But the Domaine had its ways. Upon arrival, she was wrapped in a fluffy white robe and led to a heated lounge where a colossal bûche de Noël sat on a table surrounded by naked carolers singing “Petit Papa Noël.” Chantal clutched her robe closed and sat stiffly in a corner.
The room erupted in groans and laughter. Jean-Paul, still in his hat and boots, raised a glass of champagne.
“You know,” she said, reaching for another slice of bûche de Noël , “the stockings are hung by the chimney with care—but here, we are the stockings.” nudist french christmas
In moments, two dozen nudists of all ages, shapes, and sizes were arranged in a great, wriggling pile on a massive pile of faux-fur throws. It was like a living palet breton —a human blanket of skin against skin. Children giggled. Grandparents snored softly. Someone produced a flask of cognac.
And outside, beneath the naked Provençal stars, the Christmas pine glittered with lights, glass baubles, and not a single stitch of tinsel—because even tinsel, they insisted, was technically clothing. But the Domaine had its ways
“Everyone! To the grande salle ! We shall use the only heat source left—the human body!”
The crisis came at dinner. The main course—a perfect chapon (capon) with truffles—was interrupted by a power outage. The heated floors died. The outdoor hot tub’s jets fell silent. The temperature began to drop. Jean-Paul, still in his hat and boots, raised
Chantal, still robed, shivered alone.