottom half of my tent. I’m certainly glad I had a good tent and I stayed dry inside. Over 9 days all clothing and equipment will get a little damp and I was delighted when the hot sunny weather returned for the final 10 days.

Northern Washington has a lot of steep ascents and descents and these were added to because of the diversion round the eastern side of Glacier Peak. Heavy rains in October 2003 had washed away all the bridges and some of the trail on the official route and it was still closed while it was being repaired. This didn’t stop a lot of hikers attempting the official route rather than the detour. With the rivers now exceptionally low and a fallen tree across the ‘impassable’ River Suiattle the official route was feasible. In 2002 I hadn’t realized just how spectacular Northern Washington was, but now with the superb weather I was seeing Washington at its best.

I reached the border late on Sunday 1st October, camping in Canada and then made the easy descent to Manning Park on Monday morning. I stayed with Canadian cousins for a few days before flying back to England.

A much more difficult hike than in 2002 and not a pure through-hike because of sections missed because of floods and fires, but very satisfying to have completed it in a year that so many hikers had to give up in Southern California or the High Sierra.

Please feel free to contact the author at ancientbritbrian@btinternet.com

The author has now had a guide published by Cicerone Press to the 2650-mile Pacific Crest Trail which stretches from the Mexican border to the Canadian border through California, Oregon and Washington. See http://www.cicerone....fic-crest-trail for details.]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:27:00 +0000 9c3b1830513cc3b8fc4b76635d32e692 http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/ThePacificCrestTrail2002
Being a wilderness walk, with only occasional visits to small mountain villages or mountain stores, it was necessary to carry up to 6 days food in addition to camping gear. This made the pack heavy but with temperatures up to 100°F and the drought in Southern California meant that I was often also carrying 6 litres of water.

The guidebook warns against the dangers of the rattlesnakes, bears and mountain lions but without doubt the most dangerous animal I would meet en route would be man. At times it seemed like every trail sign in Southern California had bullet holes in it and the border area was well used by smugglers taking illegal Mexicans or drugs across the border.

In these remote areas I saw very few people and was often able to walk naked. I was able to strip off at all breaks and for the overnight camp.

I was struggling with a number of minor foot injuries in the early weeks of walking through arid mountains in unseasonally hot weather and was relieved to reach Deep Creek Hot Springs. I had decided to take a couple of days off at this oasis in the desert. These hot pools alongside a swimming hole in the creek were well known as a skinny-dipping site and nudity was normal among the visitors. I stripped off as soon as I arrived and didn’t need any clothes throughout my visit. Despite the hour walk from the nearest road the springs were well frequented by the locals and a number of other thru-hikers also rested here. As well as allowing laundry to be done the hot water was great for sore muscles. After spending much of the early part of the walk on my own it was good to have people to talk to.

Reluctantly leaving the springs I walked along the ranges of hills separating Los Angeles from the Mojave Desert before heading across the desert and heading north towards the High Sierra. Over this section I often walked with two veteran hikers: “Billy Goat” and “Cloudwalker”. “Billy Goat” was a legend in US walking circles having hiked the Appalachian Trail, the Continental Divide Trail and the Pacific Crest Trail. Most of the thru-hikers on the trail were known by trail names and I acquired the name “Ancient Brit”.

The trail cut across the Mojave Desert, where the only water was at a trough fed from the underground aqueduct carrying water from the Sierra Nevada Mountains to Los Angeles and then followed the dry hills bounding the desert where the only water was at the infrequent springs often 25 miles apart.

After 700 miles, before heading into the High Sierra I took a week off to drop supplies ahead on the route and allow some of the snow in the high mountains to melt. During this break I visited some of the hot springs close to the Mammoth Lakes Resort. Although these pools were reachable by car, they were still clothing-optional and were ideal for relaxing with magnificent views of the snow-covered mountains.

Forester Pass, at 13,200ft, the highest of the 10 snow-covered passes to be crossed soon followed. With the trail under snow melting rapidly in the hot sun walking became hard work. When I had walked this section of the trail ago in July and August two years earlier, I was able to swim naked in the many small mountain tarns and streams along the route. But now many of these lakes were still covered in ice and the streams were very cold.

I deviated off the route to visit Fish Creek Hot Springs and had a rest day during which I managed to get all my clothing washed in the small pools.

The route now passed through the Yosemite National Park and reached a section with many unbridged creeks to cross. The crossing of these waist-deep snowmelt streams was both unpleasant and dangerous. I tended to strip off for these crossings to keep my clothing dry, but had to wear boots for increased safety.

Leaving behind the magnificent alpine mountains of the High Sierra, Northern California provided easier walking through wooded hills passing the massive volcanoes of Mt.Lassen and Mt. Shasta and eventually I reached the Californian border after 1700 miles.

I took another week off before heading for the Cascade Mountains of Oregon and Washington. Forest fires in southern Oregon covered more than 500,000 acres and although they didn’t directly affect the PCT we were walking through smoke for a couple of weeks. The highlight of Oregon was Crater Lake, which I fortunately got to when the smoke was being blown away from the trail. Crater Lake was formed when a huge volcano blew up about 6000 years ago and the resulting crater has filled with water. As I progressed north the trail crossed lava fields which were only a few hundred years old and passed volcanoes which had been active in recent years.
So far the weather had been good with only the occasional storm and plenty of sun so I was still able to strip off during my rest periods. The biggest storm produced hailstones the size of golf-balls and covered the ground with a few inches of hail. It was September by the time I reached Washington and the autumn weather meant the end of naturist interludes but the magnificent alpine scenery of the Washington Cascades compensated this for. A week before the end of the walk I detoured to Kennedy Hot Springs. Unfortunately it was during poor weather and I was there alone. This spring was not as hot as the springs further south but it was bubbling vigorously and was rather like being in a Jacuzzi.

I reached Canada by the end of September. On the day I finished at least 15 other hikers completed the thru-hike including “Billy-Goat”. About a third of the hikers attempting the route manage to complete it. This is an amazing success rate, probably explained by the fact that over half the thru-hikers have previously walked the 1800-mile Appalachian Trail.

This trip was a fantastic experience. By the end I had lost a couple of inches around the waist and was getting up the hills like someone half my age. I was still getting a few aches and pains but this is inevitable on a trip such as this. The mountains the PCT traverses have unusually good weather so they give good opportunities for naturists. The hot springs on or close to the trail are all clothing-optional. In July and August the lakes are generally warm enough to swim in and in the wilderness costumes are not needed.

Please feel free to contact the author at ancientbritbrian@btinternet.com

The author has now had a guide published by Cicerone Press to the 2650-mile Pacific Crest Trail which stretches from the Mexican border to the Canadian border through California, Oregon and Washington. See http://www.cicerone....fic-crest-trail for details.]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:19:51 +0000 20d135f0f28185b84a4cf7aa51f29500 http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/ThePacificCrestTrail2000
That was four years ago; now I was about to set out on a 600-mile walk over the highest mountains, outside Alaska, in the USA. Was I as foolhardy as my family and friends thought I was?

My only real exercise in the past 7 years had been canoeing and my first mountain climb, actually a small 1,000ft hill, had been in April. Succeeding in this was all I needed to plan a major expedition. I had survived, only just, two short trips to the Scottish Highlands in May.
I was walking on my own for two reasons: firstly, with my foot condition I didn’t want to let my companions down or feel obliged to continue when I needed rest and, secondly, if any of my friends were crazy enough to come with me I’m not sure they would still be friends by the end of the trip. Have you ever shared a small tent with someone for 7 weeks?

The Pacific Crest Trail is a footpath going from the Mexican to the Canadian border keeping to the high mountains and uninhabited forests. 8 years previously I had walked the highest section over the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California, and decided to repeat this trip and also include a week in the Yosemite National Park. This is a region of granite mountains scattered with sparkling blue lakes and tumbling streams rising above deep forested valleys. Despite altitudes up to 15,000ft I was expecting hot sunny weather, only interrupted by the occasional afternoon thunderstorm. Although this wasn’t primarily a naturist holiday, this trip provided ideal conditions for a naturist wilderness experience.

I spent my first week in California dropping supplies at the few road crossings on the route and walking supplies into the mountains. This included hanging supplies high in the trees to prevent bears getting at them. Even so I still had to look forward to up to 9 days between supply points which meant a pack weighing up to 50 pounds.

I started in the evening from Walker Pass on the edge of the Mojave Desert with the thermometer reading about 100°F in the shade. Unfortunately there wasn’t much shade and, despite carrying about 12 pints of water, I was pretty dehydrated by the time I reached the first almost dried up spring 24 hours later. The first week of the walk was totally deserted and clothes were only needed as protection against the sun. Camping and resting in the shade was fully naturist. Many of the streams and springs that had been running 8 years earlier were now dried up and a heavy pack was made even heavier with the weight of water carried.

After 10 days I reached the higher mountains and frequent lakes tarns and streams were a relief. Even lakes up to 11,500ft were warm enough for a chilly swim and lakes and streams lower down were positively warm. One advantage for the naturist of the permit system in U.S national parks is that even the most popular areas don’t get overcrowded and swimming and sunbathing naked was no problem. Not that anyone seemed to mind and most backpackers are too sensible to carry swimsuits because of the unnecessary weight! Looking back I saw some smoke in the area I had passed through 2 days earlier, the start of a fire destroying 100 square miles of forest and still burning 6 weeks later.

The route now went for 250 miles without meeting a road, crossing a series of high rocky passes and dropping down to wooded valleys full of streams and Lakes. The expected afternoon storms didn’t materialise and the cooler weather (70-85°F) in the High Sierra was ideal. A couple of rest days were taken at naturally occurring hot springs feeding pools at about 100°F. Even in conservative US there is a tradition of skinny-dipping at these hot springs.

Eventually I reached Yosemite where I had my first encounter with a bear. It was 3am and I was woken by a bear close to my tent. It climbed the tree my rubbish bag was hanging from and scattered the rubbish, but fortunately didn’t find my food bag.

I detoured off the Pacific Crest Trail to spend a week in Yosemite, a fantastic region of granite domes and cliffs 1000s of metres high. One night was spent bivouacking on the summit of Half Dome, a peak only reachable by climbing cables put up its easiest face.

Another couple of weeks saw me approaching Carson Pass near Lake Tahoe. After 7 weeks of almost uninterrupted sun the weather changed and I finished my walk with 4 days of rain followed by snow and a blizzard leaving me wet and cold. I certainly wasn’t equipped for this unseasonable weather.

Despite a scare or two my foot had survived the trip. When I got back home I found I had lost 1.5 stone and weighed the same as I did as a fit young man 30 years ago. Any naturist willing to rough it in the wilderness would find it hard to find a better place for a holiday. There can’t be a more spectacular mountain region where there is the expectation of warm sunny weather.

Please feel free to contact the author at ancientbritbrian@btinternet.com

The author has now had a guide published by Cicerone Press to the 2650-mile Pacific Crest Trail which stretches from the Mexican border to the Canadian border through California, Oregon and Washington. See http://www.cicerone....fic-crest-trail for details.]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:16:16 +0000 b59c67bf196a4758191e42f76670ceba http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/NakedMunros
I was basing myself in a small motor home from which I would start by day-hiking some of the summits closer to the road, but I expected to backpack most of the peaks. It may sound a bit ambitious to climb 284 peaks in one summer, but many of the peaks were grouped together and several could be climbed on one day.

I can remember lots of hot sunny days in the Scottish Highlands and I hoped to walk naked much of the time in these largely deserted mountains. I set myself the challenge of getting naked photos on as many Munro summits as I could manage.

I set off for my first summit in mid April and got wonderful weather and even wondered whether I could get naked photos on all of the summits. Then the May Bank Holiday brought me back to reality. As I was climbing Beinn a’ Beithir in Glen Coe it started snowing and by the time I reached the exposed summit the snow was blowing horizontally and I was taking such a buffeting that it was difficult to stand. No thought of a naked photo, I didn’t even manage any sort of summit photo!

This was effectively the end of summer! For the next few months I hardly saw the sun; in fact I hardly saw anything at all as the peaks were blanketed in cloud for weeks at a time. It wasn’t actually that wet, the rain was falling in England producing the worst summer floods for over 600 years, but it was cold and windy. I was often walking in four layers of clothing and there was no thought of naked hiking. I managed to get a surprising number of naked summit photos as I stripped off in the shelter of summit cairns, to dress up again immediately I had taken the photos.

I was waiting for the first spell of good weather to go to Skye. The rocky ridges of the Cuillin hills require continuous, often difficult, scrambling to reach any of the summits. Inaccessible Pinnacle, the summit of Sgurr Dearg, even requires a rock climb to reach the summit of the pinnacle followed by an abseil to get off. They aren’t peaks to climb in wet windy weather and navigation is very difficult in thick mist. May, June and July went by without a spell of settled weather and by mid August I decided I had to head for Skye anyway and I did get a few days of reasonable weather, intermingled with days of rain and wind when I was cowering in my van.

Perhaps it was fitting that my final Munro, Carn Aosda, was completed in a blizzard on 20^th September. I had completed the Munros and tops and I’d even managed to get naked pictures on about 140 Munros. My hopes of naked hiking and living naked in the wilderness were dashed by the weather, but I felt I had achieved something completing my challenge in one of the coldest, dullest and windiest summers on record.

I hope I haven’t given you the impression that the Scottish Highlands haven’t anything to offer the naturist. I can remember long periods of living and hiking naked in this magnificent wilderness. I just picked the wrong year!

Please feel free to contact the author at ancientbritbrian@btinternet.com]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:11:01 +0000 2cbca44843a864533ec05b321ae1f9d1 http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/ViaDeLaPlata
The main purpose of the trip was to check out the Cicerone guidebook to the route and rather than doing a continuous hike I was going to stay in my campervan and day-hike sections, returning to my van by bicycle. The Via de la Plata mainly follows farm tracks with some road sections which I was going to cycle.

The laws on nudity in Spain are much clearer than in Britain, police have been disciplined for asking naturists to dress and I going to put the laws and my confidence to a test I’d not contemplated before by attempting to hike all the off-road sections naked. I’ve frequently walked naked before, but mainly in wilderness areas where I see very few people and I have usually covered up when approaching others. There’s always been the possibility of surprise encounters, but generally interaction with the public has been limited. This time I intended hike naked and remain naked, subject to weather conditions, whenever I was off paved roads.

After the long drive from the ferry port of Bilbao, I arrived on the outskirts of Seville in the evening and got the first city section out of the way so I could start hiking naked in the morning.

After cycling to my start point, I secured the bike and immediately stripped off and set off on a broad track through undulating farmland. I was soon encountering people as a couple and then a young man on bikes greeted me as they cycled by. When I got to the ford over a minor river three walkers and two cyclists had just finished crossing and were cleaning up/ drying up as I arrived. I was quite pleased to have an early encounter to test my resolve to remain naked and act as if it was perfectly natural (It is, isn‘t it!!). One of the cyclists took a couple of pictures of me before asking if I minded! Once they discovered I spoke English we had a friendly chat. They were actually two groups of Germans. I dressed to walk through the town of Guillena before stripping when I reached the Rio Rivera de Huelva. There was plenty of laughter from the boys in a group who were picnicking with their fathers as I followed the river bank and then quiet tracks back to my van. I was pleased that I’d had the confidence to complete my first day of naked hiking incident.

The walk continued much the same way for a couple of weeks while the good weather lasted. The terrain wasn’t particularly interesting there were plenty of religious artifacts on route, as well as the Roman remains that were a major feature on the southern half of the route. It was April and there weren’t a great number of walkers on the route, but plenty of farm workers in old vans, motorbikes or tractors and a scattering of cyclists. The route is popular with cyclists as the route is relatively flat and the farm tracks are easy to cycle on a trail bike.

I won’t try and give a day by day report on the hike, but just pick out a few of the more interesting incidents.

In some ways the main interest was the reaction of those I met while hiking naked. This can be broken into several groups; a majority greeted me normally, as passing strangers would do and a small minority would ignore me as if I didn’t exist. A small number, mainly teenage girls, would start giggling and some of the older women would pretend not to look, while it was obvious that they were having a good stare. Conversation was often limited by language problems as I don’t speak any Spanish. I only had one (mild) adverse reaction on the whole of the hike and that was from a Dutch gentleman; I was having a friendly chat with his wife and he waved me away. (I don’t think he spoke English).

The hiking was mainly was along farm tracks which took me past a number of farms. Early on the trail passed through the farmyard with the farmer’s wife out in the yard as well as a couple of men in a car and a little further along an old farmer. This is the sort of situation in the past where I would have put shorts on when hiking naked, but I was on this occasion I just carried on through. The occupants of the farmyard had a good look, but appeared more curious than concerned.

The Via de la Plata was paralleling the N630, a former trunk road but now mainly carrying local traffic as it had been superseded by the A66. At times the trail was very close to both these roads. A couple of quotes from my diaries give a feeling for these sections:

• “In a couple of places the trail dropped down to go beside the crash barrier on the N630."
  
• “After following the trail parallel to and about 20m from the N630, I had to cross the N630 and walk about 100m along the hard shoulder, during which time 2 motorbikes passed. Then there was a small path usually within 5m of the N630 and often right next to it where I was going to be seen by any vehicle coming down the road. When the N630 disappeared under the A66 I dropped down to a small tarmac road and I walked along that as it first deteriorated and then turned into a gravel road by the time I reached my car. Only 2 cars passed as I was walking this road, but I was visible throughout from the A66 motorway which it was running alongside.”
  
• “For about 4km the trail followed parallel to the N630, initially about 20m away with some bushes for cover, but then less than 5m from the N630 with no cover of any sort! The N630 isn’t particularly busy, but today there seemed a huge number of motorcyclists heading north and I certainly got some honking of horns and some waves from some of them. The nervous moment was when I didn’t see a police car (Guardia Civile) came up behind, but it carried on up the road without any obvious reduction in speed.”
  
• “This was another section close to the N630 for 6km, varying between about 5m and 100m and at times I was clearly visible from the road, and I also had to cross the road twice. In fact a police car sped by when I was only about 5m from the road. ”

After two weeks of glorious weather, it got really cold, with periods of rain and even snow in the mountains, so I wasn’t able to hike naked. During this time I cycled as much as possible, often on tracks which were rather muddy for the road bike I was using.

As I got further north there was a change in the nature of the walking. Apart from getting hillier, the walking was increasingly along very quiet minor roads and through little villages or hamlets. I stretched my limit a little and occasionally walked naked along a minor tarmac roads and even apparently deserted hamlets. A few quotes from my diary will give a feel for walking in this section.

• “With the scarcity of people I was getting more daring on the places I was hiking naked, I walked for 3km along minor tarmac roads and naked through the hamlets of Valdemerilla and Remesal. For the next couple of days I continued walking naked along minor tarmac roads and through little villages. By now I’d got confident in walking naked and the occasional meeting with walkers and others didn’t cause me any concern”
  
• “It was still extremely hot in the evening and I again walked naked, but this was much more exposed than my walking over the past week. The walking was, mainly on tarmac or dirt roads going past lots of houses with many people in gardens enjoying evening sun, finishing with about 3km along tarmac roads, all busier than normal. While I was passing a family gathering in a garden, two teenage boys spotted me and got their bikes out and rode past me and back to get a better view! At another point I passed a parked car which I thought was unoccupied until I was right up to it and saw 2 ladies. Later they drove past and when I was stopped at a junction to check my map they stopped to give me directions! No mention of the fact that I was naked at the time!”

This walk was very different from the wilderness walking that I was accustomed to but again showed the general acceptance of nudity among the public.

Please feel free to contact the author at ancientbritbrian@btinternet.com]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:06:09 +0000 8f1d43620bc6bb580df6e80b0dc05c48 http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/WildernessNaturism
I certainly didn’t consider myself a naturist when I started mountain walking in the hot summers of 1975/6 and often stripped off to swim in mountain tarns, cool off in streams and didn’t bother to wear clothes when camping in remote mountain areas. I even became daring enough to walk naked on
occasions. Normally I was on my own, but like most mountaineers I never carried a swimming costume and occasionally swam when other people were present. In the wilderness almost as many people went swimming naked as used costumes.

I was only an occasional naturist until about 10 years ago, when a foot injury stopped me from orienteering and mountaineering, and I took up canoeing. I bought myself a Canadian (open) canoe and started going on multi-day canoe tours, mainly in Sweden. Sweden is a land of lakes and rivers and is ideal for long-distance canoeing. There is a much more relaxed attitude to nudity than in Britain and when canoeing you often see people swimming or sunbathing naked. There is usually plenty of hot weather in summer and the water temperature was often 20-25ºC. There are many bathing places on the lakes, often with swimming jetties and sometimes with diving platforms. Initially I tended only to swim at those that were deserted, but as my confidence grew I asked people present if they minded me swimming naked and found that very few minded and often followed my example. Being brought up with the British “not in front of the children” attitude I was surprised to find that families with children rarely minded me swimming naked. In the hot weather I often paddled naked, just covering up with a towel when necessary. It was often possible to be naked when camping in the wilderness.

When I was younger I occasionally went running naked in the New Forest as part of my orienteering training and now occasionally go for a naked walk there. It is surprising how few people you meet when walking midweek, even in a popular National Park such as the New Forest as most visitors stay close to the car park.

There has been a tradition of skinny-dipping in the wilderness going back centuries and it would be a pity if this tradition was lost by modern materialistic society. Man is getting separated from his roots in the wilderness and it would be great if “returning to the wild” included a shedding of the artificial constraints of society.

Please feel free to contact the author at ancientbritbrian@btinternet.com]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 17:59:04 +0000 b9d487a30398d42ecff55c228ed5652b http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/NaturismAPersonalView
With the development of ‘civilization’, clothes were more widely worn, mainly because the population pressures drove people away from the equatorial regions. However most of these societies still saw nudity as perfectly acceptable. In Greece for instance the competitors in the ancient Olympic Games performed naked. This would have been sensible since clothes would only have hampered the competitors.

In Britain the climate is such that clothes need to worn most of the time for protection against the weather. However, British and American societies, greatly influenced by the Church, have developed a phobia about nudity. This has been accentuated by the association of nudity with sex. In recent years, there has also been an unjustified association in some parts of the media of nudity with child abuse.

• Let’s look three situations where the wearing of clothes doesn’t make any sort of sense.Swimming. In historical terms, the swimming costume is a very recent invention. It serves no useful purpose in terms of the swimming and the main beneficiary from the introduction of swimming costumes has been the manufacturers who make vast profits from sales of increasingly skimpy costumes, which are often much more sexually provocative than the naked body.
  
  
• Spas, saunas, jacuzzi, communal baths. In Germany a sauna where there is a requirement to wear clothes is known as an “English Sauna”. In Northern Europe the wearing of clothes in a sauna or jacuzzi would be thought of as ridiculous, but it is insisted upon in most pools, spas and hotels in Britain. Even more ridiculous is the move towards some public swimming pools to insist that swimmers wear their costumes when taking showers before and after swimming, even in single sex changing rooms.
  
  
• Taking rigorous physical exercise in warm weather: When you watch marathon runners, running in hot weather, such as in the Olympics in Greece, you will notice that the runners wear as little clothing as the rules permit. Clothes make running uncomfortable and make it difficult for the body to avoid overheating. Anyone who has run naked will appreciate the advantages in keeping the body cool. When clothing gets saturated with sweat it becomes uncomfortable and can lead to chafing in the groin area which can get bad enough to be incapacitating. When you see hikers (male only?) removing their shirts because it is too hot you wonder whether they wouldn’t in fact be more comfortable removing their shorts or trousers as well.

Over the years I have come to the conclusion that suitable clothing should be worn for activities and that if the suitable clothing is not to wear any then that is what should be done.

Surveys have suggested that a significant minority of the population have practised naturism (mainly on foreign beaches) and that a large majority would have no objection to seeing others who are naked in appropriate circumstances. The surveys are backed up by observations at events such as the World Naked Bike Rides where crowds seem to appreciate the riders.

It is my opinion that non-sexual nudity should be seen as acceptable in all beaches and wilderness areas. As a long term aim I cannot see any good reason why non-sexual nudity shouldn’t be accepted in public swimming pools, saunas, city parks. Since there is no law stating that it is illegal to be naked in a public place in England and Wales, a change in the law wouldn’t be needed, but there would need to be a change in the attitudes of the police and others in authority.

Please feel free to contact the author at ancientbritbrian@btinternet.com]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 17:49:32 +0000 e58cc5ca94270acaceed13bc82dfedf7 http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/talesofancientbrit/the-making-of-a-naturist-r106
I wasn't until after I left University that I actually saw my first naked lady in the flesh! This may sound surprising to the modern youngster, but this was still in the days when for many people 'sex before marriage' wasn't acceptable. This first experience of a naked lady was actually at the theatre when there was a production of the Peter Shaffer play "Equus" at the Salisbury Playhouse. Nudity on the stage was very unusual at the time and in this play the leading girl and boy are both naked for a considerable time. Appearing naked in public would have been much more daunting then than it is nowadays.

It was in 1975 that I started mountaineering seriously and the long hot summers of 1975 and 1976 gave opportunities for skinny-dipping in mountain tarns and streams, particularly in the Scottish Highlands.
In 1976 I'd started Orienteering and it was at a 6-day Orienteering event in Switzerland in 1978 that I got my first experience of public nudity. On some days they provided segregated outdoor showers for use after running, but provided little changing space in the shower enclosures so many of the people of either sex dried and changed outside the enclosures. On other days showers weren't provided so people stripped off and washed in the stream. This was thefirst time I was naked outdoors in public. In fact a couple of times on later orienteering trips to Switzerland, they used school facilities for showering and since there was only one set of showers they took the sensible action of making them mixed with men women and children using them naked.

Later that summer I got my first experience of a naturist beach in the South of France, but I have never spent much time on beaches as I find it boring with nothing to do.

I was a teacher and over the next 15 years my school holidays were divided between orienteering and mountaineering. I was frequently away with pupils, so naturist opportunities were a little limited but I did a lot of solo trips in theScottish Highlands when I would take advantage of the isolation to live naked as often as allowed by the weather. Occasionally I was able to hike naked but the weather in the Scottish mountains isn't ideal for a naturist. I was training for orienteering and occasionally went running naked in the New Forest. Although I did occasionally visit a naturist beach en route to orienteering events or the mountains, most of my naturism was in the solitude of the wilderness.

As a teacher I was unsure as to how much I could sensibly be seen naked by my pupils however I saw no problem sharing the communal showers often provided at orienteering events. In 1980, I was on an orienteering and mountaineering trip to Sweden and Norway with three of my 15 year-old pupils. One night we slept in the changing hut on one of the small lakeside beaches. However, I got up before them and went naked when I went for an early morning swim. They spotted what I was doing and I was surprised when one of them stripped off and joined me, diving unashamedly from the pontoon at the beach; unusual for a teenage boy.

I did a number of orienteering trips to Sweden in the 1980s where I discovered a more open attitude to nudity than in Britain and I was often naked in front of strangers. I passed through Denmark on several of these trips. Nudity is actually legal on almost all Danish beaches. I was often limited by having pupils with me on these trips. In 1983, rather than a school group I had three members of my SW Junior Orienteering Squad, including one girl, with me when we bivouacked on a Danish beach on the way to Sweden. Again I went for an early morning swim while the kids were still asleep. However it wasn't long before they joined me. Although they wouldn't have considered skinny-dipping themselves my nudity didn't seem to concern them in the slightest.

I was beginning to realise that while most people are embarrassed by the idea of being naked in front of others, they have no problem with others being naked in their presence. Being a teacher I was in a difficult position, but I was gradually becoming more confident in being seen naked by pupils in appropriate circumstances.

As a foot injury reduced the amount of orienteering that I could do and I spent more time on long distance hikes This included backpacking the High Level Route from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean in the Pyrenees the Alta Via I and II in the dolomites and a 600-mile section of the Pacific Crest Trail in California. Hiking in these more southerly mountain areas gave much greater opportunities for walking and living naked than in the Scottish Highlands!

Eventually the foot injury forced me to retire from orienteering and eventually to give up walking as well. I was looking for ways to get some exercise and to get out into the wilderness. I thought of canoeing and purchased both a kayak and a 12 foot open canoe. I wasn't a competent swimmer but was lucky enough to have access to the secluded school outdoor swimming pool in evenings and weekend and I spent a lot of naked hours in the pool teaching myself to dive into the water and be confident under the water as this would be necessary if I was to canoe safely.

My first Canoe outings were in Poole Harbour. I soon discovered that in calm conditions my canoe was very stable and I could manage without the life-jacket and I was soon canoeing naked.

Over the next few years I spent a lot of time canoe-camping in Sweden. I probably hadn’t fully got over my childhood shyness but an incident while canoeing in Sweden certainly gave me a different insight into how nudity is seen by others. I was swimming naked from a pontoon at a remote spot in Sweden. A lady who was at some boats over 100m away spotted me. No problem, but she then called her two teenage daughters and they walked over to the pontoon and they sat around in a circle around my pile of clothes. I swam for a bit longer than I had intended, but I'm not a good swimmer so I had to get out of the water and walk, totally naked, right up to the mother and girls.

It was a bit embarrassing, but I carried on as if it was perfectly normal and I was soon chatting with them; I don't think there was ever a mention of the fact that I was totally naked in front of them.
After this I was much more willing to be naked in front of strangers. There are a multitude of small bathing places on the lakes and rivers of Sweden and if someone was there before me I just asked if they minded me swimming naked. I reckon about 95% of the time there was no objection, and families seemed to have no problem with me being naked in front of their children. I’m still a little shy and found this was a good way of getting chatting with the locals.

My foot injury eventually got bad enough for me to be forced to take early retirement from teaching, but after a few years of rest I recovered and was able to return mountain walking. In 2002 I made a successful attempt on the 2700-mile Pacific Crest Trail, which follows the Sierra Nevada and Cascade Mountains from the Mexican to the Canadian border through California, Oregon and Washington. Along the way I discovered a number of hot springs where nudity seemed to be the rule, rather than the exception. This was where I got the trail name “Ancient Brit”. Over the next 10 years I’ve spent my summers in the wilderness, mainly walking the Pacific Crest Trail, in the Scottish mountains or Spain, or canoeing in Sweden, being naked whenever weather and circumstances allow.

Although I have occasionally visited official naturist beaches and very occasionally a naturist club, these don’t really appeal to me because I prefer to be active and don’t really think of naturism as an activity in its own right, but that it is sensible to be naked when living and being active in warm conditions.

In the last couple of years I’ve taken part in a number of World Naked Bike Ride events. It is interesting to see how enthusiastic bystanders are to applaud and support cyclists riding naked through crowded city centres in cities such as London.]]> Fri, 27 Jan 2012 17:42:02 +0000 c9f95a0a5af052bffce5c89917335f67 http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/a-guide-to-the-urbanisations-at-vera-playa-r79
The Vera Playa Hotel offers a choice of rooms and mini-apartments with fridge and basic cooking facilities. There is a choice of bed and breakfast, half- or full-board or fully inclusive. The food is a typical buffet service, with a barbeque on the beachside terrace. The hotel is naturist, but you must dress for meals and after 8 p.m. I believe that access to the pool is restricted to hours when the lifeguard is on duty.

Natsun was the first naturist urbanisation, built more than 30 years ago. Some of the blocks are front-line to the beach and quality varies enormously. Many are studios, some are very basic and rather old. Some of the older apartments have been beautifully renovated, but there are also some new apartments (Elcano III) and some small bungalows (La Medina).

Behind Natsun is Vera Luz. Vera Luz consists of (I think) 36 apartments, ground floor with a garden and 1st floor with a rooftop sun terrace. There are communal gardens and a small pool.

Vera Natura is also front-line to the beach and consists of 200 apartments – one- and two-bedroomed on the ground floor, with two-bedroom duplexes on the upper floors. It has beautifully mature gardens, much of which are enclosed by hedges belonging to the ground floor apartments. It has a lovely large outdoor pool and an indoor pool. The urbanisation is about 12 years old. Some apartments are a little basic, with a two-ring hob and no oven, but the apartments are very spacious, with a big round bath in the large bathroom. Some are also rather basically furnished, but many that are privately owned and marketed to the English market are lovely. There is a communal satellite system, so most apartments have CNN and Eurosport.

La Menara is second-line behind Vera Natura and with ‘Moorish’ architectural detail. It consists of 56 apartments in seven blocks of eight, one and two bedroomed on the ground floor, one bedroom on the second floor with rooftop sun terrace and two-bedroomed on the first floor. It was completed in 2002. La Menara feels very spacious because the gardens between the blocks are ‘open plan’, so there is plenty of green space between the apartment blocks and around the pool. The pool and communal gardens are very pretty. Some apartments have a two-ring hob and no oven, others are very well furnished and equipped. Again, these are very spacious apartments with large, luxury marble bathrooms and granite worktops. The communal satellite system gives BBC1, BBC2, ITV1 and ITV3. La Menara has secure parking.

Bahia de Vera is a larger urbanisation, with 200 apartments in long two-storey blocks and a ‘high-rise’ block of four floors called Brisamar. There are also three large detached houses. Bahia has lovely apartments, some have private gardens, others have huge terraces. The communal gardens now lovely, following a change in the management system and the outdoor pool is beautiful. There is a fully refurbished indoor pool, heated and dehumidified for use throughout the winter. Bahia de Vera has secure parking.

Torremar Natura is third-line to the beach, behind Bahia de Vera. These apartments are beautifully appointed, but some are rather small. Some on the ‘outside’ of the urbanisation have lovely patios overlooking the pool and communal gardens, but the ones in the middle are very high density. There is an indoor pool that is heated throughout the winter. Torremar Natura has secure parking.

Parque Vera is second-line to the beach, behind Natsun. This development was built in several phases. Parque Vera 1 is an urbanisation of town-houses, built in a square around beautiful central communal gardens and pool. The town-houses are two- or three-bedroom and there are also 18 apartments, large studios, one-bedroomed and two-bedroomed apartments. There is private parking, though not inside the gated community. Each subsequent development became rather more high density - the final phase (Parque Vera 5) is now complete. The later developments consist of three- storey blocks of apartments. Some have lovely round balconies, but many blocks are ‘the wrong way round’ – facing north or north-east.

Armony Natura is front-line to the beach, next to Natsun. This is a small development of apartments that were very expensive. They have sophisticated security systems and electronic gadgetry and are very well appointed. These can be recognised by the very distinctive blue domes.



So how do you choose?

Different apartments suit different people. What are your priorities? When do you plan to travel? What is your lifestyle? If you are planning to winter in Vera Playa you need to avoid a north-facing apartment, or you will not be warm enough. If travelling in summer, mosquito nets and fans are the minimum requirement, and from mid-July to mid-September air-conditioning will make your nights more comfortable. Does the patio have some shade? If not, your patio will not be usable in the afternoons.

Security is important: like every resort, Vera Playa occasionally has trouble with opportunist thieves. How secure is the apartment, does it have a safe? Does it have rejas (security bars)? In summer, parking is quite important as the streets are full, but all-year-round secure parking is a bonus.

Lots of private advertisers in BN offer excellent quality, well-serviced apartments, furnished and equipped to suit British holidaymakers, and there are plenty of holiday companies who deal with the area, too. Travelling is easy - public transport from the airports is possible and most people letting apartments will organise airport transfers for you (for a supplement), but a hire car will allow you to enjoy the fabulous surroundings and explore pretty villages, the mountains and other fabulous naturist beaches. Spain is a fabulous place for a naturist holiday - come and enjoy it!]]> Sat, 07 Jan 2012 12:53:59 +0000 8f53295a73878494e9bc8dd6c3c7104f http://www.bn.org.uk/articles.php/_/activities/travel-and-holidays/eight-days-without-clothes-r78 Introduction

I do not know if this story happened in the past or in the future. It is hard to tell. It was easy to write the title; it is hard to write the sub-title. Maybe I shall leave that for the reader to decide. It is written in the first person, but that is only a fiction to help the story along, so for ‘I’ read ‘you’ and imagine you are ‘I’.

For those who like history books or stories set in some remote and simple past, where life was so much easier than in the complicated world of today, then this is the ideal tale for you. In the old days, before the invention of swimming costume, people did not bother so much about clothes. Indeed, the courtiers of the English King once considered it the height of fashion to reveal their private parts, which were after all not so private then. So this little story is set back in those days on the little island of the Sunrise in the bright blue of the Mediterranean Sea before anyone had ever heard of pollution. In those days you could spot mermaids sitting on the rocks if you were really quiet and hear them gently singing as in the days of Ulysses.

But, alas, in this world there are some people who only like a story when it is scientific, at least, science fiction. For you too, this book will make a good read. Here you can imagine a future paradise freed from robbers and thieves, from taxmen and governments. Here the police only have to make sure you wear no clothes along the beach! It seems scarcely credible in today’s world, a real utopia, but why not let imagination run. When we look back at our little earth from the moon, it looks so different from when we wake up to grubby streets and honking cars. By flying to this utopia set in a world which may one day be true, we can look back at our daily life and wonder if we really need to live the way we now do.

Or perhaps, for those who balk at medieval tales and do not dare into science-fiction, you can just read this story as a diary. A diary which records things that could be true or could be make-believe. A sort of untrue, true diary that beneath the garb of fiction carries the naked truth of real life. Strange, it is. A story to cover up a tale about uncovering. And yet in reading it, perhaps we may uncover the covering and find what lies beneath. The metaphors are mixed and all are about clothing, while this book is about being without clothes: eight whole days without a stitch.

Chapter One: Into the World of the Unclothed

We have to start off somewhere and that somewhere has to be in the clothed world because at the time it seemed that was the only world. So here our story begins, in a little port on the south coast of France, not at Nice or Cannes, but somewhere so insignificant its name hardly appears on a map. There is a shop which sells sun cream and books, water and bread and then there is the little boat. A small crowd is gathering. Most people seem to know each other but not all and the crowd is grouped in patches that will only coalesce when the signal is given and everyone will head for the gangplank. There are local people who have come to shore to make their purchases, to do the many important things that people do in towns. There are the sailors, men and women, chatting as if they did this everyday, which of course they do. Then there are the odd-bods, like me, ie ‘you’. You see, I/you have never been on this boat before and am filled with a mixture of expectation and apprehension. The guide books told me a little what to expect but they cannot tell you the feel of waiting there.

The sun is strong and though this is the world of the clothed, it is still the seaside and no need for all one’s clothes. I set down my pack, only a small one mind you, and begin to apply the cream to ears and nose, hands and arms, and while at it, why not go further and remove my shirt. No-one seems to notice much. The surfers are busy with their boards and the shoppers with their tittle-tattle and purchases. The boat comes in. A really small boat, much smaller than you would have expected. The seats are on the deck, which has a roof over most of it, except the stern, where a few people are sitting.

We set off and gradually the city and town and land fall away behind, while ahead the sea greets us, calm and empty, though to the right we can see the coastline and ahead are the islands we are making for. After some forty minutes we turn into a wooded cove and stop at the first island. Here many of the passengers disembark and a few others get on. This little port has its own little fortress with a flag flying and twee hotels around the village square. It is part of the busy world we left behind and yet already removed, but still part of the same world.

Five minutes later we are off again, heading straight to our island, the island of the Sunrise. The slopes seem empty but for a few houses set low among the trees and bushes, a quiet place. Twenty minutes later we pull into the harbour. There is very little around it. A few kiosks on the right and to the left, overlooking the harbour a little restaurant, beside which a steep staircase runs up into the island. Ahead, on the right beyond the kiosks is the main road. In fact the only road. That is the way for those tourists who cannot manage steps or who prefer not to walk. It seems that all is as it would be in any other port, but not quite.

To the right of the harbour are some rocks, where people are getting about. With nothing on? Perhaps not. At least I do not remember. But certainly, with less than one could expect at a normal beach, even a beach in summer. But it is coming up to early evening and while warm, is yet not quite the place for the beach.

I disembark as if I knew exactly where I was going, as if I did this every day. It helps to give oneself a confidence that really you do not have, though I had studied my map and have some idea where to go. I walk up to the kiosk that serves as the tourist centre and ask the way to the Gecko. The lady pulls out a map and hands it to me. Now the curious thing about the map is that the roads are coloured red and green and yellow. Red is bad. Red means ‘clothes’. At the port, in other words along the jetty and past these kiosks, clothes must be worn. That is bad. Also in the centre of the village, though early in the morning the policemen have not yet come and who’s to say, but more about that later. Green is good. That means clothes must not be worn: paradise! Yellow is the half-way house and covers most of the island: clothes can be worn or not. Green is confined to the beaches and all the coastline. I had resolved that for me yellow would be equivalent to green and red should be avoided.

I left the kiosk and set off past the restaurant and up the staircase. It seemed no-one else took this path because I was alone. Up the first flight of stairs I came to the first road running round the island, a sandy track with low houses set back from the road. I turned in and seeing no-one around liberated myself of the few clothes I still wore. I would not wear them again until I came back to the same point on the day I had to leave. From now on I was naked, textile-free, unclothed, nude.

I put my pack back on. Of course, I wore a hat against the sun and sandals on my feet, but that was all. I set off up the stairs and now began to pass people coming the other way. But no-one blinked an eye. I was normal! The men might be in shorts and the women wore a long veil that caught around the neck and sometimes blew vaguely open. This, after all, was the yellow zone. It was not long before I reached the right level and turned to the Gecko.

Like the other establishments, this one was a mixture of one and two-storey buildings, a restaurant in the centre, a swimming pool to the left further down the hill and to the rear left the showers and toilets. I was assigned a little wooden hut, very comely, with a bed, a chair and gas ring next to a sink. Above were a few pots and pans, plates and cups. Outside the window was a table with a large sunshade standing next to it and four chairs. This was to be my home for the next week.

I went for a shower and then saw the little swimming pool. After a journey of over 24 hours it was very inviting and it also gave me the first opportunity to contact other people of the same species. Later during my stay, I distinctly remember an older lady remark, “We are a species in danger of extinction”. The species in question is of course the naturist. That is not to say that I spoke to the people sunbathing by the pool, nor was it particularly polite to stare. There is a sort of noticing without noticing, an interest that rejoices in the fact of identification whilst being aware that it is not polite to draw attention to it. But at least my own status gives me a certain prerogative which the dressed voyeur lacks.

After the swim and shower, the next step was to look for the little shop to which I was directed. It meant a climb uphill and then right along one of the circular paths that runs around the central square of the island. There are a series of such paths at different levels. In some ways this was more of a test of my new-found status than the swimming pool had been. True I had a hat on against the sun and sandals on my feet, as well as a bag for shopping but now I was quite visible on the path. People passed me on the way. Most dressed in beach-style but a few with whom I felt more equal. With the former there is a certain reticence, a sort of feeling “I am OK”, but at the same time a certain confidence: “I have taken the step that you are afraid to take.” With the latter, there is a sense of reassurance and mutual identification, a shared humanity that consoles.

After making my purchases I returned to cook my dinner and was pleased to meet my neighbours. Stephanie was topless, Patrick was dressed, when I made my introduction. As I ate my meal outside my window, looking out towards the sea, they were sitting at their table behind me with drinks and snacks and both, fortunately, fully in the spirit of the place: stark naked. It was on that reassuring note that as the sun sank on a peaceful island, I turned in to sleep for the first night.

Chapter Two: Naturists and Semi –Naturists

I set myself a firm principle when I came here: never wear anything. That relieves me of the agony involved in asking should I be clothed, semi-clothed or unclothed. It simplifies life considerably. I also came with the hope that others would follow the same rule though I knew that there would not be complete conformity. The sight of someone who kept this rule reassured me and made me feel more at ease. There is a certain awkwardness about addressing the clothed from the viewpoint of the unclothed.

It played itself out in various scenarios. One morning as I walked down the stair to the beach I came across a young lady taking pictures of the harbour. It is a beautiful scene but obviously my presence would rather intimidate her. There is an unwritten rule that you do not take pictures of other people without their express permission, especially on this island.

Sometimes it seemed I could provoke laughter. It was not really directed against me but against some member of a group of the clothed. The one time that stands out was when I was walking past the café which is near the harbour. The tables and chairs were full with a big group that probably came for the evening. As I walked past I noticed them laughing and felt that what probably amused them was the thought of inviting some of them to join the ranks of the unclothed. Laughter was one way of trying to cope with the divide.

Another morning as I walked towards the beach and reached the point on the path where a notice stated plainly that only the unclothed could proceed, I encountered a family of three. The old lady had come with her husband to celebrate her birthday and they were accompanied by their daughter probably in her thirties. The notice was the problem. Here was a law-abiding lady looking for a sandy beach on which to sunbathe in her swimming costume as any ‘normal’ person might. She was caught: to disobey was unthinkable but to strip off was out of the question.

There they stood wondering what to do. They asked me if there might be another beach where it would be possible to go without this terrible demand being made on them. I replied that on this island the whole coast was textile-free and hence no such beach existed. The daughter was perhaps for giving it a try but nothing could move the mother. Later I met them at lunch. They sat down to a good lunch outside under the palm trees and it was there that I learnt they had come to celebrate the birthday. For them the island was a bit of a disappointment. It had none of the usual holiday attractions and the textile-free rule made the parts they would have liked to visit inaccessible.

More commonly people adopted the rule of semi-dress in much of the island and no dress on the beach. The women had a special garment that seemed made just for this place. It was a long robe that tied together in the front, covering everything. But its seam was also in the front and the sides would sometimes be blown slightly aside so you could see there was only a real person underneath! It satisfied the semi-dress code without completely denying the non-dress code.

Another variant for women was to be topless. This was Laurence’s normal choice during the day. She was the manager of the guest house. In the evening she dressed up to serve guests at the dinner table as the sun sank and the air grew cooler. But from the early morning and throughout the day, she never wore a blouse. Only once, very early, did I see her leave the shower with nothing on. She was always quite shy, quiet and unassuming but it was she who ran the Gecko, while her husband did the cooking. Their daughter would appear from time to time, always clad.

For a number of days, my neighbours were an interesting couple of women. You could not help to get to know them as they carried on their life like a public show. Perhaps it was the mobile phone which accounted for this. They both kept strictly to nudity at all times, at least in camp. The older lady had long and loud conversations with her children every evening and to judge by the many phone calls they were numerous, or else in great need of mama’s advice on topics of the most trivial nature. Her companion was younger, quieter, fatter by far and bronzed.

One evening they were preparing the beach picnic with salads and dressings and “have you remembered this?” and “should I do it this way?” and other such ingredients. These, they informed me, would be all taken down to the beach – there was only really one sandy beach – where they would have a picnic under the stars. At least their conversation would not drown my early sleep.

The island is not all beach. There is also a large wooded area where I walk morning and evenings. One evening as I climbed past the last houses in the village, situated near the top of the hill, a young boy came past walking up from the beach with nothing on. And then further on I met the dog Carmen and her owner who was in similar attire. There seemed to be no particular rule as to what kind of dress anyone might choose. It was not dependent on age or gender. Once walking along a path I met an older lady, alone, and quite free of clothing.

The great thing about such meetings is that they were totally safe and completely natural. There was nothing odd about them. In a sense this was a gift that we could give each other: the complete and full acceptance of the other as a whole person. It was always best when conversation was possible. It made an encounter that could have been only skin-deep become a real exchange with another person, only here it was the whole person and not the hidden person whom one meets all the time in the dressed world.

The danger in this matter of clothed and semi-clothed lies in the transitions and the expectation or fear of the transitions. Once the step has been made across the threshold there is no problem. It is thus far easier to be in the naked world than in the semi-naked world. The barrier crossed frees from fear and also from eroticism and embarrassment.

Chapter Three: Sweets for Shopping

There are three shops on the island and each brings a different kind of experience. The first shop I went to is only open in the morning and the evening. It has books and postcards and groceries. The choice is not great but it has one very special attraction that I will come to later. The second small shop is down near the port. It is up off the road and has a better supply of groceries. It is run by a lady whilst the first is run by a man. Then there is the supermarket off the village square, where there is also a bakery. It has the greatest range of goods but its main drawback is that it is on the square. Why that is a drawback I will explain soon.

Let us start our shopping tour with the shop nearest the harbour. I had been on the island a few days before I ventured in. The range of goods was larger than the other small shop and I felt a certain confidence now even though the owner was clad. I remember walking up the staircase to the front door and meeting a young girl on the way. The advantage of children is that they have not yet learnt the ‘shame’ of adults and so I notice that she looks carefully where no-one else looks. Well, she has every right to do so and why not? Here life is free and surely it is better to grow up knowing what the other sex looks like.

Still, on my second visit I start talking to the lady about how well-stocked her shop is. Then somehow we come round to the topic of dress and she tells me in ringing tones that the island is not a nudist colony. The harbour, for instance, enforces a dress code. Her remarks are not directed directly against me but nonetheless, I feel a little bruised and decide to avoid her shop in future.

The supermarket poses the biggest challenge for me. It is impossible to get there without going through the clothed area and this poses a dilemma for me. To go there would mean breaking my resolve to avoid all clothing for eight days. Yet, on the other hand, I would like to buy a few more things at a slightly cheaper price, so I may have to break my principle.

In the event I have to work out an acceptable compromise. It takes three visits to work it out. The first visit is the swimming trunks visit. The rule here is to go along the paths until one reaches the area marked red on the map, that is just before entering the village square. Here one quickly gets the trunks on and continues up. The reverse procedure is followed on leaving the red area. It works but the two critical moments are the dressing and undressing ones and here it is best to make sure no-one else can see. It is in the act of crossing from one world (the clothed) to the other (unclothed) that the awkwardness lies. Mind you, even wearing the trunks I prefer that they cover as little as possible, a sort of statement: I will keep the letter of your rule but not the spirit.

The second method resolved the awkwardness rather better. Here I used a small towel, which just about encircled my waist. With a bag on my shoulder hanging down at the more exposed hip, I could say I kept the rule. The advantage now was that I could put the towel over my shoulders as protection against the sun during my walk to the shop and move it down without much inconvenience when I approached the square.

Still, I was not satisfied until I had tried the third method. This involved a yellow cord which fitted round my waist like a belt. The towel hung around it at the front. My shopping bag covered part of the rear. This method was my minimalist version, which satisfied the law, was easy to apply and yet did not involve a serious breach of naturist principles. Moreover, I found it quite accepted and no-one batted an eyelid. Thanks to this stratagem I went to the supermarket and bakery more often.

Still, I felt a certain fondness for the first shop I visited. It was not every time that the proprietor remembered, but he had a bowl of sweets on his counter and he would give one free to whoever was totally unclothed. He did this to encourage us. Maybe he wanted his shop to be a place where we could be free. I determined to follow his custom when I got home and to keep chocolates only for the unclothed.

The point is that we did need encouragement even though we were permitted. We were still exceptions, though not over abnormal. Still, I often felt that it would be much easier if everyone simply worked according to my simple norm. Immediately you have the custom of variability in clothing - fully, semi or non - you have the worry of wondering which to do and hence the concern of what are other people thinking. So encouragement for the unclothed was the best part about going to that shop. It was not the sweet itself but the meaning it conveyed that mattered.


Chapter Four: Dawn

It was early in the morning when I woke and this became my habit each day. I would get up and pray before the sun was up and light was only just beginning to filter through. Then I went for walks. On the first day I decided to try going through the village square since at such an early hour I felt that the rule of dress would not matter too much. I passed through quite alone as I went to the high point (138m above sea level) to watch the sunrise. On the way through the edge of the forested area I met a man out with his dog. On the way back I again crossed the village square and saw a lady preparing the tables and chairs of her café for the first guests.

After that I became more adventurous and would make a tour of the entire island before returning for a shower and breakfast. One Saturday morning I ran into a large crowd on the square, clearly they had not slept all night and were just breaking up to rest as I passed. They did not pay much attention to me. Indeed they were probably too tired! I took to going by different routes. Sometimes I would head for the harbour first and then walk up the main road, through the village and on into the forest behind. At other times I would first go to the forest and then follow the coastal path all round to the harbour. At times I went down to the sandy beach too. It could take up to two hours winding back and forth but probably was nearer one hour or so most days.

It was often a little cool in the early morning but exercise was sufficient to generate enough heat, though I found it difficult to sit still as it was too cold for that. I left my lodging while the sky was still dark, with enough light to see my way up the hill and through the village square. In that way I reached the top just before the sun broke over the sea. It would then begin to fill the forest and rocks with incredible light. As I left the summit and walked through the trees, I could see the sun shining under the canopy, striking the trunks and lighting them with a marvellous glow that could only be seen at dawn.

I made my route as long as possible and went down by the most difficult path, because it was the longest. It brought me down towards the sea but still above it, and I would walk back westwards with the sun behind me, the sea to the right and to the left the land sweeping up. I remember in particular a large white rock that stood out with the early morning sun. Later in the day, sitting in a little cove, I would look up to this rock and notice how different it seemed in the afternoon sun.

Sometimes I went down to the cove and even into the sea but it was too cold to swim a lot. Instead I would come out and walk back along the cliff path towards the village. Across the sea I could see another island, which was a nature reserve. Down at the harbour a few boats might be getting ready and one or two people would be around but not many people. I think most people tended to stay up during the night and so did not know the morning.

I would head back for a shower and breakfast and begin to write a few notes on the day. It was only then that my neighbours would begin to stir and some took much more time before they appeared. After all this was a place for a holiday and a rest.

On my last morning I took a camera with me. It is my only photographic record of my visit. I wanted to take pictures while there was no danger of anyone else being around. My first picture is of my lodging. A lamp shines on the corner of the main house, showing that all is dark and yet there is still enough light to see the sky and the sea and the black line of the hills. You would not think it was taken at dawn. Another picture taken from the edge of the property looks directly down to the bay. A few red roofs can be seen but mostly it is just low forest stretching down to the water’s edge. The houses here are discretely hidden in the scenery.

Then I turned west and looked up to the houses around the top of the village. The sun is beginning to shed its light from behind the mountain. By the time I reach the village square, there is sufficient light to see by and I photograph the café on the square and the plaque commemorating the founders of the village.

The next set of photos show the sun, first rising as an orange disk, the island black in the foreground and the sky clear above, yellow and orange near the sea. Just a few seconds later the full disk of the sun is visible and the mountain now has some colour, the little green and brown bushes around the grey rocks where I used to go in the evenings.I have three pictures of the sun shining on the trees, from underneath. In one the tree in the foreground is white and over exposed. Behind the light causes the trunks to glow. Even the rocks take on the same gold and dark hue amid the branches. Looking out to sea I can see the line where the more distant rocks are already bathed in a brilliant yellow, whilst those in the foreground do not yet have the sun full on them. The line cuts across the rocks as if they were of different materials, but it is only because of the way the sun catches them that they look different.

The distant island stands clean and clear in the blue sea, a low greenish brown with a bright edge where the sun shines directly on the shoreline. A small white building is the only sign of human habitation, though in the harbour there are traces of yachts at anchor. Reaching our own harbour I take a snapshot of the general layout, still partly hidden from the rising sun. Another picture taken out to sea shows the contrast between our own harbour still in the dark and the glow of the other island. Looking back I turned my camera on the village. The sun’s light fills the sky in the background, and falls on the boats in the harbour, but the middle ground is still veiled in the dark. Some houses stand out but most are hidden among the low trees. It is truly a place where people and nature live in harmony.

The beach is empty how, a little bit of dark sand with some rocks jutting up offshore and a couple of boats moored further out. This place normally attracts people, though there are rarely crowds on the island.

My last picture that early morning was of the café where I had lunch at times.. On the right are short and stocky palms that give it its name. I would sit on the right, among the palms and after lunch, rest in one of the hammocks for a while.

That afternoon I took one shot of the white rock from my cove. It is scarcely visible against the brightness of the sky.

Finally, in the evening I went up to the highest point and now took three pictures covering the whole scene eastwards. The sun was behind me and the colours of the landscape shine out, so different from the early morning picture when all was black. Yet looking at those pictures that seem so still, it is easy to overlook the sound of the wind, the changes as the setting sun moved down behind me, the distant boats in the sea, all the signs of life that no camera can ever capture.

I am glad I have these pictures to remind me, but they are only a sort of help. The real memory is within me: the sense of walking freely, with nothing, not even a hat or a towel since I did not need to fear the sun’s rays. I walked, then, with no bag; only sandals on my feet. That was all. For one or two hours. Truly there is nowhere anywhere else on earth like that place.

Chapter Five: Beach Stories

As you know by now, there is only one real beach on the island. It is the place to go but in fact it is not the most attractive place. It is where the crowd goes, in so far as there can be a crowd. In fact not so many people go and I must make sure I keep out of the sharp sun.

Another problem with it are the jellyfish that are rather too numerous. Indeed, a self-appointed beach warden, an Italian I guess, spends his time scooping up jellyfish and then gives the all-clear, when he thinks it is free of the creatures. I should add, he is not that reliable. He is also the first-aid man and I see him come to the rescue of a young lady of 20 or so, who has cut her foot on a rock, nothing serious. Most of the time he is engaged in constant conversation with the regulars but not in an unpleasant way. Indeed, he makes one feel that one is at a normal village square.

The beach is the place for some conversation but not much. People respect the silence of the other. One of the most beautiful sights is to see a mother with her children. A Russian couple are lying on the sand near me with their two little children. She is completely au naturel, unmanicured. Others, both women and men, have done a lot of shaving until they are truly hairless beach-apes. An older women, shaved, lies with legs apart in the sun. Nothing private here: her ‘private’ parts are as much a normal part of her as her mouth and lips. Yet she is completely safe. To be utterly at ease in who I am is the lesson of the beach.

The opposite is self-consciousness and this is something that can lurk in the back of my mind. I notice it even more with a young girl at puberty. She would probably prefer to hold a towel around her body but her mother wants her to leave the towel behind. She is running around on the beach with her younger brother and so long as she is focused on looking for jellyfish she is fine, but at times her focus falls back on herself and she tries a sort of awkward covering up with her hands. One can understand her predicament. Her pubic hair is still soft and new this summer and her self image is changing.

For some, though, the beach gives a freedom that no swimming costume beach could ever provide. I think in particular of a very fat German woman, who reads novels lying down on her front and goes to swim from time to time. She never talks to anyone and seems to be little inclined to exercise. If she were to wear a bikini it would disappear somewhere beneath the folds of fat, so here she is completely at ease without the unnecessary burden of some minor piece of cloth pretending that certain parts of her that do exist do not really exist.

There are other rocky areas that are almost beach-like. One afternoon I encounter seven young ladies lined up side by side sunbathing. One of them spreads cream on the others or takes some water from the sea and sprinkles them, like watering flowers. They read and chat, lying now on one side, now on the other, upside down or downside up, like a pod of beached seals. One of them has a pair of briefs on, a reminder that the female body has its monthly rhythm which restricts participation in the world of the unclothed. Still, that is accepted as normal and the police who patrol to enforce the un-dress code would clearly not interfere here.

The monthly period of course stops at times, especially when a baby is on the way. At one spot a young Italian mother has found a shady shelter in the cliffs by the sea and sits here pregnant whilst her first child plays around. Then the whole family get up and move away. We all are born in a mother’s womb and spend several months there but it is so rare to see a pregnant mother in all her entirety, not hidden by specially-designed clothes made to pretend that she is not really pregnant, as if pregnancy were something to be ashamed of. Only here can a mother’s glory really shine.

I have spoken first of the women. Actually, psychologists say that men like to see women because they are different and women like to see women to test their own body image! So women easily become objects of the look, or of the gaze. Do men notice each other? Yes, but only to pay no attention. Do women notice men? I do not think they can miss them, but they act as if their gaze never falls below the waistline. Yet men do worry about what others will see below decks.

The uninitiated will probably be most concerned about what to do if one becomes embarrassed and obviously so. A woman’s embarrassment is something she knows about, but it is not obvious to others. A man cannot cover things up. Yet, in fact one never sees this happen. At no time do you see anyone embarrassed because there is nothing to be embarrassed at. That is only possible here.

Of course, people do look different. The uncircumcised have their privacy hidden in a tube of skin whilst for the circumcised, the tip of the penis stands out clearly. But each person, whether male or female, is unique, with their own breasts and testicles, mouth and ears. One sees everything and so learns to accept everything, even the penis rings and ear rings. But for all this, the best is the most natural, with no shaved hair or strange ornaments, with everything exactly as it should be.

There is then a marvellous freedom and playfulness. One late afternoon I am walking along the cliff path and come across a family diving. In fact it is the little children who are diving. They have just swum across the bay and come up the steep stair cut into the rock face. Here they find a ledge and jump off. Now these brave little girls are perhaps 8 and 6! Their older brothers wear shorts and the parents sit above with nothing on. The girls dive into the sea, swim round, clamber up and dive again. They are quite happy to let me dive too and appreciate the odd hand up when the waves sweep into the cliff and make it hard to find a footing. We do not speak or interfere; we are all lost in the freedom of diving.

Later I go less to the sandy beach. It is fine if you have a book to read but it is not the best place for swimming nor is it easy to keep out of the sun. It is not all that easy to communicate with people. Once one of my neighbours appears and ventures into the water though obviously she cannot swim. She walks around in the shallows and we exchange a few remarks. Her boyfriend will teach her how to swim.

Yet I do carry a picture of this beach with me even now. Many years ago a young couple: an African man and a European girl posed on this beach for a series of photos. I never met them, but I seem to know them. She has a flower in her hair and a pink towel in her hand. She stands talking to him with the beach in the background, people lying down or walking to the sea. The photographer has arranged it such that only the young couple are frontal nude. She also posed alone, sitting on a tree branch that lay along the sand, just above the beach. I do not know them but I have seen their picture. I bought three postcards of them at the shop on the village square. I thank them for those photos. They speak to me of the freedom of the beach and of the isle. I will not show them to everyone: only the naked may see the naked.

Chapter Six: Sunset Dance

I found the best place to go after dinner was the highest point on the island. I would walk through the edge of the village, avoiding the main square because of its dress code, and out into the low scrubland. It was only a 20 minute slow walk and since the sun was setting I did not even need to take a hat. There I could sit on a rocky ledge looking out over the island and the forest. I could see both sides of the island and see the sea to left and right. The sun was behind me and illuminated the whole view; the shadow of the hill I was on would gradually stretch to fill all the forest before me until only the rocky peak was left shining in the last rays of the sun before it set.

At times the wind would pick up and I would move to take advantage of the shelter offered by the rock, moving slightly down from the top so that my head was still above the edge but I was protected from the wind.
It was quiet there and I would sit for a whole hour looking out over the landscape, reflecting on the day and on the sea and the whole of creation. One day I was caught by the contrast between the beauty and peace of this place and the war that was going on at the other end of the sea. From the paper I learnt that a fleet had just sailed to bombard another shore of the same sea. It seemed so far away. Sitting there I was caught in the timelessness of the scene: the sea, the sky and the forest below.

At times people passed. Once it was a young lady and an older man who was taking poised shots of her, perhaps for some advertising campaign. Needless to say both were dressed. At other times people would walk past and head on down into the forest, but they did not disturb me or talk to me.

The one evening someone different came. She walked with a determined stride holding a pair of African drums. She positioned these on the ground and sat down and began to bang away with great determination. Seeing me there she said, “I hope you do not mind if I play the drums?” “No,” I said. “I always come here,” she said. She played with her head bent down and her eyes closed totally absorbed in her work, for such it seemed given the intensity of her effort. But after a few minutes she stopped abruptly. The drums were not firmly in position and tended to slip away. Having tried out a variety of rocks I knew which were the best ones for getting a good seat, so I offered her my seat and moved to make way for her. She accepted and sat down, facing into the sun and banging away with the same determination.

This was exhausting stuff and she needed to stop from time to time to rest. Yet as the rhythm built up I felt foolish just sitting there. I stood up to listen and then started to move with the drum beat. It was tentative at first but gradually I grew less timid and leapt from side to side in a sort of dance that fitted the rhythm though probably left choreography behind.

She always played head bent down, eyes seemingly closed but I knew she must be aware I was dancing to her drumbeat. I danced first with my back to her but as time went by and I felt safe there I turned to face the drums. Why this reticence? Well, it should be obvious that if a man is dancing nude with great leaps and bounds, his penis will move up and down, if a woman her breasts, which could be seen as very erotic. Yet, it did not matter. I turned round to face her and follow the drumbeat better. Did she notice? I think she would certainly notice but she was not interested. It did not matter and because of this there was nothing erotic. When she stopped, I would move over to the side and sit down.

“Do you mind if I dance?” I asked. “No,” she replied, “I am going crazy drumming and you are going crazy dancing. We are both equally crazy.” It was this total acceptance of me that really struck me. There in the setting sun with the forest below and the sea on either side, away from all, we danced and played in our craziness, free and respectful of each other.

After a while she stopped and handed me the drums. “You try,” she said. It was not as easy as it looked and my first attempts elicited no great boom from the drums, only a hard slap on my hands. She explained how to do it. “These are African drums,” she said, “and I have studied them hard.” It was not easy at first. I tried again and after a few attempts began to get some kind of rhythm. I wondered if she might try and dance to my playing but she showed no inclination to do so, preferring to rest and look out at the scenery.

After a while we stopped and she said it was time to go back. She told me that she worked by day at one of the hotels. Last summer she worked at the sandwich place where I had had lunch a number of times. However, she would also have to go babysitting and was not sure if she could come every evening. In fact I never met her there again.

Still that walk back remains etched in my mind. We were two people who did not know each other. She wore a long loose dress and carried two African drums. I wore nothing. In any other situation that would have called for comment, but here it was simply not an issue. When we came to the house where she was staying she signalled goodbye and the people there also waved to me.

I would have liked to see her again there on the hill and often sat wondering if she would come. Before I left I went to her hotel and had a coffee and said goodbye though she was quite busy making beds and preparing rooms. But the one thing that struck me was the way in which she had accepted me totally. She made no fuss over my being nude on the hill. She made no fuss over my dancing. I was simply a normal person. That was the great thing she gave me. I was normal, not with part of me concealed as if it did not exist, but with the whole of me. There was nothing odd or strange. All this was unsaid and implied but it was what struck me and I still carry the sound of those drums and the voice of wholeness and respect that they carried to me, a voice of healing and wholeness, a voice which allowed all of my body to be whole and entire, a voice of the dance in the sunset.

The hotel was called Sea Breeze and it had the most wonderful swimming pool I have ever seen, but since I was only there for a coffee, I felt it would not quite be the right thing to swim there. The terrace for coffee gave a view over the village square. It surrounded the pool and in that sense was no more remarkable than any other pool. What was special was below at the entrance to the hotel. You entered below this terrace with the pool on the left. In fact there was a large sheet of glass covering the whole side of the pool. It was the sort of thing you see in the penguin or seal pool in the zoo. Except that here you could have seen human beings swimming. Needless to say there was no-one swimming during my visit but the pool conjured up the image of swimming people. There is nowhere where the human person looks more streamlined and beautiful than in swimming, especially if one were to dive down and then soar up through the water.

Chapter Seven: The Grass-snake and the Rocky Bay

The drummer girl struck me since it was she who first spoke to me and that was rare on the island. But there was another lady with whom I felt even more at ease. I met her at a little rocky bay called The Gallery. This bay lay some distance from the main beach and nearly at the end of the coastal path. I liked it because it provided shelter from the sun.

In fact I found two places at this spot that were good to visit. One required a little swim across a rocky channel and the other was under the low bushes near the only sandy part of the beach. After swimming across the channel you come to a large flatish rock under an overhang. It was this overhang that provided protection from the sun. There I could sit and see the waves lapping around me. Looking out to sea I could watch the swimmers or the rare boat passing whilst turning to my right I looked up to the cliff and the low forested slopes of the island. Particularly memorable was the white rock that shone in the afternoon sun.

When I came here the first time the shade under the trees was largely occupied by a middle-aged couple and their dog. They were quietly reading. I saw them again the next day and we exchanged greetings but there was no real conversation. That day I sheltered on the edge of the trees in a rather awkward position as I try to avoid the direct sunlight. I would read a little and every so often go down to the sea to swim.

One afternoon, just as I finished swimming, I was struck by a tall lady who walked up with great confidence. She did not look like a regular beach-ape because like myself she was not bronzed. I noticed too that her pubic h air was light grey and in no way trimmed, as was the case with some of the ‘beach-apes’. Her whole sense of ease made me feel confident about myself too. That day I did not speak to her.

Two days later I went swimming further on, at a place where the path ran out and one had to hop over rock pools to reach the sea. A little offshore a family were swimming from their boat so I swam around that area. As a rule I preferred to swim at least in the sight of other people for reasons of safety. After a time they set off in their boat towards the harbour and I returned to the shore and made my way back to the path, not quite sure if I should find another place to swim or go for a walk.

On reaching the Gallery I noticed the same lady had just arrived. I asked her if she would be stopping there, as seemed to be the case, and explained that I preferred to swim in places where I was not quite alone. Having ascertained that it was the case I immediately returned to the water so as not to disturb her.

After a swim I returned and rested in the shade of the trees as before, though the other lady had the better place in between the trees. I looked out over the little bay and the concrete platform that had been put over part of the rocks. The day before I had been on this platform when I thought I saw something appear from a hole in the concrete. It looked like a snake, but it disappeared very rapidly. Now I was watching this area again. Sure enough a snake began to appear out of the hole, tentatively, watching. And then a lizard appeared on the edge of the concrete. I drew the attention of the lady to the snake and we decided it must be a Grass-snake, which is not poisonous. It was watching the lizard and suddenly, in a flash, it popped out, swallowed the lizard and disappeared back into its hole.

The scene had given us a point of contact and we started talking more. She told me that she came here to this rocky cove every year but did not like the sandy beach. She liked the simplicity of nature. She said that she came with her family and that her husband was in the house watching over their new baby.

She noticed that I swam without goggles and offered me her goggles. With these I could see all the beautiful fish in the sea. But the main purpose, she told me, was to watch out for jellyfish and so to avoid being stung. However, I found the snorkel rather difficult to use and the goggles easily filled up with water so it was not quite so easy for me to use them.

All these details are really trivial but they helped some kind of communication, which I appreciated given that otherwise I was alone on the island and a bit nervous of speaking to strangers. The swimming, the snake and the goggles had enabled us to communicate.

I should say this was the real value of the island. Perhaps the clothed will see the island as some kind of erotic place but eroticism runs the danger of making the other into an object: a thing to be looked at. In truth there was no eroticism on this island. Nudity did not make us into objects for each other. It gave us a sense of union and community as common human beings, clearly male and female, of course, but with no embarrassment attached.

I do not know her name, nor was she the only person I talked to, far from it. Whenever conversation did occur, especially between those of us who were fully natural, it would lead to a deeper sense of union, a sense of “being one species” as that older lady had said, albeit a “species in danger of extinction”.

I would love to go back to that island every year like that lady. I would love to live that same sense of ease, simplicity, oneness with nature, with others and with oneself that can only be lived there. But even if I cannot go back I still hope that somewhere else I can still live with the same values and even create a place that is like that island. To fully accept oneself without any sense of unease is a gift that can only lead to great inner joy and peace. It is not something I can create for myself. It is something that an unknown lady with grey pubic hair could give me on a rocky cove in the shade of a few small trees.

Chapter Eight: Interlude

Maybe before you came here, you thought it might be embarrassing at times: it is not. Maybe people think it will be erotic: it is not. Maybe they think it will be crowded with curious people like yourself: it is not.

On this island you face yourself and others and beyond all that you face the sea, the trees, the rocks, the sun and the breeze. You become part of nature and find a new courage within yourself. You are who you are, no more, no less. All the barriers of civilisation, the veiling of truth that we call clothes and attire, is gone. You are there and that is as it should be. Other people accept you; no one bats an eyelid. They greet, eat, make polite talk, swim and chat just as people do the world over, but here there are no barriers, no divides, no pretence.

The island is a place to be visited, but also a place to be created, To be created wherever you live, wherever you want to overcome the falseness of the civilised world and find the real dignity of the human world. It can be my island and your island, the island where each of us can live with others. In full acceptance, respect, love and peace.

Chapter Nine: Farewell

‘Farewell’ implies a parting, a leaving behind, but it is literally a blessing for the future: fare thee well. May all things go well with you in the future. Probably you will never go to this island, even if it really existed. You might never live those eight days as you have just read about them, but in some way you must find that island, your island, the place where you can be yourself, where you can be free. Only if you can do this, will all be well for the future.

To find one’s true self is our only quest in life, a self which is open to the greater reality of life in both nature and in God. Our so-called normal life is full of countless deceptions and devices by which we cut ourselves off from reality. Clothes are a symbol of that. We dress not so much for warmth as to assert our status, to cover our inadequacy, in short to pretend. We are clowns and actors on the stage. If we get so caught up in our play-acting then the clothes define our reality and the play constricts our self until we can no longer find it. It is then that we need to step out into the other world, where I can be I, fully myself, freed from the countless conventions of daily life. Having found that self we then need to learn to live from that point, even in the midst of the false masks we don each day, so that they no longer mask us. On the island we learn to be ourselves, to no longer be afraid of who I am and so live throughout my life freed from that inner fear of myself.

Then the dawning sunlight fills our life with a new light, the light of the first creation and all is bathed in gold, bronzed and gleaming white.

Edmund]]> Sat, 07 Jan 2012 12:51:26 +0000 8f85517967795eeef66c225f7883bdcb