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In Which The Speedos Stay *On*
April 29, 2008 by Mike
Cap D'Agde
Route: Narbonne - Cap D'Agde
Didn't ride too far today. Two reasons:
1. France's southern coast is so short.
Remember the old Twix advert - "One snack.. and it's gone"? Well, this part of France's coastline is the same. It's so.. short. There's lots down here, but everything is slap-bang next to each other. It took exactly a month to ride from the Belgian border to the Spanish one. If I'm not careful I could be in Italy by tea-time.
(I'm SO chuffed I found that advert on YouTube.. do watch it if you haven't already. Why can I remember it so clearly?)
2. The Nudie Beach.
Let me explain.
Many years ago, long before we met, my lovely ex-wife came to Cap d'Agde to work as a singer. There were two reasons why this wasn't the smartest career move she ever made. Firstly, she's not -- how can I put this gently? -- the best singer in the world. She was only just the best singer in our marriage.. a couple of the cats gave her a run for her money.
Secondly: she wasn't about to get her kit off to perform in front of a wobbly, sunburned, dangling crowd of German tourists.
She was working in 'Naturisme', a gated community on the east side of Cap d'Agde which is dedicated to the naturist community. It's the largest one in Europe. (Words which every male naturist longs to hear, no doubt.)
Thank gawd she didn't stay long, or I'd never have met her. Because.. despite what you may have read, I don't drop my Speedos at the drop of a hat. So to speak. That's why I'm camping on the Very Clothed side of the fence, and eyeing everyone who wanders the streets with a degree of suspicion. I'm about 20 years younger and several stone lighter than almost everyone in Cap d'Agde. Assuming at least some of them are from 'over there' and have got dressed to go shopping, and will shortly go home and take their clothes off to do the cooking, then I'm definitely not missing anything.
(This afternoon, I wandered down the beach to where a small river meets the sea. Defensive seawalls have been built up on either bank. On one side: clothes. On the other: willies and boobs. But not today. Phew! As I sauntered down to have a gander, the clouds that had been threatening all day finally hid the sun. In a flash (pun intended) it turned chilly and, by the time I'd clambered to the top of the defences, everything had been put away behind fleeces and shell suits. Naturists dress *appallingly*.
--
It's a quiet campsite, but I've made a chum. Steven, from California, works for the Peace Corps in Senegal. It's all interesting stuff.
(A message for my niece Emma: take a look at his blog to see what life development work in the field is really like..)
Also interesting to watch a Champions League semi-final with a (United States of) American, keen to understand what's going on. "He's Portuguese," I explained. "That player's French.. Argentinian.. Cameroonian.. he's Ivorian.. South Korean.. Serbian.. and he's from Salford." The Beautiful Game really is The World's Game. I think he got it.
But the most exciting moment of the day came in the Gents' after the game. It's a "Turkish toilet" -- two ceramic plates show where to put your feet as you bestride a hole in the floor. Hmmmm. But on the wall, next to the sink, was this --
-- disposable paper toilet seat covers. But there's no toilet seat. THERE'S NO BLOOMIN' TOILET!!!!
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