The Accidental Naturist

This summer we had the very indulgent opportunity to spend a month away. 10 short years ago we bought a house in the Montagne Noir but it has taken 10 long years to return it to its former glory. After three weeks gardening we decided to escape down to the coast for a few days so I phoned around to find a hotel. I got the number of a small apartment block that I recalled seeing on my favourite, very beautiful beach in Leucate.

I dialled the number; ‘Village Naturiste’ they answered.

There was a palpable beat whilst I considered my options. I really, really wanted to stay on this beach.

'Bonjour’ I replied.

Those of you who know this part of France will know that all the best beaches are naturist-friendly, always away from built-up developments and usually spread across miles of golden sands. The ‘friendly’ bit suits me just fine, as I am very attached to my swim suit. Whilst I have nothing against nudity on the beach, I just don’t think it is a good look on me.

When we arrived to check-in I was delighted to see that the reception staff were fully clothed, unlike those 'Man Alive' documentaries I remembered from the 1970s. My nerves were a little rattled, however, when on the way back to the car to get the bags a naked man wobbled past me on a bike, whilst somebody else was not paying but displaying in the car park.

Larger than the one row of apartments visible from the shore, the small complex was a few rows deep. In my mind’s eye I had imagined myself running across the sand and ditching the towel at the last minute before anyone could identify the clothed impostor in their midst. However, and needless to say, we were on the back row, so the walk to the beach was to be a painful one.

Attempting to cover my non-naked shame I fashioned an array of accoutrement to conceal my shorts; beach bag one side, folding beach mat the other, large towel over my shoulder and a beach umbrella worn quiver-like over my back. Beneath my carefully arranged accessories I could have been taken for as naked as the day I was born, had I been born in a branch of Millets.

The funny thing I discovered is that nobody gives a fig leaf if you wear a top; but bottoms seem to get a few non-existent knickers in a twist. So I managed the next few days very comfortably with the help of a long t-shirt. By day three I had gone native and thrown in the towel. I never managed the walking around bit, but lying on the beach I did let my recently diagnosed suburban standards slip.

Leucate’s Rive Droite is a row of quayside, shack--type cafés which cook the day’s catch. My favourite is one that prepares whatever has been caught the same way every day. Huge bunches of herbs foraged from the garrigue; rosemary, thyme and lavender, are laid on a piece of foil, on which a prepared fish is placed, more huge bunches of herbs are added, the foil is sealed and the whole lot is baked in a hot oven for 10 to 20 minutes depending on the size of the fish. As a rough guide allow 10 minutes per 2.5 cm of fish at the thickest part.

The results are mouth watering and so healthy, as the fish gently steams in its own juices and the moisture and oils given up by the herbs.

This is a really quick, non-smelly and easy way to cook fish at home; the method works very well with fish steaks and fillets too. Swordfish and coriander, salmon and dill, tuna and tarragon, you don’t need any oil just very large bunches of herbs.

Please remember to dress for dinner!

This article first appeared in the September issues of the SE Group of Magazines www.semagazines.co.uk