In 2005, Ally and I flew from the gray skies of London to Croatia for a short break, desperate for some Mediterranean sun and the famous crystal-blue water. We checked into our hotel, dropped our bags, and immediately headed for the balcony to soak in the "gorgeous" view.
The view, however, was not quite what the brochure had promised.
As we looked out, an enormous, very white man walked past directly below us, speaking loudly in German. He was entirely, unapologetically nude. A moment later, several more naked people strolled by. It turned out our hotel didn't just have a sea view; it looked directly onto a nudist beach. We soon discovered that nudity is a massive part of Croatian culture—in some areas, there are more nudist beaches than "textile" ones.
True to the "When in Rome" spirit, we decided to embrace the local customs. We spent our days lapping up the sun; Ally went topless, and I went entirely nude. Ally even took a few cheeky photos of me standing on the shore, proudly showing off my pearly white buttocks against the Adriatic blue.
When we got back to London, I was eager to share the trip with my family. This was in the era before social media, so I sat down late one night to email a selection of photos to my mum in Cape Town.
The next day, I received a reply: "Lovely photos, Graeme, but that last one is rather porno!"
In my late-night exhaustion, I had completely forgotten the golden rule of travel photography: always curate your "mother-friendly" folder before hitting send. I had inadvertently sent my mother a high-resolution portrait of her son’s Croatian "full moon."
