As most touring riders will readily attest, there comes a time in a riding day when you just want to find a place to stop for the night. In France or Italy in peak season, if I’m staying in a hotel I never want to let it get much past 5 pm before I start looking; there’s just too much risk of finding everywhere booked.
With campsites, I like to find a place by 6.30; this gives you a chance at finding a place to pitch your tent, put it up in daylight, and enjoy a beer or two before dinner.
I’ve been lucky so far – never had to ride all night for want of a place to sleep. On the Wednesday of our Stelvio adventure, we picked up the autostrada at Merano and headed south, hoping to get as close as we could to Florence by day’s end.
Looking at the map, somewhere around Bologna seemed to make sense. Bologna is a large city, and highly industrialised, so taking the first exit after the city didn’t pan out – we were still pretty much in the heart of industrial Italy. So we carried on for an exit or two until we reached what looked to be more rural, and eased off the highway.
We were soon rewarded by a sign for a campsite, with a name in Italian, and gratefully headed in that direction. It was getting late by our standards, maybe 7 o’clock. After several kilometres without further signage, we asked a mechanic at a garage who told us to continue for about five kilometres, past a municipal dump and a car breaker’s yard.
Eventually we found another camping sign, which seemed to carry a different name but I couldn’t really tell, and the international tee-pee symbol was clear, so we headed off to the right as indicated. We travelled underneath the autostrada, past piles of rubble and the sort of detritus you find in such places, and along a dirt road for about 2 km.
The sign back on the main road came back to my mind. What had it said? Camping Naturista? Sounded like a nudist camp, I suggested to Peter as we rode along. And then there it was, a campsite with Naturista over the gates, which were shut and shielded with bamboo. It was getting late now and we just wanted a place to pitch our tent, enjoy cold beer and a decent meal, so Peter pushed the bell and explained our needs to the man who answered.
He duly arrived, fully clothed, and explained that this was indeed a nudist campsite. We were welcome to stay if we didn’t mind seeing lots of naked people, and if we were “serious people” and not just voyeurs. No, he said, no one would be upset if we didn’t get naked too. And yes, they had a bar and a restaurant on site. Sounded good.
We were led to a large pitch among the trees with ample room for bike and tent. Our host explained that people generally wore clothes while eating at the restaurant, but that you had to be nude to use the swimming pool. He left us to pitch our tent and wandered back to the clubhouse.
One thing I like to take on tour is a hammer for the tent pegs in case the ground is too hard for using just a handy rock, but invariably there’s not enough room and it gets left at home. The ground here was way too hard for the rock we found, and we quickly bent about six pegs.
Then a voice from the guy with a caravan on the adjacent pitch offered us a mallet, which solved the problem instantly. He was, naturally, not wearing more than a T-shirt and a smile, but hey… One of the great advantages of a nudist camp is that changing is so much easier: you can just strip off your biking gear and put on shorts and a clean T-shirt and head for the bar, without any of the usual faffing about changing in the tent or the shower room.
The bar and restaurant area were shaded by trees and looked out over a beautiful valley, and apart from the birds the place was totally tranquil. We drank our beer, ordered our food and looked around for naked people – of which there were none. Dinner was an excellent spaghetti Bolognese, with great wine, and we stayed up sipping ameretto and discussing the Brexit result with an interesting Dutchman.
The outside showers were great and it was super-convenient not having to get dressed again before heading back to the tent. When in Rome… Next morning we duly used the pool sans costume in accordance with local etiquette, and it felt great to work out the kinks after three full days in the saddle. We dressed for breakfast, only to be served by a waiter wearing nothing but a big smile. The service was excellent, as was the food. A couple of men lounged around in the buff, reading the paper and drinking coffee, which all seemed perfectly natural by now.
All in all, our nudist campsite was a great experience, not least because the site was both beautiful and secluded. Everyone was very friendly and welcoming, even though we were not traditional clients. For the avoidance of doubt here, by the way, the photo accompanying this blog was snapped along the way and is not the nudist camp; we decided that this was one part of our trip that couldn’t really be photographed. I didn’t know whether to be reassured or disappointed that the naturists we saw were, shall we say, older and chubbier than the Hollywood norm; this was not the place to ogle physical perfection, male or female. It was, you might say, a revelation on many levels.