Stephen Bleach, of The Sunday Times, was named Travel writer of the year at the British Press Awards on Wednesday, March 18, 2004. Below is an example of the fine travel writing that so impressed the judges

This article will not be full of cheap gags and smutty innuendo. As my editor said when I was given this assignment: “Hmm, nudism. It’s a sticky subject, Steve. It’s going to need careful handling.”

Damn.

Okay, there will be the occasional cheap gag, and smutty innuendo will creep in now and again. But there’s also a good, timely reason to look at nakedness. Because the fact is that nudism — or naturism, as the aficionados would have it — is suddenly starting to make sense.

Whether or not you believe in global warming, it’s indisputable that our summers are getting longer, hotter and more uncomfortable. In the recent record-breaking heat wave, the nation struggled to keep the temperature down: stores were emptied of fans, hoses and air conditioners by sweaty hordes of desperate shoppers, and newspapers were filled with complicated tips to avoid heatstroke. But nobody seemed to mention the obvious option: Why not take all your clothes off?

My wife, Jaqui, and I decided to give it a try. What could be better, while the rest of the country sizzled and seethed in its suits and ties, than to cast aside those constraining trappings of civilisation and run, bare and free, through the Hampshire countryside, the wind ruffling our hair ... all of our hair?

Which is how we came to be at the gate of the discreetly titled, discreetly located South Hants Country Club. It calls itself a naturist resort: well, that’s as may be, but in the brochure, it looked to us to be exactly what we were looking for — a nudist camp, a proper, traditional, British nudist camp, the sort they used to have in Carry On films. You could almost hear the ghost of Sid James chuckling fruitily as the breasts bounced across the volleyball court.

For understandable reasons, it makes itself very inconspicuous: tucked away down a tiny lane, off a minor road, without even a nameplate to identify itself. It was late when we arrived, and we picked up our key (from a fully clothed receptionist) and made our way to our spacious caravan without encountering a single naked person. I was a little disappointed: but it had been a long, jam-filled drive, and we turned in.

We woke up late the next morning, and I made tea. Then I made breakfast. Then I made more tea. Then I tidied up (though, with hardly any clothes packed, we hadn’t been able to make much of a mess). Then I made even more tea.

“Something bothering you?” asked Jaqui.

It was. It may sound a little ingenuous, but I hadn’t considered it before. Going naked in front of a large number of strangers is, well, challenging for both sexes, but we’d psyched ourselves up and reckoned we were prepared for the embarrassment. However, it had just occurred to me that it presents a special problem for men.

“What if there’s someone really attractive out there?” I wailed. “What am I supposed to do?”

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