"Look, that man’s got a nudie bum-bum," squealed my son, pointing so hard he nearly prodded the middle-aged monsieur into the recycling bins.
Nude
Cheeky chap: put on your birthday suit

It was early evening on the edge of a towering pine forest in south-west France and the man emptying his rubbish did indeed have a nudie bum-bum. In fact, as he turned round it was hard to avoid getting a good look at his nudie front-front as well.

Puzzled by the excited whoops from our four-year-old, Ben, and pathetic giggling from Mum and Dad, Mr Nudie Bum-Bum calmly finished his domestic duties and strode off into the forest.

He glanced back once to give us a pitying smile and an eyebrow expression like the one I use to ward off loopy street beggars. Clearly we were the ones who had got it wrong. Fully clothed and still grounded with giggling, we were here to see for ourselves what a naturist holiday was all about and judging from our first encounter the Morris family was not fully prepared for the week ahead.

Following a reader’s request for more coverage of naturist holidays in the Telegraph Travel pages, I had been volunteered to shed my clothes and some light on the subject. The trouble was that a solo fortysomething male snooping around a nudist camp with a notebook and camera was more likely to get a punch in the mouth than a true taste of holidaying au naturel .

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