The One Night of the Year When Naturists Are Expected to Get Dressed

With Halloween just around the corner, households across Wales are preparing for an evening of costumes, disguises and questionable fashion decisions. Supermarkets are selling plastic fangs, wardrobes are being raided for old bedsheets, and somewhere a grown man is preparing to spend £40 on a vampire outfit that will probably fall apart before midnight.

For naturists, however, Halloween presents a rather amusing contradiction. We spend much of the year encouraging people to feel comfortable without clothing, only to arrive at the one evening when society enthusiastically insists that everybody should dress up.

And not just dress up. Dress up as somebody else.

There is something wonderfully British about the whole business. For eleven months of the year, people worry about what others might think of their appearance. Then October arrives, and suddenly the same people are wandering around dressed as giant bananas, inflatable dinosaurs and fictional murderers.

Nobody bats an eyelid.

In fact, the more ridiculous the outfit, the more enthusiastically people applaud.

Perhaps naturists have been approaching public acceptance from entirely the wrong direction. Forget lengthy explanations about body confidence. Apparently, all we needed was a pumpkin, a pointy hat and a convincing backstory.

Of course, Wales has its own rich traditions surrounding this time of year. Long before American-style Halloween celebrations became fashionable, communities marked Calan Gaeaf, the beginning of winter in the traditional Welsh calendar. The night before, Nos Galan Gaeaf, was associated with gatherings, storytelling, supernatural beliefs and the changing seasons.

There is something rather fitting about that connection. Halloween has always been concerned with the unusual, the unfamiliar and things that challenge our expectations.

Naturism, in its own perfectly ordinary way, challenges expectations too.

I often think one of the funniest things about naturism is how completely unremarkable it becomes once people experience a genuine naturist gathering. Someone is making tea.

Somebody else is looking for their glasses.

There’s usually a discussion about the weather, and at least one person has managed to lose something despite having considerably fewer pockets than everyone else.

The conversation rarely revolves around nudity. More often, it’s about the price of electricity, whose turn it is to wash up or whether the rain will hold off long enough for a walk.

And perhaps that is where the real humour lies.

We live in a society that can accept a man walking down the high street dressed as a six-foot zombie without hesitation, yet the idea of ordinary people enjoying a peaceful, non-sexual naturist lifestyle can still provoke extraordinary curiosity.

I suspect the zombie would attract fewer questions.

But humour can achieve something that serious debate sometimes struggles to accomplish. It helps people relax. It creates a little common ground and reminds us that beneath our different opinions, lifestyles and appearances, we’re remarkably similar.

We all enjoy a laugh. We all occasionally make fools of ourselves. And most of us have attended a fancy-dress party where somebody has put considerably more effort into their costume than the occasion deserved.

So, as Wales prepares for Halloween, perhaps we should celebrate the glorious absurdity of it all.

The ghosts will be wearing bedsheets, the vampires will be wearing capes, and the naturists will probably be wondering why everybody has suddenly developed such an enthusiasm for unnecessary clothing.

Although, given the temperature in Wales at the end of October, I suspect even the most committed naturist might appreciate a warm cloak.

Here’s a question for our readers: When Naturism Wales holds its Halloween fancy-dress party this weekend , what on earth will you wear? Upload your photos and comments to the group.