The beach in front of the Corsican campsite we chose for our first week could not be considered crowded by any means and for the first two days we walked barely five minutes to secure a spot well away from anyone else.
The beach continued as far as the eye could see in both directions and so on days three and four we ventured further.
Walking north along Corsica's eastern shore we passed barely anyone. In common with the section directly in front of the campsite there were no dwellings visible from the beach but, at one point, we stopped when we spied the ruin of a round stone tower peeping just above the trees. A path to one side allowed us to get closer and we found a perfectly-kept orchard on the other side of the sand dune. I'd never seen trees like it and as we approached them I saw the mottled cerise and yellow markings of nectarines. A few over-ripened fruit lay on the ground but odd ones and twos were still firmly fixed to branches. We picked one each to eat as we continued walking.
We stopped walking after reaching a restaurant about an hour after we'd set off and retraced our steps back to camp.
Early on day four, before the midday heat, we set off south along the beach, walking for around about an hour and twenty minutes. The beach became busier, though not much, and eventually exclusively naturist. I felt conspicuous, dressed as I was in shorts and vest top.
We kept walking until the rocky foundations of a building, possibly a restaurant, jutted into the sea, forcing us to paddle to get around. There was hardly anyone on the other side and so we stopped to disrobe and swim.
We stayed for around an hour, until we'd drunk half of the water supply we'd brought along and thought we ought to start walking back.
I said to Tony that I needed to wait until I was dry before I could get dressed again but he, quite rightly, pointed out we'd fit in better if we weren't dressed.
We walked until swimming costumes were predominant among the beach goers and got dressed again.
I can't quite understand families with older children going to naturist beaches. These children seem to fall into two camps. Some of the kids are just enjoying themselves regardless, while others sit in their Bermuda shorts or bikinis looking as though the holiday with their naked parents is the worst thing that could possibly be happening to them.
Arriving back at Cleopatra we found the family of four in a red VW T25 who had been pitched to our left had packed up and gone, while a couple had pitched a tent just to our right and then positioned a gazebo so close that Cleopatra's boot door touched it when opened. They looked concerned for the gazebo's fabric as the door corner scraped it and I determined that from then on I'd frequently need to take things out of, or put things back into the boot.