For Discerning Ladies, Gentlemen & Couples . . .

“Yo’way too sexy fer Key West, Ma’am”...croaked the old timer.

My wife looked mildly stunned. Was this a compliment or was she about to be run out of town?

Carol wore shorts and a bikini top. Nothing remotely questionable by European standards, but this was the southernmost point in the US, further than the deep south states of Texas and Alabama, where religious and archaic values still gripped some God-fearing folk. I watched the man shuffle off to confront a thousand other transgressions he didn’t much care for. “Friendly, neighbourhood advice.” I concluded.

The beach was no more than a dozen yards away. On these islands (or Keys), linked by a fantastic road, the US1 (South Dixie Highway), the sea rarely seemed more than yards away. Here people relax, fish, and play, largely uninterrupted by the Sheriff, his deputies, or those upholding moral fortitude on a voluntary basis. Officially it was winter. California was suffering record rainfall, the Rockies were blanketed in snow and expected another six inches. But in southern Florida a stifling 32° C (90° F) prevailed. The old timer could keep his advice. We would not be alone in ignoring it.

From our base in Homestead, half way between Miami and Key Largo, the three hour drive to Key West had seemed daunting but irresistible. It was my first time driving any distance in the States. The hire car was unfamiliar and an automatic but at once inspired my affections. (Except for the occasion my redundant left foot went for the brake like it was a clutch pedal, bringing us to a rather dramatic stop!) Air-conditioning on, cruise control set, and the radio tuned to a passable country music station (there wasn’t a lot of choice), we had headed as far south as the long road would take us.

About halfway we pulled in at a roadside eating house and biker’s bar. It was straight out of the movies. We had a char-grilled chicken sandwich ‘blackened’, and split two ways. It was delicious, ample and reasonably priced. To allay the effects of jet lag we knocked back two Red Bulls (high caffeine energy drinks), but there was really no danger of falling asleep at the wheel, immersed as we were in the colour and vitality of the day.

Driving there had been akin to entering a carnival parade. Oversize 4x4s, all chrome and rubber, trundled beside us. Gangs of Harley Davidsons in stately procession led the way. Their middle-aged pilots were all grey hair in the wind, seats tilted back, arms high on raised handlebars, and, no doubt, a pleasing blast of air up their trouser legs. Not least on show were their bronzed and blonde womenfolk riding pillion, liberated from household chores and suburban respectability. Our PT Cruiser – a modern ‘retro’ design loosely based on hot-rods of the fifties – looked the business too. Yet, no one seemed in much of a hurry, least of all the pelicans, storks, or numerous other birds gliding effortlessly across a cloudless blue sky.

Reaching the end of US1, Key West couldn’t – and didn’t – live up to expectations. True it had charm by the bucket-load but, to my mind, charm shouldn’t come in a bucket, ‘less is sometimes more’. It was colourful; it was tourism in a bottle. But growing old there could have seen something of the disagreeable, even barking-mad, creeping into my psyche. Would I have chastised harmless tourists for their dress sense, or started a bar room brawl? I’ll never know, but something rattled me – like a bad tie on a good suit. While better men had thought differently - Ernest Hemingway once made his home there – I doubted even their ghosts remained. We pressed on.

With one road in and one road out, the many places we had passed earlier deserved closer inspection. Despite being enticingly near there were relatively few opportunities to dip a toe in the sea, unless you were a guest of the hotel, resort, or restaurant built around it. People fished from bridges; boat yards, residential areas and businesses monopolised much of the remaining geography. State parks provided parking and points of interest at modest fees. Bahia Honda has a popular beach too. But it’s odd how quickly the conservative American attitude took hold of me. When a woman lowered the straps of her bikini top – nothing more, I hasten to add – I was momentarily shocked. It was no surprise to discover she wasn’t American at all but French.

A few miles further on revealed Anne’s Beach, a gem of peaceful reflection, with a gently sloping shore and free parking. Nonetheless, this is not a place for bared flesh either; a parked State Patrol car, with handcuffs clearly visible through the windscreen, reinforced our sense of propriety.

The Keys were immensely atmospheric and enjoyable but we soon felt a pressing need for privacy, time to relax and soak up some sun. Which, little did we realise, was also the mission in life of Florida’s most notable inhabitants.

If you’d really rather not see them – alligators that is – take heart, a friend of ours claims she toured The Everglades for two weeks and never saw one. Odd really considering she was an eagle-eyed customs officer by profession. For the duration of our visit, Florida closely resembled reptile soup. We spotted our first within forty-five minutes of leaving Homestead. (In fact, had we known it, there were plenty on the doorstep).

Suffering the vagaries of a British climate (or worse), makes travel a necessity for naturists. But merely relocating from a sun-bed in one part of the world to a sun-bed in another is unhealthy and pretty unimaginative. Florida offers so much more. While snorkelling amongst the mangroves and coming face to face with a barracuda isn’t going to be everyone’s cup of tea, it is still an immensely rewarding experience to get so close to nature. There were hammerhead sharks, tarpon, sea lions, parrot fish and manatees to see, and we saw them all in the wild. Although not indigenous to Florida, iguanas roam freely in Matheson Hammock Park, just south of Miami. Key Largo’s John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park is a perfect family day out - in fact, you could spend a week there. When we finally arrived at Haulover naturist beach we had earned those hours of doing absolutely nothing in the sun. And this is a magnificent place for doing absolutely nothing.

Predictably, the ‘clothing optional’ section is confined to one end - the north end. If coming from Miami don’t take the first car park for Haulover if you mind walking. The second car park, on the other side of the road, is far more convenient and brings you almost immediately to it, via a subway.

The beach was clean and inviting. Having recently made a return to acting, my wife promptly produced a script and began learning her lines. I dozed fitfully, totally forgetting that my bottom hadn’t seen the light of day in months, let alone the full force of Florida’s noonday sun. When I awoke it was in the certain knowledge that I had done something rather foolish. Next day, quite unfit for further sunbathing, I concealed my painfully pink behind in the most loose-fitting shorts I could find. It was back to the flora and fauna for me. Although I hit the trail with the distinct gait of a cowboy - John Wayne at his best and most saddle-sore.

Southern Florida isn’t ideal for freestyle naturism and it has only one officially recognised public naturist beach, at Haulover. South Beach, often mentioned in naturist circles, only tolerates topless sunbathing, and no topless examples were evident on our visit. I’ve also heard tell of several private clubs. Naturism beyond these bounds is rendered pretty much impractical by landscape (never more than three feet above sea level) state law, alligators, and mosquitoes. Nonetheless, Haulover must rate as one of the best of its kind.

Sadly, our final day was marred by a robbery.

We returned to our hotel room to find my case, packed the night before for departure, had been stolen. Fortunately, it contained nothing of great value (we always keep currency, passports etc. on us or in the safe). But the loss of my best walking boots, a new pair of Levis and all the film I had shot of the trip, had me grief-stricken.

Down in reception at the Days Inn motel I was dumbfounded by the apathy I encountered. My loss seemed to surprise no one. But yes my broken case had been found, in another room, whose occupants had vacated. Desperately relieved I recovered most of the film and my new jeans too, but someone had taken a shine (excuse the pun) to a pair of size 10 Timberland boots. We called the police.

Officer Grady (yes, that was his real name) and his partner were far larger than any policemen I’d seen in my life – certainly in England. They were both as tall as me – a good 6’ 3” – but were two or three times my size. Full of buns and doughnuts, they managed to deduce the obvious - that the maid must have left the door open while servicing our room - but I knew that was as far as things were going to go. These guys were good for the paperwork, I thought, but not up to the car chase.

On our return to England I expressed my concerns to the Days Inn hotel management and their head office. To date they refuse to accept any responsibility for the custody of client property, even when directly caused by the negligence of their staff.

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