Give me a choice between squeezing my bites into an unflattering bikini and then sitting around in the soggy thing after a swim or playing castaway on a desert island, and I'll go for the latter every time. However, I'm not into organized nude ping-pong and so avoid naturist complexes.
In the part of Spain where I used to live, near the Costa Brava, there were hundreds of coves, many of which were unofficially "clothing optional." Everyone was very relaxed about the whole thing, and I soon lost my shyness about running into people I knew completely starkers.
Here on the east coast of Malaga, where I now live, even toplessness is rare and frowned upon. So when I discovered there was a nudist beach at Almayate, a few kilometers down the road, I couldn't wait to strip
With the semi-tropical microclimate of the area, I didn't have to wait long. Temperatures hit the mid-twenties one Sunday in late November, and I decided it was time to initiate Francisco, my Spanish boyfriend, into a world without swimming trunks.
Driving down the N340 towards Torre del Mar, we doon came to the village of Almayate. We had no need to make red-faced inquiries to find the beach; a lare, bold sign, bold sign beside the road pointed down a dirt track, declaring, "Almayate naturist beach, five hundred meter." Turning down the track, we passed a fine Moorish watch tower, fields of sugarcane and sweet corn, and the occasional herd of sheep.
At around eleven o'clock, we stepped onto the sandy beach and claimed a spot relatively near the restaurant and campground. In summer, we'd been told, this part of the beach fills up quickly, but the naturist area extend a kilometer to the left, so sunbathing diehards can easily escape from the sardine syndrome. Personally, I don't go near a beach in high season. That's what living in a subtropical microclimate does for you - that and having an apartment block garden and swimming pool.
About forty or so sun lover already were staked out on their towels and sun beds, mostly retired German couples but also a fair mix of local who, like us, had come for the day. It was hard to believe, and would be pleasant to gloat about later, that it was winter, that folks back in Northern Europe, where I come from, would be bundled up in their thermals.
The sun was deliciously warm. Even Francisco, who usually hides under a sunshade or in a beach cafe, basked quite happily in his sea of Sunday supplements. Made of slightly sterner stuff, I headed for the real sea. No hesitation.
I ran, jumped, splashed, and swan, trying to recall childhood mantras do necessary for going anywhere near the North Sea, such as, "It's all right once you get in. Quite warm really. "But this really was. Warmed up, I turned over and lazed on my back, enjoying feeling the rays on my body and having the sea almost to myself.
From the water,too, I could appreciate the extraordinary light of the Costa del Sol(Spanish for Coast of sun), a light so intense, so clear that sunglasses are a necessity all year long, especially for us blueeyed residents. A solitary cloud comet trailed across the blue sky, and below, in the background, bare, mauve mountains and strips of straggly green sugarcane jungle perfected the scene. A pictorial paradise!
But the idyll, depending on your sense of humor and your sense of the absurd, was about to be broken. Picture the scene: couples and families absorbed in newspapers, games of beach tennis, their own thoughts, each other. Slowly, people started sitting up, standing up to see what everyone else was sitting or standing up for.
In the distance, hurtling along the shore, headed our way was a herd of some hundred sheep, accompanied by a pair of yapping dogs and a young - obviously clothed - shepherd boy. The boy whistled and shouted, fixing his eyes firmly on his flock. Even when I ran from the water, grabbed my camera and started snapping away near him, he acted as if I didn't exist. by then, everyone was at each other, exchanging comments and gestures. "I don't believe it," laughed a large German lady.
Spain, as the tourist office often points out, is different. To underline this observation, as the flock panicked past us and drew parallel to the restaurant, that establishment's fully clothed owner shot out like a bullet. wielding a broom, and started hitting the poor creatures and shouting at the boy.
You can imagine how the sheep felt about this unmerited attack. A breakaway group nervously veered off in one direction, and being sheep, others followed. The broom wielding woman beat on the behind of a straggler, causing that creature to veer off in another direction, dragging others in its wake. The sheep kicked up clouds of sand, causing more of a disturbance than if their attacker had just let them pass.
Francisco, who can't resist getting involved, suggested the woman calm down, return to her restaurant and call the Guardia civil. she said she would. But alas, the civil guards didn't show up, and a once in a lifetime photo opportunity - a beach full of bemused naturists, beleaguered sheep, and armed, uniformed civil guards - was missed.
"Didn't realize this naturist thing was do divertida (Spanish for funny)." Francisco said later, over a fried fish lunch. "We'll definitely come back here." And we have. We haven't seen any more sheepdog trials, but we continued to enjoy playing castaway amid the bucolic beauty of Almayate beach.