Steve Canavan: Meeting Prince Albert and other old men of Coniston

I’m off work and have headed to the Lake District for a break, to get some fresh air, enjoy the stunning scenery, and pay outrageous prices for a cappuccino and ham sandwich.

Actually you can’t get a ham sandwich these days.

I ordered one in a café and the waitress said ‘what bread would you like your ham on? We’ve sourdough, rye, walnut cob or focaccia’.

I squinted at her as if she were speaking to me in Spanish. I mean, the last one sounds like an unpleasant condition (‘Well Mr Canavan, I’m afraid we’ve got the results of the scan and it’s bad news – your lower intestine is riddled with focaccia’).

“Erm, have you got,” I hesitantly enquired, “just, you know, some plain brown bread?”

‘Well, we’ve wholemeal spelt, will that do?’ the girl said.

“I know how you spell wholemeal, but yes, thank you, that’s fine,” I responded.

She gave me a funny look and walked away chunnering.

Anyway minor food frustration aside I’m having a great time, the highlight of which was something that happened while I was on a 16-mile ramble around Coniston.

It was a dismal day (it’s July in the UK, of course it was dismal), an unpleasant rain was steadily falling and there was a chilly wind.

My friend and I were in the act of having a vigorous debate about whether Lake Windermere was actually a lake (I said it was; I was wrong. Of the 16 lakes in the Lake District, only one – Bassenthwaite – is officially a Lake; the others are meres or waters … who said this column wasn’t a fascinating read?)

Then walking towards us we saw a woman, who looked – and I’m not being nasty here – like she’d been in a fight.

She was about 70, walked with a heavy limp, and was wearing – in the pouring rain – a drenched jumper, and grey jogging bottoms covered in mud.

I was about to enquire whether she was Ok – I was genuinely worried about her – but she got in first and said, in conspiratorial manner, ‘just to warn you…’

In my head, such was the state of her, I genuinely thought she was about to say there was a bull loose in a field and she’d just been near-fatally attacked.

Instead she said, ‘there’s a group of naturists up ahead’.

My mate and I took a moment to comprehend this statement.

“Naturists as in nudes?” I asked, as if there might somehow be another kind of naturist.

“Yes,” she said. “Ten of them. In fact I’m one of them but it was too cold so I’ve put my clothes on. Oh, here comes my husband now.’

My friend and I turned to see an elderly gentleman lumbering slowly our way, wearing a long overcoat, unbuttoned, a flat cap, and absolutely nothing else (I was intrigued by the flat cap; I mean it’s odd he’s concerned about keeping his head dry when his other, many may say, more important bits are getting saturated).

On closer inspection this gentleman had what my friend later told me was a Prince Albert – a phrase I’d never before heard and had to google. I’m not sure how to describe a Prince Albert in a family newspaper, other than to say it involves a piercing and ring in a place where most folk of sound mind would really not want to have a piercing and ring.

“Hello,” I said cheerily, attempting to act as normal as you can when you’re on a remote Lake District fell and talking to a man with no pants on, testicles casually flapping in the breeze.

He wasn’t the talkative type, grunting something in our direction that judging by his miserable expression was two words, the second one being off. Mind you, I’d be miserable too if I were walking in the rain with nowt on.

We left our new friends and continued walking, slightly startled at the turn of events but in a good way. A long walk in miserable conditions had just been considerably enlivened.

“Surely there can’t be more of them,” I said to my mate. “Not in this weather.”

I was wrong.

Moments later eight figures came into view, slowly edging their way down a fell. Either they were all wearing matching flesh-coloured outfits or they too were sans clothing.

“Brace yourself,” I said to my friend, as if aboard a plane about to crash.

This group were clearly more hardcore than the first, for they were completely nude, barring their rucksacks (that’s not a euphemism).

The leader was a youngish girl, about 30, who stood out because her fellow naturalists were on the older side (let’s just say she was the only one who didn’t experience VE Day first-hand).

Now I like to converse with everyone I meet on the hills, so obviously I got into conversation.

I asked – because I was genuinely interested - why they did it. The young girl, who, I noted, was quite cold, said for her it was about body confidence.

“But what about the first time you did it,” I said looking at one of the blokes, “it must have been hard ... so to speak.”

No one laughed.

“Not at all,” he replied. “Everyone is so accepting.”

They were all very nice and we had a pleasant five-minute conversation, during which I have never concentrated so much in my life at maintaining eye contact.

It turned out they had been for a swim in a tarn and were now heading back to Coniston. I didn’t enquire at what point they were going to pop their clothes back on but I sincerely hope it was before they stopped at Tesco Express to buy milk.

My personal view is that naturism is an odd thing to be into – I mean trousers were invented for a reason – and odder still on a freezing cold day. But that said I’m a great believer in each to their own and if that’s what you enjoy, then who am I to question?

I’ve since been on the British Naturism website and discovered it is £45 to become a member (allowing you to, ahem, display your member) and gives you some great benefits, such as an invitation to the Mill Arms in Hampshire on Friday August 14th when there’s a naked dinner and, intriguingly, according to the website ‘two skittle alleys will be set up for us’. It adds, ‘it will be possible to be naked throughout the event. All you’ll need to bring is your towel and money for drinks.’ Where they put the loose change is not answered.

The main website shows a picture of a very happy-looking naked woman coming down a waterslide, near the words ‘when you shed your clothes you also shed just a few of the burdens of everyday life’ … which is all very well, though I’m not sure how the lads would react if I turn up at work next week au naturel.

It has been the highlight of my week in the Lakes so far. Must dash now as I’m off to eat some focaccia, fully clothed.