Fleshpots of Yorkshire

"Spot the Nudist" was not really very challenging.

It was a game that a group of us in our later-teenage years had thought up on one of our reasonably regular, summer months only, trips out to Fraisthorpe Beach, just to the south of Bridlington on the East Yorkshire Coast.

A few of our number had successfully negotiated their driving test and if parents were trusting we could usually rustle up a small convoy of vehicles to take us the 15 miles or so from our home town.

Fraisthorpe village was nothing more than a small cluster of cottages and farmsteads and with the construction of a new, wide and straight main road to allow the population of industrial West Yorkshire to get to Bridlington before the sun went in the residents had been well and truly by-passed.

Before even reaching the back road to the hamlet there was a single track lane signposted for the beach and after a few twists and turns between raised verges and high hedges there came into sight the grassy hillocks that formed the soft boulder clay cliffs of this particular part of the North Sea coast.

At this point there was no view of the sea although with car windows down and the cassette players muted there was the reassuring and evocative sound of the waves rolling up the shore. We would spill out of our cramped transport, stretch and scratch a bit (male contingent only) and then delegate who would carry the barbecue, charcoal, utensils, breadcakes, burgers, sausages and condiments down onto the sand where we would establish a base camp for the activities of the day.

It was a popular spot especially on those rare occasions when the gales abated and the sun broke through the cloud cover. There were a few camper vans, hitched up touring caravans and large family gatherings behind brightly coloured windbreaks with screaming children showing frustration at having to wait an hour after eating their sandwiches and crisps before even thinking about the prospect of paddling to just below the knee in the icy ocean waters.

The beach formed a continuation of the majestic Bridlington Bay, an expansive crescent running from the high, white chalk cliffs of Flamborough topped with its functioning lighthouse all the way down to the low. muddy and rapidly receding Holderness coastline. It must have been on a shortlist in some Reichstag filing cabinet for possible invasion use by the Nazis because of its shallow inshore waters and shelved sandy beach and this had been second guessed by British Intelligence based on the number of large reinforced concrete tank traps strewn about. These were largely in a very sorry state from decades of attack by salt spray and winter storms being either burst and fractured or listing seriously. The very presence of such ugly obstacles probably cost Fraisthorpe an otherwise wholly justified classification as one of Britain's Best Beaches. They were just too massive to realistically and economically do anything to remove them. A few young holidaymakers fell off them every year after being told not to go near them and would have to make their way to local Accident and Emergency Departments which again would score low in any tourist amenity ratings.

We were not there for anything strenuous such as swimming, playing cricket or rounders or just digging sandcastles, after all we were teenagers and a barbecue with illicit alcohol was infinitely more interesting a prospect.

It was whilst lounging about that we devised the game of spotting the nudists, or to give them their proper name, Naturists.

I should state that those being the focus of attention of the game were not already naked and in view which would have, as I said, not been much of a challenge but could be anyone walking along the sands in a southerly direction because just farther along but at a discreet distance was the nude bathing area.

On the basis of our own essential research into this strange practice especially in what was definitelty a northerly climate the main participants tended to be a) hippy types, of both sexes and of a certain age who just didn't seem to care about showing off their ample bodies and b) lithe, tanned and healthy looking elderly men.

This latter category of naturist was one that we considered top points earner in our little game.

They were easy to spot. In addition to the aforementioned characteristics the men veritably skipped along the sands in short shorts and already bared chests and sporting nothing more than a small bum-bag, the contents of which we did not even want to contemplate.

We could spend hours on the game, inbetween drinking a lot of cheap cider and lager and scoffing half cooked or carcinogenically blackened objects, which had started off as a burger or a sausage.

The game seemed to us to get funnier and funnier as the alcohol flowed but looking back it is one of those memories that makes you cringe. The naked truth is always hard to face.