Naked on Bastille Day…

The camping du Pont d'Arc in the Gorges de l'Ardèche . No, I don't have any picture of Les Templiers.

I giggle at the whiteness of my daughter’s butt as she runs toward the water causing my wrap to fall slightly lower than my hips.  Self-conscious, I glance around and realize that I, in my paréo, am the odd woman out.  Still I tighten it even more and pull my hat lower over my reddening face.

It’s Bastille day and what am I doing?  Spending my afternoon at the naturist camp in the Gorge de l’Ardèche (Ardèche canyons).  Yes, I have to admit it, we are card carrying members of the local nudist society.  We don’t actually consider ourselves nudists, really.  Or maybe that’s just me.  The membership came about as a business decision, so I tell myself.  They buy our wine.  A lot of our wine.  But even then, we didn’t have to be members for them to buy the wine.  The main reason, that is that we go to the camp to begin with, is that one of Raphael’s closest friends from college is a nudist.  He and his family make annual visits to Les Templiers camp site for two weeks each summer.  They live in the north so we rarely see them.  We go to the camp to visit them. 

My first visit to the camp came as a shock.  It was shortly after I met Raphael and was still getting to know his friends.  They had spent the day with us at the winery and in return, invited us to the camp to join them for dinner.  But when the first step in their dinner preparations was to remove all their clothes, I got to know them better than I ever expected.  We’ve gone back each year since for a day on the beach. 

Still, we may think we’re not true nudists (I should change that we to I.) but Raphael won’t let me pack the bathing suits when we go.  My two must haves for the visit, a beach wrap and dark sunglasses.  The wrap is my ‘legal’ way of hiding my body.  The sunglasses, eye protection, really.  Not to secretly check everyone out.

It’s been an annual mild argument between Raph and myself.  “Why don’t you strip down entirely?”  he wants to know.  “Everyone else is naked.”  It isn’t as uncomfortable to be naked on the beach.  I often take my top of at the sea.  Eating a meal, washing the dishes or waiting in line for an ice cream – a little odd to do these things naked. 

Even in the parking lot, which is secluded from the rest of the camp, one can come across interesting scenery.  I recently delivered this year’s wine order to the camp.  I didn’t actually go down to the camp just down the rutted path to the entrance.  I saw only one naked man, his willy free for all to scrutinize.  On my way back up, I got the rear view as he was busy rummaging for items (His shorts perhaps?) in the trunk of his car.  

We don’t need to be member of the society to visit our friends at the camp.  So why are we members?  I’ll have to ask Raphael.

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