2021.08.09 The Times
Seasons change everything, but they don’t half affect how you feel about life in a naturist camp. At 31, I’m young for the game, but I’ve so far spent time in two: a Dutch camp in January, five years ago, where an ex-boyfriend and I lived for a month in temperatures that dropped to a shivery -5C, and most recently a camp near Brighton, where the sun shone and my friend Rosie and I agreed that we should be naturists for ever (if the 30C heat didn’t go anywhere).
“Think of the tans,” Rosie said. “Think of the hangovers,” I countered, given that we’d been at the Apollo Sun Club in Hassocks for three days and almost finished two three-litre boxes of soave.
