We’re in Negril, Jamaica. In a place called ‘7 mile beach’. I really don’t have to explain why its called that. If we walk 5 miles along the beach, we’re in Negril. Big town. 34 people live there. But its not about the town (which is why we haven’t bothered going there), its about the beach. Because in the 5 miles that we have walked numerous times, there is not one stone. Not one seashell. No seaweed, no leaves from the trees. Nuffink. Just soft, golden sand. So perfect that it actually takes a week before you realise that you are on one of nature’s places of perfection. Nothing to step on other than sand. And the wasp that Mel managed the other day, but you can’t blame the beach for that; it was God’s will.
If you go 2 miles in the other direction, the beach ends, it peters out. And the last half mile is not nice, sand-wise. Bit gritty for my spoilt feet. Bit rough. Not as pretty. Its only accessible through a guarded gate. The only way to enter…
Willy Beach.
Its actually a resort called ‘Hedonism’ (it really is, I kid you not). And its a naturist beach. So we entered. Fully clothed. Well, a swimsuit between us. Because we wanted to find if we could get beyond Hedonism to further up the coast. Honest. Which you can’t.
I have no issue with naturism. Just with the type of people who pursue it. Walking round with your dick hanging out in public is, for me, anything but natural. And oddly, a woman in a bikini is a glorious thing (or can be), whereas a naked 60-year old with varicose veins and weight issues, is not. Not ever. Its horrid mummy, make it go away. What was most odd though was that all these fat, old, wrinkled, saggy Germans (surely they were Germans; ALL nudists are German) spoke with American accents. Bizarre.
We fly home today. And arrive back early tomorrow. Which is Tuesday. I hope. Because on Wednesday we fly to Tel Aviv. More later. Much, much later, whatever fucking time-zone I might be in.
Happy Days
A xxxx
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