Camping on a naturist beach

Nobody told me we were walking back. We had slogged all the way along the spectacular coast from our resort, the Bahia Principe the 5 miles or so to La Caleta, a pretty seaside town a little too near to Essex-On-Sea at Los Christianos  and Playa des Americas for comfort. I had needed the beers to overcome the shocking scenes I had witnessed on the walk over.

After a couple of consoling ales  I was just contemplating a taxi back when the bombshell was delivered; we were walking back. I know the reason now and it is not pretty.

On the way across the coast we had noticed a few tents and tepees dotted in the crags and caves and I had formed the opinion that they were weekend retreats for the locals. What a nice way to spend a weekend, back to nature, by the sea. Indeed I had also concluded that some of the locals were a few pesetas short of a euro (did you notice that there was no mention of Currencies Direct yesterday?). One of them, clearly a busker, was playing the accordion quite well and singing. I would have contemplated making a small donation had he not been seated on a narrow ledge some 80 feet above the rough path.

However, worse was to come.  On the way there yesterday morning I spotted a chap without any clothes. I know there is a recession on, and it had crossed my mind that those that had fallen on hard times may have then resorted to camping locally, but had not, at this stage, considered another meaning for the word camping, as in camping it up.

Then I saw another chap down beside the sea who also appeared to have fallen on hard times as he too had no clothes on. His fall had probably been more spectacular as he was painfully obese, but then how the mighty gave fallen. Probably a banker? Then there was another person without clothes and another and then we saw a small make shift stall being looked after by an old hippy who was making trinkets from painted stones, the sort of thing much beloved by that Nice Lady Decorator. It was whilst she was perusing his wares that I caught a glimpse of some other wares that he was displaying and wished I had not. The old hippy was naked behind his stall.

It was another couple of miles before we reached La Caleta where I was able to come to terms with the horrors I had witnessed, in the full knowledge that I would not be forced again to scar my eyes and my memory with such a spectacle, and that ends the case for the defence.

Camping it up on the naturist beach in Tenerife

You will know that the Nice Lady Decorator, who claimed to have been unaware of the nakedness of the stall holder, was determined not to miss out and that is the reason we had to trudge back in the heat.  I had stupidly mentioned, in shocked and slightly reverential tones, the size of the wares that were on display on his side of the counter and then it dawned on me what a mistake that was. There was only one possible outcome; she would have to go back and see it for herself. I offered to draw a diagram instead, but that just seemed to make her determined.

Even my contention, issued with utter certainty, that he was gay and that it seemed that most of the chaps on the beach were, well, just that, chaps and many of those seemed to be camping, but nothing was going to shake her determination to see the infernal thing for herself. As I wrote this, I am safely back in the resort nursing a glass of cava and listening to her suggest that we should go again tomorrow (ie today) to what turns out to be a well-known nudist beach in the weekdays, a family beach at the weekend, the reason why no such revolting disrobing was in evidence on either of the previous days. I am stunned.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News