Cap d’Agde

Some football fans wear their team’s shirt. Others paint their faces. At Cap d’Agde, many don’t bother wearing anything at all.

After leaving Toulouse behind, it was an easy two-hour drive south until the Mediterranean appeared on the horizon. There is always something special about seeing the sea after hours on the road. It feels like the holiday has properly begun.

Cap d’Agde was waiting for us.

Our check-in was quick, and before long we were back at our favourite campsite, ready to build our little home for the next couple of weeks. Setting up Bandit’s bell tent has become something of a military operation. Tent up. Beds assembled. Kitchen organised. Table positioned just so. Every item has its place.

Just as we tightened the last guy rope, our luxury extras arrived.

A fridge-freezer.

And an air-conditioning unit.

Last time we’d wandered past other campers with their beautifully cool tents and thought, that’s a bit extravagant.

This year…

“Let’s book one.”

At 38°C, it suddenly felt like one of the best decisions we’d made all holiday. Walking into a cool tent after standing in the midday sun felt less like camping and more like checking into a boutique hotel that just happened to have canvas walls.

There was only one slight problem.

The World Cup Final kicked off at nine.

Camping could wait.

It was time to get changed into our evening clothes.

Well… if you can call them clothes.

The bars along the marina were already filling up. Giant screens had appeared, tables were packed, drinks were flowing and everywhere you looked Spain flags were draped over shoulders.

Spain versus Argentina.

Being on the south coast of France, the locals had almost unanimously adopted Spain for the evening.

We found what looked like perfect front-row seats, ordered a couple of drinks and settled in.

For about three minutes.

Then people began standing in front of us.

Normally I’d consider this exceptionally rude.

Tonight…

Well…

The view was certainly different.

Some people were completely naked.

Some wore tiny thongs decorated with enough sequins to be visible from space.

Others arrived in elegant evening dresses.

One woman wandered past wearing towering fluorescent pink platform heels, a corset and enough confidence to power a small city.

Another couple stood completely nude, arm in arm, discussing the football as casually as if they were choosing breakfast cereal.

Nobody stared.

Nobody pointed.

Nobody seemed remotely interested in what anyone else was wearing.

Or wasn’t wearing.

It was fascinating.

If you’ve never been to Cap d’Agde, it’s almost impossible to explain.

Families wandered past with ice creams.

Couples held hands.

Groups of friends laughed over cocktails.

Football supporters cheered every tackle.

Around them were naturists, holidaymakers in summer dresses, people dressed for an upmarket restaurant, and others looking as though they’d taken a slight detour through a futuristic fashion show.

Yet somehow it all worked.

There wasn’t the slightest hint of judgement.

Everyone simply accepted everyone else.

That, more than the lack of clothing, was probably the most surprising thing.

As the sun began to disappear behind the marina, the sky turned orange, then pink, then deep purple.

Palm trees became silhouettes against the evening light while the giant screen glowed brighter.

It was one of those moments where you suddenly realised just how unusual your surroundings were.

And yet how completely ordinary they felt.

Then darkness arrived.

So did another wave of people.

The outfits somehow became even more imaginative.

One lady appeared in elegant lingerie paired with chunky black boots.

Nearby stood a man in jeans and a T-shirt chatting as though this were the most normal combination in the world.

Another woman wore a striking bodysuit with decorative cowboy boots while waiting for kick-off conversations to end and the football to get serious again.

There really wasn’t a dress code.

Only a complete absence of one.

The football itself wasn’t bad either.

Spain eventually broke the deadlock, sending huge cheers around the marina.

Extra time came and went.

Thirty tense minutes.

Then the final whistle.

Spain were world champions.

For a few minutes the bars erupted with applause, cheers and celebrations before everyone simply drifted off into the warm Mediterranean night.

Some headed for restaurants.

Some disappeared towards the beach clubs.

Others wandered home beneath the palm trees.

Walking back to the campsite, the warm evening air still wrapped around us despite it being close to midnight.

Opening the tent door was like stepping into a refrigerated sanctuary.

The air-conditioning quietly hummed away.

The fridge was already stocked.

Luxury camping, Cap d’Agde style.

As I climbed into bed, I couldn’t help smiling.

People often ask what Cap d’Agde is really like.

They expect stories about nudity.

What I remember most isn’t that at all.

It’s thousands of completely different people sharing one warm summer evening, watching the biggest football match in the world together without giving the slightest thought to what anyone else was wearing.

Or not wearing.

Sometimes the most extraordinary places feel surprisingly ordinary once you stop looking for reasons why they shouldn’t.