Heatwave,
sun, waves, oh and some phoning of garages and things. It’s not so bad. Not
much to say really, you all know about Marseillan plage already. What we didn’t
anticipate was TOO MUCH NAKED and hurricane smash it up.
Our first
wedding anniversary was over the weekend and on the Saturday we decided to take
a nice romantic stroll down the beach to Cap D’Agde and have some lunch out. As
it turns out the only thing out on our walk was a sausage fest and neither of
us had the good old French merguez as our dish of choice.
We knew there was a
nudist beach some way down the coast and we successfully navigate the first
part of the beach. Neither of us have an issue with the naturist lark, but why
do they insist on making such a deal about it? Very few seemed to be sunbathing
or lying talking to their loved ones, reading the latest Jackie Collins, instead
they all hung (sorry) around in groups, posturing madly and looking menacing because
you haven’t whipped off your ferret pants. Still, worse was to greet us just
around the corner.
As it
turned out we had stumbled into a naturist village. This was an enormous
sprawling small town purely catering for the naked delights of mainly middle
aged fat German people. Yummy. As we attempted to navigate this compound, which
was heavily guarded by menacing security types the piece de resistance greeted
us in the mall area behind the beach. Some oldish chap, meat and two veg out
for all and sundry to see got out of his car and headed into the opticians. Oh
the irony. You really couldn’t make it up. We soon began to realise that these
were people who took nakedness very seriously. The compound thingy had restaurants,
bars, shops of all types, nightclubs even its own marina. Everything. Walking past a bar trying to navigate our way
out people were seemingly naked having a drink. ‘Will that be on the rocks Sir?’
‘er….in the glass will do please….’
Finally we
manage to extricate ourselves and try and work out where the ‘real’ town is.
Miles later we finally begin to see signs of civilisation and it’s fully
clothed. Yay!! We go for a delicious lunch (no sausages!) in the marina port
area, turns out Cap D’Agde is actually pretty cool. A leisurely wander around
and then we ask directions from a shop owner as how to walk back with minimal
nakedness involved, understandably this sends him into gales of laughter and he
wishes us a bon voyage of ‘if you can’t beat them, just join them!’. He is
still chortling as we walk away.
We
reckon if we can just get back on the beach then we’re sorted. This proves
impossible. Unbelievable. The only access to the stretch of beach that we need
to be on is more heavily guarded than the…erm.. crown jewels.
For the privilege of taking our clothes off
and accessing the beach they want nearly €20. We’ve seen enough anyway and get
a cab, supplied by the superbly named ‘joe le taxi’. We arrive back at camp,
back to normality, haunted by the surreal nature of a totally naked town.
Apologies Norm, far too young for that kind of thing, but what a crack….sorry J
A
restorative champagne toast to our anniversary cheers everybody up, thanks to
next door for taking the photo (Mr Next door has a Hook Norton hoody would you
believe, used to work around the corner – small world!!). Thank you everyone
for all your lovely messages…Bottoms up!
Next day
the weather turns savage….
Everybody
damp and cosied up…we make plans to leave.
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