Where did all the naturists go?

Nestled among the dense woodland that frames Bricket Wood – a sleepy village on the edge of St Albans – is a small, gated community. It’s peaceful, albeit for the constant hum of the M25 that underscores a lively chorus of birds, and it seems, on the surface, indistinguishable from any other retirement or holiday village with its scattering of cosy homes plotted along pristine gravel paths.

Its true identity, however, is quickly given away by a naked man pushing a rusted wheelbarrow down the road – entirely unfazed by the late September rain applying a faint sheen to his skin. A second glance around the place reveals a host of other residents engaging in entirely normal activities: washing dishes, sending emails, drinking coffee – all while completely nude.

I’m at Spielplatz, the longest-running naturist resort in the UK. The community was founded in 1929 by Charles Macaskie and his wife Dorothy, who had become infatuated with the – at the time very German – lifestyle of naturism, buying the land in the hopes of building a nude homestead for them and a handful of friends.

They began by making a few clearances in the village’s whimsical wood, which is, incidentally, rumoured to be the birthplace of Wicca in the UK. However, word of their alternative lifestyle quickly spread, and the population grew. A further surge came during the Blitz, when Londoners fleeing bombs sought refuge among the trees – many of whom never left, even after the war ended.

• Read next: An unconventional portrait of queer motherhood

Today, Spielplatz is run by Charles’s grandson, Grant Kelly. ​“Naturism is a real equaliser,” he tells me, theorising the culture’s initial appeal while sipping builders’ tea in his living room. Hanging above him, appropriately, is a poster that reads ​“Let’s get naked.” ​“It doesn’t matter if you drive an Aston Martin or a beat-up Vauxhall Corsa. When you’re naked, the only thing between you and the next person is your education.” 

Kelly is one of few naturists who actually grew up within the community, meaning he’s been unfazed by full-frontal nudity his entire life. He recalls the moment, aged five and returning to primary school after the summer, when he first realised his family’s lifestyle was unorthodox. ​“There was a paddling pool, and the teacher said to us that we’re going to have a swim. Before you could say ​‘Jiminy Cricket’, I stripped off, stark naked, and I was being chased by the teacher,” he chuckles. ​“This was a foreign concept to me; I was used to swimming here totally naked, and I had no tan lines like the other kids.”

Today, Spielplatz boasts 53 permanent residents and a rotating cast of curious visitors. Part of Kelly’s role is to maintain the purity of the environment, which means gently vetting new guests to ensure they’re attending ​“for the right reasons”, and not just to ogle at naked people. After all, the word ​‘naturist’ is one loaded with misconceptions that, Kelly says, barely align with reality.

“People think that we’re all swingers and we’re having lots of orgies. It couldn’t be further from the truth. Naturism isn’t about sex. Naturism is about the freedom to live the way nature intended,” he says, quickly adding: ​“Apart from when it’s bloody cold.”

• Read next: Revelling in nature with Europe’s naked hikers

There is, however, a rare breed of naturists who are undeterred by even the harshest of British winters. One of these is 69-year-old resident Tom Dryer-Beers, who has what Kelly describes as ​“rhino skin”. He’s the one pushing the wheelbarrow around, despite others at Spielplatz opting to take their naturist practice indoors, given the day’s slight downpour.

Tom says his embrace of naturism is down to the ​“freedom” that the lifestyle offers him. ​“Clothing is conformity, and when you conform, you lose aspects of individuality,” he explains. ​“It acts as a message that can be misconstrued. All that is gone when you’re just a body, just a person.”

He’s lived at Spielplatz with his wife, Victoria, 52, for eight years now, after they met at a life-drawing class where Tom was the nude model and Victoria an artist. At the time, Victoria had never even dabbled in naturism and admits to being sceptical during her initial experiences. ​“I didn’t want to be judged,” she says, recalling her first time stripping off around strangers. ​“I feel that, particularly as a woman, we can be so worried about the way we look, and to take our clothes off just feels so alien.”

I meet them in Spielplatz’s clubhouse, across a well-worn wooden coffee table splayed with a plethora of naturist magazines. Some date back to the ​’70s, and offer articles on ​“body positivity”, the benefits of ​“nude yoga” and – for a pandemic edition – advice on ​“working from home naked”. Over the weekend, the residents hosted a ​’70s-themed fancy dress party in this very spot and, as can be expected, given the environment, within minutes, the carefully-selected costumes were strewn across the floor. 

• Read next: Revisiting Casa Susanna, the legendary Trans refuge in pre-Stonewall America

Being adopted into such a clearly established community, Victoria says, has provided her with an entirely new outlook on life. ​“It’s amazing to see what everybody looks like without their clothes on,” she smiles. ​“I just wish people could see that, because if you’re not a naturist, maybe the only time you see naked people are these beautiful women that may have been airbrushed on the internet, and you don’t know what people actually do look like.”

Though many, like Victoria, report increased body confidence after becoming naturists, it’s the current self-image crisis – spurred by the omnipresence of social media – among young people that many within the community speculate is causing a serious decline in new gen‑Z and millennial members. Meanwhile, climate change has created more unpredictable weather conditions in the UK, which, when combined with cheap flights to sunny destinations abroad, has spurred a drop in naturist numbers at home.

“This is a question that all the clubs are asking: ​‘Where are the youngsters? Where are our replacements going to come from?’,” Kelly says. ​“We’ve just been kind of steadily plodding along. Membership numbers have dropped compared to what they were in the ​’60s and early ​’70s. The fact that we have people living here and therefore paying to keep the grounds and the facilities maintained means we can stay in business, whereas a lot of clubs have folded.”

Andrew Welch, former editor of British Naturism magazine and Spielplatz resident, has been part of the efforts to engage young people in naturism – a plight he dubs his ​“daily challenge”. Stepping into his bungalow, I ask if I should take my shoes off, and he, naturally, quips, ​“Don’t stop there”. 

• Read next: As Italy’s rave culture faces crackdowns, a cyberpunk citadel fights to survive

Within British Naturism, Welch’s aim has been to attract newcomers to the ​“vibrant” scene, pointing out the week-long Nudefest held annually in Somerset and NKD Festival held in Dorset as some of the more lively, community-focused events young people can engage in.

“Many people generally view naturism with a bit of a negative slant. We’re perhaps a bit weird, bit eccentric, bit bizarre. They wonder: ​‘Who would want to get their bits out in front of other people that they’re not just about to sleep with?’ But, if you can persuade them to come into a naturist environment and meet the people and see what it’s like, they will realise there is nothing to be concerned about. All those barriers just fade away,” he says.

Now 60, Welch was first introduced to naturism when he happened upon a nude beach as a teenager on a family holiday. These days, it’s weaving naturism into the ​“ordinary” fabric of everyday life that he revels in. ​“I’ve just spent a lot of money having my kitchen and shower room done, and there is just nothing like standing there and cooking in the nude,” he says.

But as well as a casual, lighthearted activity, he’s keen to point out that public nudity can also be an act of reclaiming one’s body after trauma. Many naturists are cancer survivors who previously felt shame over surgical scars, or mothers who’ve grown accustomed to hiding deep stretch marks from pregnancy. 

• Read next: The ultra marathon runner championing body positivity

“There’s all this pressure to look the right way and say the right things, to do the right things and dress in the right way. It’s so liberating, so refreshing, such a relief, when you come into this environment here, and none of that matters,” Welch says. ​“I feel very proud that I’ve found this world. I don’t like to be proud of anything. It’s not a good emotion all the time, is it? But I feel really, really happy, really blessed that this has come into my life.”

It’s a common sentiment at Spielplatz, where a general sense of serenity conjures the sense that the residents have stumbled upon the ultimate life hack. It’s especially notable amid an era of ​“biohacking” – attempting to stay young and attractive forever – or a seemingly endless slew of headlines about various women in the public eye undergoing increasingly invasive new cosmetic surgeries as our beauty standards edge further into absurdity.

For Victoria, naturism has offered a sense of liberation from the beauty and fashion industries that have long profited from our insecurities. She now hopes other women will be able to find similar refuge. ​“I’m older than I was when I came here. My body has changed, and yet I’m more relaxed about it as a naturist,” she says with a smile. ​“I’d never have plastic surgery, and I feel even freer.”

It’s a wonder the culture hasn’t yet become as trendy as, say, saunas, which have gone from a hobby for middle-aged Finnish men to a trend among young professionals in London. Perhaps it’s that, unlike other spheres of the wellness industry, naturism is free and can’t really be capitalised on very much – after all, you already have all you need to get started. In many ways, it seems like an obvious way to reject the rampant consumerism that increasingly defines modern society. 

• Read next: BBLs and penis enlargements: the rise of men’s surgery

Of course, that’s not to say that Spielplatz is a political environment – it’s a serene, laidback holiday camp complete with a hot tub, swimming pool and licensed bar. But, there is a sense that those living here are subtly, yet defiantly, defying the capitalist structures wrecking our planet. ​“The commercial message about buying the right clothes from the right place for the right occasion is winning hugely. Naturism is the message that you don’t need all of that,” Tom says. ​“It isn’t just about taking your clothes off. It’s a consideration that we are part of the natural landscape, part of the environment. I would say most naturists would want to see the world to be a simpler, less commercial, less polluting place, and living more simply is part of that message.”

Therefore, the threat of its extinction in the UK, after thriving for almost 100 years, seems all the more tragic. ​“It’s important to me that it survives because of what my grandparents did. They pioneered this,” Kelly says. ​“I don’t think they intended to, they just wanted a homestead, but it just grew into something else entirely. I would hate to see naturism dying in the UK. I think it’s important that an alternative lifestyle like naturism remains, because it adds variety to life.”

For now, those at Spielplatz remain in the minority. But perhaps a future where being naked is less of a novelty and more of an accepted natural state – free of the accelerated trend cycles of fast fashion brands or self-hatred imposed on us by multi-billion pound corporations is on the horizon. 

But to get involved means taking a leap that can feel daunting at first. To get past the first hurdle, Welch offers a succinct mantra, one that rings true after a few hours behind the gates of Spielplatz. ​“When everybody’s naked, nobody is.”

Laura Molloy is a freelance culture journalist. Follow her on Instagram.

Buy your copy of Huck 82 here.

Enjoyed this article? Follow Huck on Instagram and sign up to our newsletter for more from the cutting edge of sport, music and counterculture.

Support stories like this by becoming a member of Club Huck.