‘Neither should a ship rely on one small anchor, nor should life rest on a single hope.’
Epictetus
The very lovely people at reception give me a map. With 756 chalets on site, I’m sure I would struggle to find my new home without it.
The setting is quite beautiful. After the flatlands of my ride so far, much of La Jenny is set on gently rolling slopes, albeit with more sand dunes that lie beneath. Tarmac lanes wind through pines with brightly painted chalets in reds and blues and yellows, shy amongst the trees, like exotic birds. Their pitched roofs and white soffit boards with wooden decks and railings, vary from the really quite grand to the charmingly ‘hygge’, that much overused Danish word meaning comfortable or cosy. I am so completely entranced that as I ride towards my own corner of the site, I can’t help but smile all the way.
It’s four o’clock in the afternoon by the time I reach my own humble abode, amongst the plainest on offer, but also the cheapest at fifty euros a night. That is precisely what I would pay for my tent, a half carafe of very ordinary white wine, and a lukewarm pizza. I am already high just by being here, but when I unlock the door and go inside my chalet, I am dizzy with delight. A bed, a kitchen, and an overhead shower that I can’t resist turning on to unleash a generous cascade of water that is hot within seconds. I am tempted to become a warm wet naturist this very moment. Like Odysseus’ crew, languishing with the soporific effects of the Lotus, if anyone were here to remind me of home and of my duty to return to my loved ones, I would resist with all my might and reach instead for another libation of leaves.
Instead, I stake my claim to my own little slice of heaven by piling tent and sleeping bag and air mattress in an unceremonious heap, stopping only to touch the cotton sheets on the bed, just to be sure they’re real. On the table, I put maps and penknife, phone and sunglasses, and then open the cupboards beneath the hob – a hob, mind! – to find pots and pans, plates and cutlery. I put the few items of food I have with me on a shelf, cornflakes as a treat and cans of tuna, labels facing out, spaghetti, a packet of biscuits and a baguette. I put the sweaty cheese and a small jar of mayonnaise, together with a bottle of rosé I picked up at a supermarket on the way, in the fridge. I linger for a moment to savour the sound of the machine already on and humming with cool air. This trip is about finding my way home, and here I am, magically transported to a place that within minutes feels like home.
Half an hour later, my sunburned skin glowing pink after the shower, it dawns on me that I have to decide what to wear, and for a moment, I’m stumped. What exactly constitutes appropriate dress in a naturist resort? Especially given the pool and the onsite supermarket are a bike ride away from my chalet. I opt for a short-sleeved shirt and a sarong of sorts. In my travels over the years, I’ve taken to having with me an all-purpose piece of material that can act as a blanket, a towel, a tablecloth for picnics, and a sarong, assuming I can remember how to tie it securely. I once worked in Malaysia where I learned that the secret is to tuck one side into the other and then roll the top down to keep the cloth tight around the waist. Self-conscious, I check myself in the skinny full-length mirror and summon up some courage. I’m not used to skirts. I hope my modesty will survive the bike ride. Time to venture forth and shop for fresh vegetables and butter and milk and coffee, and a treat, a steak maybe, as slap up supper for my first evening in paradise.
 
The chill cabinet in the supermarket is brightly lit and the cold air is refreshing, so I linger in choosing what I want. Other happy campers come and go, some clothed, some not,