Strangely, my principle grievance became creature comforts - I didn’t want them. Absurd as this may sound, it was true. The pursuit of an idyllic beach (and a cheap but worthwhile bottle of wine with which to watch the sun go down), should always involve more than the nearest supermarket and a fifty yard stroll to the immediate (usually ‘textile’) beach.

Trust me on this one, a long, backpack-laden, walk in the country, relishing the swim at the end of it, isn’t just for masochists. Decadence has decidedly more flavour once you’ve earned it. And there’s another attraction: as others count the cost, fiscally and physically, of holiday excesses, we often manage, annoyingly, to look as if we’ve just been to a health farm!

Still, each to his own. Naturism is, first and foremost, about being yourself and accepting others for what they are. We really aren’t the pool-side press-ups or six-mile-run-before -breakfast brigade. Nonetheless, no sooner was my suitcase unpacked than the rucksack was on my back and I paced the floor like a dog desperately needing exercise. Mercifully, Melissa’s case was disemboweled in record time and we headed for the door two minutes later.

The weather was perfect and it wasn’t yet the end of February! T-shirts and shorts were the only foreseeable clothing requirements. Even then I nurtured the startling optimism of discarding them at some point. Completing a brief tour of the locale lent weight to this heartening notion, for a sign advertising boat trips promised tourists, amongst other things, a glimpse of El Mago the local nudist beach!

Much as we dislike the commercial exploitation of our naturist persuasion and all those goggle-eyed spectators, El Mago was nowhere on our map and its existence came as a complete surprise. We had no option. To find out where it was we had to buy the tickets.

With my eyes scouring the salient features of the island’s rugged and beautiful coastline my head soon began to throb. Cove after cove came into view and departed again to the unmelodic rhythm of its chugging diesel engine and a crying child. The distance the boat was putting between us and our hotel was alarming and any thoughts of relocating El Mago on foot were fast evaporating. In that mood of defeat, hiring a car seemed only like throwing good money after bad.

Finally, at the penultimate cove, a Spanish voice gleefully announced “El Mago beach!” Not before time I thought, as a platoon of avid bird-watchers materialised around us, binoculars focused on the distant shore. Even those infant wailers amongst them fell oddly silent. But I could not see the object of their considerable and attentive ornithological interest. To my unaided vision, I was delighted to discover a pleasantly secluded beach inhabited by no more than three people. Three people incidentally, who were arguably naked (or possessed of flesh-coloured bathing costumes). But not birds - not by any stretch of the imagination.

The boat hovered for as long as seemed within the bounds of decency, and then several minutes more. At last, blowing its horn, it departed. Once out to sea the loudspeaker crackled into life again. There would be an opportunity to disembark on the next beach before returning to the boat for the homeward run. Melissa looked at me and I looked at her and suddenly we had other plans.

After explaining to the captain (Captain Bird’s Eye-view?) that we wouldn’t be rejoining the crew, we stepped nimbly ashore; considerably relieved to be on solid ground and independent again. Of course we had our reservations. It seemed like miles from anywhere, but if El Mago beach had civilised, like-minded inhabitants, then I would find a way back.

Once off the boat, a fresh perspective settled on my weary navigational workings (second only to homing pigeons, I am told) and El Mago proved a mere stone’s throw from our disembarkation point. The sailor had made much of a short journey.

We didn’t need intrude upon the privacy of the beach’s tenants - there would be other days to make friends. My confidence was growing. Yet, it had to be admitted, the sun was hanging worryingly low in the sky and it seemed prudent to make tracks and define the route in daylight. All the same, with that warm glow behind us, painting a glorious orange hue to the quiet tarmac and woodlands ahead, I wouldn’t have cared if we had lost our way. The attendant calmness of mind, however, assured that we didn’t.

Bee orchids, which I had never seen before, crept safely up to the edge of the roadside, undisturbed by tyres and marauding tourists. Tortoises, we later discovered, were a common sight in this neck of the woods, although we didn’t see any this time. The road meandered quietly through coniferous glades. Past luxury retreats and tastefully laid-back developments. Lambs gamboled among the olive trees and grass that was a rich green at this time of year.

The occasional local rummaged through the undergrowth to emerge with a basket full of wild asparagus and smiles. And, as we finally neared the peaceful end of Magaluf, marked by a sprawling but unobtrusive golf course, we realised we had completed the journey in less than an hour. It was the perfect end to a day on which we had suffered many misgivings.

The following morning, rising early for breakfast, we set off with gusto to El Mago beach and the promise of an all-over tan. The exercise was exhilarating and we fully expected to have the beach to ourselves, at least for a time. On this score we were mistaken but didn’t resent it for a moment.

Eric, a seventy-odd-year-old pensioner from Doncaster, must have wolfed down his breakfast a full hour before us and been very fleet of foot into the bargain. He explained to us that he had trekked down there every morning for the past month and had another two weeks left which he had no intention of wasting.

“Golly!” I thought (or words to that effect) “Naturists are a healthy lot!”

With some mileage under my own belt, and, fortunately, not much hanging over it, I nursed a chilled and welcome beer procured from the beach bar. The sun painted colour into my cheeks. Our numbers had increased this day but by no more than half a dozen. Then it occurred to me, in a mad moment that sometimes afflicts the English, to break the ice in a bold way. And I mean literally. The sun was warm; the sea was not. Reverse gear was impossible to find when my legs had already carried me half way in. I hurled myself the rest of the way. It was bone-numbingly cold!

A pretty Spanish girl laughed - she thought I was mad. Melissa in her usual spirit of lunatic bravado followed me in and everyone applauded without reservation. After the shock it was actually quite enjoyable but still no one joined us after toe-testing the water. It did, however, guarantee instant conversation when we were out of it, and actual friendships would have been easily forged.

And this became the manner in which we enjoyed the rest of our holiday: Eric teasing the Spanish girl (I wasn’t going to tell him to start acting his age); Melissa racing me into the water (and usually winning); parking ourselves on the warm rocks until the sun’s heat percolated back into our bones; the boats with their bemused human cargo tooting their horns before leaving (good conversation, however, did not depart so swiftly);… and then there was that most appealing trek home each and every evening.

So, what makes a good holiday? It isn’t money and exotic locations, although those can help. The essential ingredient, if you can muster nothing else, is a state of mind, the ability to cast off inhibitions, to make the best of the myriad possibilities life offers. And a naturist holiday on a shoestring can be a very good way to start.

[Aromatherapy & Therapeutic Massage] [Questions?] [Where Am I?] [Naturist] [Naturism on a Shoestring] [You Can't See Anything From The Road...] [A New Angle on Almeria] [Ibiza - North & South] [And Daughter Makes Three... Again.] [Forward Without Dogma] [Buying A Naturist Home In The Sun] [Living In A Material World] [Freestyle Naturism] [Pornography or Naturism?] [Birds of a Feather] [Fun in Florida & the Everglades] [The Permissive Path] [Galician Adventure] [Rebels Without A Cause] [Asturias]