Boule at a Nudist Colony – from ‘Daily Mail’

I’d never met Claire before, but our newest feature writer gave such a softening smile as she got in the car you just knew this would be a day to lift the heart.

“Did the Desk tell you about my article – ‘What Nudists do in Winter’?” she asked. “We’re going to the South Hants Country Club who are holding a Boule Tournament and entering as a pair – there has to be a team name so I’ve put us down as Little and Large.”

I gave a ‘been-there,done-that’ shrug and she began asking about my most exciting assignments – here, on a stunning autumn morning, was a beautiful captive audience actually interested in the story of my life.

Then it got better.

“Did you know the Club will only let us do the feature if we strip off first?”

I masked my mounting anticipation with another shrug. As the miles passed so conversation grew more intimate, moving from our experience of boule and where our tans finished, to how often we worked out and my fear of possible erections, with our shared frisson acting as a bonding agent.

“Sometimes,” I said, giving a little sigh as we sped through the golden-stubbled cornfields, “you feel embarrassed taking their money.”

Our relief on arrival to find all members fully-clothed was cut short by a brusque official sitting at a card table on the sun terrace.

“Little and Large? You were due here ten minutes ago – Adam and Eve are waiting for you on Piste Fourteen.”

We hurried down the terraced grounds where our opponents were practising.

“It’s so easy to pick up,” said Eve, passing me two boules and a scorecard. “Are you Little or Large?”

By the end of the day, I thought, no one would be in any doubt.

After we’d lost three close games, the fear of being beaten out of sight had receded but the moment of truth for taking our kit off loomed larger. It was Claire who finally raised the subject of clothing with our next opponents, a Dutch girl and her partner who were both in social services.

“It all depends on the club,” said the girl. “Some decide to strip off at a certain time, but here at the South Hants it’s up to the individual – it usually happens when the day starts warming up,” with which she nodded to the Clubhouse, and we broke for lunch.

There were about a hundred members on the sun terrace, all fully-dressed, and we were lucky to find an end table. Claire began her interview but her mouth grew dry and it was obvious her mind was now consumed with our agreement to strip first.

“This is ridiculous,” I said, standing up. “Someone’s got to be first. Where’s the gents’ changing room?”

“There isn’t one,” said the Dutch girl, startled. “This is a nature camp.”

I stared at her. “Well, any changing room.”

She shook her head and my skin froze. I was now standing before them, committed. There was no escape. But where do you start?

The next minute is chiselled permanently into the memory. Socks and shoes first – slowly, to buy time. Trousers next, and nonchalantly – like stripping in public was second nature, as Claire’s conversation with the Dutch girl now tapered into banalities as they struggled to maintain eye contact.

Then the underpants and God, please make them look fresh. Slowly fold the trousers over the white plastic chair, followed by the underpants and finally the shirt with a little pat to delay for one more second the moment of standing upright.

I replaced my shoes and sat down slowly to ease the shock of the cold plastic slats, crossing the left knee over the right leg so the crotch was on the blind side to Claire – visible to the Dutch girl, yes, but I was less concerned about tales of my limitations sweeping the DSS than Fleet Street.

There was a pause in conversation as all three companions stared intently at the Hampshire countryside and I heard myself asking what they felt about care in the community, a moment Claire later considered the most surreal of the day, but then she wasn’t sitting nude amongst one hundred fully-dressed couples while struggling to get any words through a throat tighter than a knotted balloon.

At this point I began to whisper, “Jesus….Jesus…Jesus,” through set teeth, a habit developed at times of peril which had proved an understandable comfort cornered in Derry or facing armed roadblocks in Angola, but not in a million years did you expect to be reduced to this mantra on a sunny afternoon at the South Hants Country Club.

As Claire’s questioning re-started, I brushed non-existent crumbs from my chest to survey what they were struggling to ignore; between the tanned arms and legs was a white blob of a sixty year-old torso dangling over a willy that had retracted in terror to the point of extinction. To think an hour before I was worried about an erection.

“Jesus….Jesus…. Jesus.”

Now I bent to tighten shoelaces and take stock of the terrace. Everyone was fully-clothed, from those nearest giving me furtive glances to those at the far end coming out the rowdy clubhouse bar with carafes of wine. That was the answer.

“The only way I’m going to get through this bloody lot is to have a drink like the rest of ‘em,” I said. The Dutch girl laughed and gave my shoulder a shove.

“Go and get a big carafe for you and Claire in the clubhouse, that’s where they strip off first – you’ll be in good company. Look, we know how you feel, we’ve all had our first time. All you do is open the door, make eye contact with the barman and give your order. You’ll be amongst friends, there’s nothing to it.”

Oh sure, nothing to it – just walking past the fully-dressed club, wearing only a plastic watch, Docksiders and the expression of a Death Row arrival.

The barman proved to be a fully-dressed barmaid whose stare followed me right up to the bar where I put my right foot on the brass footrail, both elbows on the bar, and let my eyes sweep knowingly along the lines of spirits.

“What I’d really like is a large carafe of your very best red.”

“We only got one red.”

“Then that’s the best, right?”

I casually turned to the left where seven or eight men surrounding a pool table were staring at me. All fully dressed. I swung round to the right where the Members’ Cafe were also staring. All fully dressed. Were they staring because I was a stranger in their close coterie or because I looked the biggest prat the South Hants had seen in years? Too easy.

I swung back to the bar and locked onto a bottle of Malibu, fervently hoping I would wake from this nightmare no words can fully describe, whilst clenching my buttocks tight in a ludicrous attempt to limit the view of those behind.

“Jesus…Jesus….Jesus.”

“Was that one with and one without?”

The barmaid was talking to me but it meant nothing. She moved into the line of sight between me and the Malibu and repeated the question more sharply.

“Without what?” I asked.

“Pickle.”

I stared at her inanely as she explained I’d ordered two rounds of cheese for our table, but paralysing fear had removed the moment from my mind so I nodded as speech wouldn’t come. When she handed my change from a tenner, only the pool players saw me trying to put it in my left pocket.

Outside, the Dutch girl was waiting with a smile which was supposed to be encouraging. Could she carry the tray for me? No, she bloody well couldn’t as it was just low enough to shield my remaining vestige from the gawping terrace. If Claire had been in any doubt what nudists do in winter, we now knew they spent it trapping suckers into stripping off first and watching their slow death throes.

“Excuse me,” said the Dutch girl, “but you have leaves stuck to your bottom.”

I maintained my pace, locked onto the middle distance, and desperately tried to make sense of what she’d said. Was this another mind-game conundrum like the barmaid’s? What possible answer was there to such a statement?

” – it’s just that Club rules forbid contact without permission,” she said. “May I?”

“May you what?” I whispered.

“Brush it off.”

I nodded, trance-like, and she began brushing my bottom as I walked the remaining five miles to the comparative sanctuary of our table. ‘Too embarrassed to take their money,’ I’d said on that innocent drive down. You must be joking – here I was humiliated off the Richter and getting the bloody basic day rate.

“Jesus…. Jesus…….Jesus.”