‘You don’t look like a nudist’

I’m not sure how many times I’ve heard this phrase. Maybe because I’m a glasses-wearing, Mumsy looking woman. Maybe people’s interpretation is that nudists are lithe, willowy ladies with trout pouts, push-up boobs in their early 20s (thank you, internet porn, for that false representation of female naturists, your interpretation of male naturists not much different).

The alternative is ‘she/he doesn’t look like a naturist’.

Again, the pretext is that there’s a given look to naturists.

All nonsense, of course. Naturists look like you, me, your Mum, your Uncle, your little brother (be he 13 0r 33), your child, your granny, the lady who owns the local bakery….

Look around you. Anyone you see on the street could be a naturist. We’re a cross-section of society, and we look like everyone else. In naturism, I’ve met a Church of England vicar, a couple of doctors (male and female), some military/police personnel, several teachers and lecturers (I’m part of this demographic myself) and so on.

Many, of course, don’t advertise the fact that they’re naturist. The vicar didn’t do so, and the teachers/lecturers in the main thought it was conceivably a bar to future promotion, and potential unemployment, if they advertised the fact. Medical people were a bit more relaxed, as they felt they could couch involvement in terms of preaching the health benefits from fewer clothes.

One (male) doctor intimated to me once that he’d advocated ‘going commando‘ to a female patient in her 50s, as she was plagued with thrush/candida for years. He then didn’t see her for a year and on her next visit, with an unrelated complaint, he asked about it. ‘Been going knickerless since’, was the response, ‘and never looked back. It has also put a new spring in my sex life’.

The benefits of fresh air around…all of our body…can’t be underestimated, clearly. We benefit from fresh air and sunlight. The more we expose to the open air, the more Vitamin D we get from the sun, and I remember reading a report which said that in grey, rainy, dull Britain we could all radically increase our vitamin D, in which we’re deficient as a nation, by…a bit more nudity! :-O

The sun, of course, offers its own dangers, particularly in an ozone depleted world, but the message should be ‘be careful with elongated exposure to the sun, particularly in fierce temperatures, but certainly enjoy it, as with everything else, in moderation’.


Medical professional?




Man of the cloth?



Naturists can look like anyone. Remember that. We, the naturist community, can come from all walks of life, be any shape, size, age, gender, colour, sexual orientation, religion.

When I was a teenager, in my pre-naturist days, I recall a friend playing a game with me on a High Street. ‘Try to imagine the next ten people walking by are naked and come back to me with your thoughts in a couple of minutes’. It was a bit of a head-spinner, imagining the man on a walking stick, the woman with her grandchildren, naked. As I became a naturist I subsequently learned that naturism encompassed all walks of life, all age demographics, and that British Naturism, our national body, had done a survey in which 6% of Brits had been publicly nude on holiday (even if they didn’t identify as naturist). So…if my friend had suggested me imagining the next fifteen people walking by, naked, she’d actually have statistically identified at least one admitted ‘naked in public on holiday’ person. We look like you. We look like me. We look like  one in fifteen of the next people you see on the street. Try playing this next time you’re stopped at a traffic light and the people are crossing the road while the pedestrian light is switched to green. Statistically, you’ve seen a naturist.





Ile du Levant

The Ile du Levant (The Rising Isle) is an island off the coast of France, and for many years has been a naturist haven.

Being nude is expected everywhere on the public part of the island (part of it is cordoned off as a military base), apart from the main square, where something the French refer to as ‘le minimum’ is expected to be worn. Historically, this was a pareo or bikini bottoms, more recently it has evolved into a square or triangle of material covering either male or female genitals and tied around the waist.

Cars aren’t allowed on the island, so it provides a quiet, idyllic naturist haven in the Mediterranean, situated off the coast mid-way between Marseilles and Nice.


French reporter Zita, known for her capacity to immerse herself in the ‘method’ of the various topics she covers, did a documentary for French TV a few years ago, in which she visited the Ile du Levant, considered to be the spiritual home of French naturism.

She commences her visit to the Ile du Levant at the 32’00 mark, and at the 37’00 mark the whole aspect of ‘le minimum’ is explained. (The documentary is in French, but with English subtitles for part of it)


Trine did a blog post on SL’s own, accurate version of the Ile du Levant back in August.

Having been largely offline for a good part of 2016, and then catapulted back into the editor’s chair, I have to confess I haven’t visited the Ile du Levant in SL (I have in RL) so I thought I’d rectify that situation forthwith.

Right from the tp entry point to Ile du Levant there’s a level of accuracy.



A version of le minimum is available for free (as are a set of free tanlines). And from there it gets better.

The only ‘dark spot’ on the horizon, and this isn’t Ile du Levant’s fault, it’s getting to be a pest in naturist sims, was the now usual ‘dressed male’, this time so insistent on meeting my acquaintance that (according to mini-map on the screen) he was teleporting just a little ahead of me again and again. I kept taking wild steers off the path just to avoid him 😉


He was either a non-French speaker or stupid. The sign to the beach clearly says ‘nudity obligatory’. Anyway, he got the message and departed the sim, allowing me to enjoy the lovely naturist beach and town square.




I didn’t have a lot of time to explore the sim fully, but I have to say that on first impressions this is one of the jewels in the SL naturist crown. I have to say I will be back, possibly this side of Christmas and definitely this side of the New Year, and I intend to try and make contact with the owner(s) of the sim to find out more about their hopes, dreams and plans for this delightful sim, one I’ve bookmarked as a ‘must go to’ sim on a regular basis.



That naked morning run

The run pose I referenced in a previous post reminded me that when I’m in Spain I like to go down for a swim almost at first light, when the beach is empty other than a few fellow swimmers, the night fishermen packing up their gear, an occasional dog walker and…naked joggers!

People do like to maintain a routine, even on holiday, and joggers are no exception. After a winter time pounding the noisy, smelly streets of their home town all winter, all year, what better way to start the day than with a run, naked, along a Spanish beach wearing nothing but running shoes.


This is, for a small band of early risers, part and parcel of the naturist experience, when the sun is low in the Mediterranean and it’s not too hot.

Later in the day the place of joggers will be taken by those getting their exercise ambling along at the water’s edge, but in the first hour of daylight the beach is the preserve of joggers and early morning swimmers.


Working at Christmas

As we head into the final week before Christmas, there’s all so much hustle and bustle, a lack of Christmas cheer and spirit on the roads or in shops as people make their final preparation for the Big Day. Yes, a celebration of the birth of…consumerism!

I’m not particularly religious, but I still found it odd that, right across the entire grid I could find one -one!- nativity scene to visit, and just a couple of stores where one such item could be purchased.

SL : Taking the Jesus out of virtual gameplay?

It’s the same in the shops. Barely even a card with shepherds or Three Kings on it. And while I live rurally, I had to travel into the nearest big town to us on Sunday, fighting my way through gridlocked traffic headed for the out-of-town superstores. 

It seems to me there’s no real Christmas at all for those working in shops. It’s all ‘late night shopping’, extended hours and such forth.

A brief respite on Christmas Day (and I’m guessing shops would love to open if they didn’t think their staff might mutiny!) and it’s back to more ‘sales’ from Boxing Day/St. Stephen’s Day on the 26th.

No real Christmas exists for those working in emergency services, nurses and doctors. We expect them to work, as well as those bringing us water and electricity, to ensure that we enjoy our consumer Christmas. Spare a thought for them this weekend.

Spare a thought, too, for those we increasingly read about who shouldn’t need to work, but do, as it’s in the terms of a pretty awful work contract. I can see why internet service providers may make their workers go on shift on Christmas Day, as so many Gamestations and Playboxes are sold as gifts that it’s a case of customers expecting to get expensive gifts online for children when things go wrong. But does anyone really need to phone their bank on Christmas Day? Yet many banks will have call centres open, with the grunts on the phones but their management ensuring they aren’t on rota.

Spare a thought, too, for those for whom Christmas Day will be like any other, and who form part of a food chain that ensures your table is laden come Christmas lunchtime: farmers.

Animals need fed, milked, brought in from the cold and so on, so Christmas is like any other day for them. Spare them a thought too.

Which brings us to the core of this blog entry: life on a farm at Christmas, and a juxtaposing summer, by guest columnist Jessie.


Hi. I’ll be heading home for the holidays later this week*, somewhere in Canada. Temperatures where I now live and work, in Calgary, are about freezing or a little below as I write this (Sunday 18) but further north, where I’m from, they’re about -20/-25, and promising to get lower towards Christmas. Add in wind chill and it will feel around -30 or more.

My folks report not a huge amount of snow yet, so hopefully the flight home will be OK. There’s a lot of mining goes on up where I’m from, but my Dad worked at the airport and he and Mom saved enough to buy some land and grow stuff that was previously expensively bought having been shipped in. So I grew up with a semi-farm background, and when I was young we had to help out on the farm. The long, cold winters are offset by practically 24-hour daylight in summertime.








The photos aren’t quite accurate in that we never did much livestock, the farming is more of a vegetables in greenhouses summertime crop, we do potatoes and have some poultry, but we do have some dairy cattle that needed attention daily, so it’s a pretty accurate representation to see me out in fields before daylight in Christmas Days of my youth, or in with the chickens, and probably again next Sunday. That work, the same work that needs attention the other 364 days of the year, goes on at Christmas. Despite moving away, there’s still something like magic about rising on Christmas Day and setting off to the fields with my Dad, maybe more now that he’s getting on in years and it’s a cool time to do a lot of catching up as we tend to the things requiring daily attention. Up there, that could just as easily mean digging out snow to let us reach the highway.

But hey, let’s focus on those endless summer nights! Back when we didn’t have too work too much.








During the summer recess, probably from the time we were 14-15, we’d pack a change of clothes and a sleeping bag, pool our pocket money and buy some food, get a parent to drive us up to a lake, not that far away from civilisation (maybe 20 miles from home), make a camp, build a fire, and camp out for the weekend or longer -it depended how long the food lasted. I recall it started off as ‘girls only’ camps, with a lot of skinny dipping involved at 300am. A year or two later we’d be holding communal camps with guys (they would have held separate camps when they were a bit younger too) and by this stage there was some beer, some weed and a lot more skinny dipping involved, lol. By the time I was in university, and returning home for the summer, these camps would be a week long or more as those of us who’d grown up together would catch up on our past year scattered across Canada (and beyond) in universities.

Those camp-outs are still going on, just as they went on before we were born. Some of our parents would have done the same thing in the swinging 60s. It’s part of our culture to be kayaking at 300am under a still bright sky, naked as jaybirds.


We wouldn’t have thought of ourselves as ‘naturist’, just ‘nekkid teenagers having a lot of fun’. I first skinny dipped on one of these camps, saw my first nekkid guy (and 2nd, 3rd, etc), first time I was drunk, first time I made out, first kiss, first….well, a lot more besides went on out there.

More fun than I could share. Innocent fun, a time of teen discovery in summer near the Arctic Circle. I’ll be back for Christmas, probably not anywhere near those lakes again, but remembering those times when I march out across frozen fields with my Dad, times I wouldn’t have swapped for anything. They were fun times. I may even run into some of my former party going college friends if I make it into town. Christmas morning, out in the fields, doing a little work before Christmas lunch, will be fun too. Remember those working this Christmas, those who make your brightly lit, table filled Christmas possible.



*nb Jess sent me this last weekend, but I’ve not been able to get photographs finalised until today. Hopefully she’s arrived safe and well to the bosom of her family and has a wonderful Canadian Christmas. Thanks, Jess, I enjoyed reading this winter/summer juxtaposition greatly.

nnb: Jess supplied the text, while I had some of our regular models do the various poses.



Chasing off teenage tearaways in nothing but a trench coat.

One of the reasons I no longer live in London is that I grew up in a fairly leafy part of west London, a part now very much home to well-heeled media types, television presenters and the like. We weren’t ‘well heeled’ as such, my parents just happened to buy at a time when real Londoners could afford to live in London, before relatively rich media types could afford to buy up properties and force the real Londoners out (mostly in the direction of Essex), easily capable of inflating house costs and pricing locals out.

When Mr. Keng and I first got together there was no way we could afford to live in that part of the city, so we moved to a fairly gritty, grimy and alien (to me) part of north London, almost as big a culture shock as if I’d moved to, say, Baltimore or Alice Springs. You recognise the language, but not much else.

In a flat that was broken into twice in the first eight months we were there, every teenage hoodlum saw crime as their only earning potential (that or dealing drugs).


Early one morning we were awoken to the sound of a great commotion, a car alarm go off and as we got up to see what was the source of the noise at 500am on a Sunday morning, saw one of our neighbours running down the street after a couple of teenage tearaways attempting to steal his car.

Car theft was nothing unique in that area, but seeing a man dressed only in a trench coat and boots chasing after them was, even for London, a strange sight.

I saw that Carson, who blogs for Fab Free, blogged a trench coat from American Bazaar a few days ago, free at Hoorenbeek (there’s also a ladies version, buttoned up and less revealing) (no group join fee). SL had to replicate RL, yet again!

One model, one L$1 running pose from the Marketplace, and a couple of days for our model to set the scene up, and here’s a replication of that sight from many years ago.

We didn’t live there long after that, and the die was cast. We’d move further north where, for the price of a London terraced house, we could afford a detached house with almost an acre of woodland and garden around it.

Incidentally, Love has subsequently blogged the female version of the same outfit.