A fascinating feature in Monday’s EE aboot Aiberdeen’s disastrous effort to strip aff. Until reporter , I’d forgotten about the city cooncil’s passing penchant for a nudie beach. It got the go-ahead, although some cooncillors were outraged, like big, colourful Tory Dick Gallagher who warned it would attract dirty al’ mannies wie binoculars, declaring he’d fetch his gun and ‘pepper’ ony bare bods he spied.
Now that’s how council debates are supposed to be! But the avant-garde plan turned oot to be more of a Cairry-On Up The Don when it was discovered the secluded land, which officials had pin-pointed for naturists, was owned by – not them – but . More bonkers (or bunkers) than starkers. Man, the jokes gan roon for months, most of them involving holes in one.
A couple of years later my first hubby and I were doing our annual, whistle-stop camping tour of Europe. We’d chosen a site on the French Riviera near Frejus, on beautiful St Aygulf beach. Arriving hot and sweaty, about 4pm, we on oor costumes and headed doon to the packed beach.
My man, as always, led the way, he kept walking further along the sand, searching for a less crowded area to the other side. Sure enough, we found a super open space; on to the towels for a sunbathe. A mum can aye tell on the spot when somethin’s afit.
I became aware my kids, aged about seven, were gigglin’ and whisperin’ suspiciously as they played in the sand. I up and hid a keekie roon. Just a topless wifie, a pucklie feet awa’ fae us.
Daft bairns. Nothing to see there. Then I did that classic double-take, suddenly registering that the madam, in her 50s, was also bottomless.
Stretched oot on the sand, legs ...
er ...
in a relaxed posture. So fit did this feel Neest wifie dee? I whispered loudly to the kids to get ower to me right NOW. The penny dropped as I surveyed the surrounding bods.
Nae a bikini nor a budgie-smuggler in sight. And guess fit? It was me feelin’ embarrassed because I’d on a costume amidst the surrounding ..
. bare budgies. Imagine foo lang it took my babes to break the shocking news of our unclad neighbours to their dad fa’ sat upright surveying the scene afore ye could say: “A’body’s naked,” I announced we’d have to leave.
Nope, sez oor man. We’re in France, we should join them. This fae a loon fa wis ower embarrassed to so much as stand up in a disco, let alone move his feet.
Next thing, he’s racin’ doon the sand, wheeched aff his trunks and into the waves. Man, that’s probably the most memorable laugh me and the kids ever had. No way, Jose were we joining him.
Just to gie him a fright, I picked up his trunks and took them back to oor spot, later to relent and replace them because I really, really couldna thole the thocht o’ him swingin’ up to us in a’ his starkers state. Years later, when Sunnybroom Naturist club set up in the heart of Aberdeenshire – think they’re still there – I asked if I could spend one of their Sunday barbecues (fit a story!) with them. Sure, nae problemmo.
I was ower the moon. Then I’d say: “I’ll need to take a photographer with me.” Sez the mannnie: “Great.
Just as long as you both follow our rules. No claes.” Guess fit? I never got that story.
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