M y wife is swimming naked off the Croatian island of Krk on a warm Adriatic evening. With a mermaid swish she turns tail and dives deep, her behind highlighted by a halo of phosphorescence. She breaststrokes back to the beach bar through the inky ether then orders an Osjecka beer. Part of our reason for being here is to check out the purported health benefits of nude holidays — even the British Heart Foundation has been promoting skinny-dipping this year.
Another part is to understand why Swedes, Germans and Italians bare all for months at a time in a sun-kissed Croatian Eden — while we Brits are more likely to cower behind a towel. The first outing from our mobile home comes as a shock to these British sensibilities.
Our European cousins seem totally at ease. We dive in. Bream dart between our toes as seawater swish-swashes about our bits and bobs.
We proudly parade back to our accommodation, letting it all hang out. It comes with small recyclable bottles of detergent and aftersun, a citronella candle and enough tableware to let us set out a mini-market feast of Dalmatian prosciutto and island cherries. The price includes a private terrace with loungers, outdoor dining table and — oddly — a clothes horse. We watch as a long-haired paddleboarder glides across the water.
I ask to borrow his board — just two naked men having a normal conversation — and for a few hours it becomes our HMS Buck Naked; a snorkel station, diving board and floating sunlounger in one. My wife spends the afternoon munching bakery-bought apple pastries while lolling in and out of the shallows like a manatee her words. The scene at the resort is overwhelmingly body positive — games of table tennis and yoga sessions reveal vast expanses of flesh, and nobody cares.
