Wrinkly bottoms, floppy bosoms, wobbly tummies and nether regions that should really be never regions - there they all were for me to enjoy without embarassment. Yes, I did it: I finally went starkers in front of naked strangers.

Before the juicy details, first a bit of background. In preparing for this boating adventure I had read all sorts of books on France, some boating-oriented, others more general travel tomes. One, the name of which escapes me, was written by a man who set off to experience 'Cliched France', aiming to try everything from frogs' legs and snails to visiting Monet's lily pond and going on a wine tour, with much more besides. He also included a visit to France's reputed premiere naturist resort at Cap D'Agde. So I can partly blame him for this.

Being unclothed in front of other people isn't unusual for me - we did after all have a spa pool when in Wellington, and we often shared it with friends who were quite happy to soak au naturel, so the concept isn't alien. However, there's a bit of a leap from being naked with friends to baring all in front of dozens if not hundreds of others.

Have you ever had a dream in which you were stark naked, yet nobody else was, and it slowly dawns on you that maybe you shouldn't be, but there's nothing you can do about it? No? Maybe it's just me then, but I often wondered what it would be like, except in this case everyone would be sans clothes.

Cap D'Agde, as it transpired, is not far from the eastern entry to the Canal du Midi, that famed stretch of water on which we've been cruising for the past couple of months. So, with me being in Marseillan with the boat while Liz headed back to the UK for half-term, to lend support to Yasmin for her A-levels and to go and look at apartments for us to buy, I decided to keep an eye on the weather for the right day to go and experience Cap D'Agde for myself. Yesterday the day arrived.

The forecast was for about 27 degrees, sunshine, blue skies... perfect for getting your kit off. I had been working on my tan in between working on the boat over the past week, but of course there were bits of me that hadn't seen the sun, so I was conscious that I would stand out, as it were, as a newbie. Still, nothing ventured, etc, so I set off on the bike, with the usual beachy things in a bag: towel, sunblock, hat, bottle of water. The only thing I didn't have with me, as I wouldn't be needing them, were bathers/swimsuit/togs, cozzie (depending on where you're from).

It took me two sweltering hours to finally track down the location (Liz had taken the TomTom to the UK), but gaining entry was slowed further by a queue of others all wanting access, having decided the weather was just too good not to. This line included five really tall young Dutch men, fit, healthy, full of the joys, etc. I hate being surrounded by tall people, it always makes me feel claustrophobic. And extra short.

I looked at the others in the queue and tried to imagine them naked. I wondered if I would recognise any of them later without their clothes on, and decided probably not, except for the Dutch men who would undoubtedly stay en groupe. I also assumed they would be parading around without inhibitions and put the rest of us mere males to shame. I would find out within the hour...

Meanwhile the queue moved interminably slowly, but finally I paid my eight Euros and gained access to the undercover world of naturism. Or rather the uncovered world. I entered the gate. Gate? Entered? Actually it's difficult to tell that you're in, because the scruffy entrance - almost just a hole in a concrete wall - just leads into a car park, bordered by a row of downmarket shops, salons and real estate agents. (Imagine walking naked into an estate agents' and saying, 'I'm looking for something a bit bigger...')

As the author of the French cliche book had warned, there is nowhere to get undressed, no changing rooms, not even a designated area off to one side where you might be able to pack your clothes into your bag. It was nothing more than a car park, and didn't make me feel like shedding anything, other than maybe a tear. Eight Euros for this?

Other people had entered, and they walked confidently and fully-clothed into the complex, so I followed, slowly, on my bike. I saw more people, all also wearing clothes, and then finally I spotted a naked man. Aged about 75, he was starkers, tanned, lean and totally unashamed.

Then I noticed the erection. It was a building that was past its use-by date, which expired around 1980, but used to be the centrepiece for the naturist village - a semi-circular tiered escarpment of apartments. To say it was reminiscent of a Roman colosseum would be too kind; it looked more like something out of Thunderbirds, and had the garden in front slid back to reveal a rocket launch pad I wouldn't have been surprised. But it was faded and dowdy, and - although I didn't know it at that point - was to set the scene for the rest of the village.

I rode on, the bike's wheels bumping over the potholes in the roads, Everywhere there were parked cars, and car parks. Vehicles constantly moved around, some of them commercial vans, interspersed with the odd golf buggy. Drivers and passengers all seemed to fully-clothed, and I was beginning to wonder if the sole naked man was just that; maybe he was the only one. Or maybe he had Alzheimer's and had forgotten to get dressed. I certainly wasn't ready to strip off quite yet... I wanted to know I'd be in good company. I rode on some more, negotiating the narrow roads looking for nudity, wondering whether those who were clothed could be charged with 'decent exposure'.

Slowly, I did eventually see more flesh as I got deeper into the village... couples, individuals, some starkers, others partly clothed. It seemed common that where a couple walked together the man would be naked while the woman would more often than not wear something, even if only a sarong. The man just wore a smile.

But this was hardly a nudist paradise. As well, the general air of the village was one of dowdiness. Apart from the potholed roads, many of the buildings housing 'clubs' and bars looked like they had been transplanted from the worst of England's suburban commercial areas. Even the establishments' names seemed drab. Why wasn't there a club called Willy's?

And many were still closed and boarded up, presumably because, despite the sunshine and 27 degrees, the season hadn't properly started yet. July and August are peak season - or, in a naughty nudist sense - peek season.

Which brings me to perving. Let's face it, no matter how you package the concept of naturism, nudity is about naked people being with and almost certainly looking at other naked people, isn't it? Not necessarily in a nasty or evil way, but if you're going to get your gear off with other people, wouldn't you expect them to check you out, at least peripherally? Wouldn't they accept you'd do the same? So yes, I reckon there is an element of perving in all this, though done furtively. I shall call it furving, and it falls into a category slightly above unacceptable, though not fully-endorsed. Anyway, in a naturist village you can't be accused of undressing someone with your eyes can you?

I am unashamed to admit I furved my way around the Cap D'Agde naturist village - thank heavens for dark glasses - and, if you like, compared notes. I wanted to know how I stood in the naked body stakes, and what better opportunity than this to conduct a survey. Or 'furvey' perhaps. I am pleased to report I stand up quite well, though of course am not a hardened nudist and cannot really call this extensive research.

Now I was hot. I had ridden two hours to get here and was still in shorts and shirt, so I decided to head for the beach where I felt sure I could finally shed my clothes. Sure enough, the closer I got to the sea the more naked flesh came my way, all shapes and sizes. And suddenly there it was... the Med, and a long white sandy beach, peppered with bronzed and not-so bronzed bodies. I parked my bike, dropped my shorts, ditched my shirt, removed underwear as elegantly as I could, praying not to get a foot caught in my undies and topple face-down into the sand. I didn't, and next thing I was naked. Just like that, no fuss, no bother, and no need for a Mr Bean-style undressing where you hope nobody is looking. Because I got the impression nobody was looking, but maybe they were all expert furvers and hid it well.

And so I strode my manly way onto the beach, looking for a spot that wouldn't crowd anyone else, which I found, since the beach wasn't exactly cheek-to-cheek. (Hope you're enjoying the veiled references - keep a score). I laid out my towel, lay down and contemplated the scene.

To my left, and nearest of all, was a couple in their 60s I'd guess, lying on sunbeds. They were nude, and brown. They didn't stir, and could have been dead. Almost straight ahead was another couple, this time in their 20s and lying on towels. He was quite tanned, but she was peaches-and-cream, which made me feel better. (Not because she was in her 20s and naked, but because she was paler than me. Although...)

In the distance towards the waves, a group of seriously brown people, male and female, stood around talking animatedly. But further to my left was a couple who epitomised everyone's vision of nudism: thirty-somethings, he tall and genuinely handsome, she slim and with fine features (no, I'm not going to list them!), and, importantly, both a deep, deep brown; not a stripe, not a strap mark. The sun had Access All Areas, including it seemed where the sun don't shine. If a paint company wanted to trademark their colour it would be called Black Walnut. Suddenly I felt pink, whereas until then I'd been doing okay. This was a couple who seriously practised Faire du Bronzage Integrale, as sunbathing is known in French. I was just Fair.

Seeing these two woke me up to the importance of sunblock, especially as I was now displaying bits of me that don't usually get to see the sun, and so I liberally began applying some SPF. But picture this, there I am, starkers, rubbing sun cream on - well, use your imagination - trying not to arouse... attention. I managed it, and spread sunblock liberally on my bum too, but not being double-jointed I couldn't do my back, at least not the centre of it. However, I wasn't about to ask a stranger in my halting French to rub sunscreen on my 'dos'. I suspect I will pay for this.

I then noticed the 20-somethings were also applying sunblock, or rather she was rubbing it on his chest and tummy, and then - luckily out of my line if sight - lower down. I thought, lucky man. That was the only time I ever got close to being embarrassed. The rest of the time it all felt completely natural, I guess just how it's supposed to feel. I wondered if maybe she was the one to put some on my back and thought about asking her, but couldn't rise to the occasion.

I didn't recognise any of those who had lined up with me to pay the entry fee, except for the high Hollanders, who came strolling as a group along the water's edge, wearing... shorts. All of them. Hah! Come on guys, I thought, what are you ashamed of? And it actually did seem a bit unfair, because they had presumably paid to come in and do a bit of real perving while depriving everyone else of the opportunity. There should be a referee or something. They certainly deserved a red card.

I walked through the waves a bit and felt very comfortable as those who strolled by were all starkers too, though there were some sights, I can tell you. Such as the woman of ample chest who had so many nipple piercings, including completely covered areolas, that she looked like she was wearing two bouncing medallions. I can only imagine the pain. I can only imagine her explanations every time she walked through airport security and set the alarms off. 'What? You want to see my boobs?'

There were families, mostly the kids young enough that they wouldn't look out of place naked on an ordinary beach, being anywhere between a babe in arms and about six, though there were a few exceptions. Like the adults, the kids seemed very much at home, and all just getting along fine.

(Just as an aside, if a nudist couple argues, could it be said they're just airing their differences?)

Having increased my comfort level I decided to retrieve my bike and ride back through the village to where I'd seen some cafes and bars to find some lunch. It didn't seem worth getting dressed, so, for the first time in my life, I rode a bike naked. Far from being liberating, I can reveal that you stick to the seat and the pedals are rough on bare feet, but the breeze was nice.

I had noticed earlier that naked diners seemed to be restricted to those bars by the beach. At the establishments further in the village, people generally wore something, though there were plenty of topless women. So, in case it was protocol, I donned my shorts and sat in the welcome shade of an awning for a lunch of pan-fried scallops and a glass or two of rose. Lovely. In fact, this little place was unique because one half of it was what looked like a fish shop, with all sorts of poisson and fruits de mer on display on ice, and here you chose your lunch. The man then parcelled it up and took it to the adjacent part of the establishment where the chef worked his magic, and voila, it's brought to your table... Coquillages San Jaques in garlic.

Fulfilled, I got back on the bike and pedalled wearing nothing but a contented smile and headed to a different part of the beach for a last lie in the sun before trying to find my way back home. The weather was still glorious, the sky still blue, with clouds so perfect and fluffy they seemed straight out of a child's painting.

And so once again there I was, nude, naked, unencumbered, in my birthday suit - the one I now have trouble getting the wrinkles out of - looking around at my fellow nudists again, I also realised that shavedness is common; pubic hair seems to be in the minority. So much so, that when you see a man with pubic hair it looks almost comical. I will keep my own state of hirsuitness to myself for the purposes of this blog. Suffice to say I didn't stand out.

As the afternoon wore on, and I wore nothing, I considered some of the anomalies of nudism. For example, how do you streak through a nudist camp? Fully clothed? And if there was a village art class, would all the art students be naked while the model wore clothes? A sort of inverse life-drawing class?

I really wanted to talk to someone, someone who was a veteran here, to ask how it really is, what happens, what the protocols are, and so on. But I was reluctant to strike up conversation with a naked person, I just didn't have the bare-faced cheek.

And then it was time to go. Having spent two tortuous hours getting here I was determined to find a shorter route back, so retrieved the bike and cycled naked again through the village towards the exit.

You might be wondering why I haven't posted an album of pictures from the experience. Two reasons... one is that the management discourages the taking of photos, and I have to say I didn't see a single camera. Secondly, as Liz had taken our main camera to the UK, it is very difficult with an iPad to take a photo surreptitiously, so I didn't. I did however see people using mobile phones on the beach, to make or receive calls, so I realised that actually I could take pictures if I just looked like I was making a call. Not for furving purposes of course, just in the hope of getting something that illustrated the environment. (See pic)

But as I cycled towards the exit I saw the most perfect photo opportunity... a genuinely elderly man, stark naked, walking with a zimmer frame. Gorgeous. It was probably the most poignant image of the afternoon, and I wished I'd had a proper camera.

But I resisted the temptation, got to the exit, donned some clothes and headed off. I found a nice cycle track that took me through countryside mainly, and even alongside the Canal du Midi, and an hour and a half later I was back at the boat, tired, sunburned in places that had never been sunburned before, and happy.

As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered if during the off-season the Naturist Village hangs up a sign that says, Clothed for Winter.