Although Wing Mam was responsible for planting the seed of ‘No Sex, No City’, the majority of its germination and growth took place whilst I was on holiday with four school friends in Corsica. Little did we know, however, that as we sat sipping our rose and brainstorming ideas, the perfect blog fodder lay just around the river bend.
One morning Tom, our host, offered to show us some of the less tourist-trodden parts of the island. As our journey progressed we quite understood why none of our fellow holidaymakers had bothered! For half an hour we twisted and turned round hairpin bends up into the mountains before Tom abruptly stopped in a lay-by. From here, he jumped over a small wall and disappeared between two bushes. We tentatively followed suit. It was at this point that we wished Tom had shared the sturdy footwear memo with the group. As he skipped off ahead in his trainers, the rest of us slid and slipped down the steep scree in our flip-flops, clinging onto passing branches to slow our descent.
Eventually we arrived at an idyllic waterfall, complete with dappled sunlight, a deep pool, perfect for swimming, and large flat rocks to bask on. As much as I hate to admit it, Tom was right; not only was the destination definitely worth the journey, but we had it entirely to ourselves. After a refreshing (a.k.a. absolutely bloody freezing) swim, we slithered onto the rocks to dry off and enjoy our hard-earned picnic.
Just as we were taking the first sips of our ice-cool beers we heard a loud plop behind us. We turned round just in time to witness the cause of a second plop. Small children seemed to be falling from the sky into what had been, up until that point, our private swimming spot. Fully kitted out in wetsuits, helmets and lifejackets, children were jumping off the top of the waterfall. Closer inspection revealed that they weren’t in fact jumping but rather, were being thrown. Their tosser was what I can only imagine Tarzan would look like if he lived in Corsica, wore a wetsuit, and was more adherent to modern day health and safety regulations. Rosie and I suddenly felt rather underdressed for the occasion in our respective Bugs Bunny and watermelon novelty swimming costumes!
Soon the final infant had been flung. Adventure Bae launched himself into the air, executing the perfect swallow dive down the waterfall. He then elegantly emerged from the pool, shaking out his luscious locks and slowly unzipping his wetsuit to reveal washboard abs…Ok, I may have abused artistic license somewhat in that description but the wetsuit really did come off and the under-lying physique was certainly nothing to complain about. Whilst Rosie and I gawped at him in appreciation, the male members of our party were similarly transfixed in jealous admiration.
The day’s activities appeared to be over and Adventure Bae spent the next ten minutes instructing his brood on how to remove their extensive safety gear in French. Despite being within a five-metre radius of these proceedings, we decided the language barrier was buffer enough and proceeded to openly expostulate on the unbelievable attractiveness of this leader of children. It was fine; he was chattering away in French, he clearly couldn’t understand what we were saying. As my companions pointed out, the odds of finding such a specimen, particularly at such a secluded location, were minimal and this was too good a blogging opportunity to be missed.
I started building up the courage to approach this Adonis and attempt seduction through my very rusty GCSE level French. Before I had the chance to make my move Adventure Bae turned to us and said, in perfect English, ‘Oh hey, you guys are from England, whereabouts? I just got back from living in York for two years’. Ah good, not only had Adventure Bae heard everything that we had been saying, he clearly understood it too. We sought sanctuary by slinking back into the water in an attempt to cool our now crimson faces.
Some very fast French later and the army of children started scrambling up the bank. Adventure Bae held back… maybe the attraction was reciprocated, maybe he was about to ask me for a romantic candle-lit Corsican dinner, maybe there would be no need to start dating and blogging after all, maybe this was it? No, what actually happened was much stranger and arguably even more farfetched. In one of the most primal parting gestures I have ever witnessed, Adventure Bae climbed the rock face directly in front of us, removed what remained of his little clothing and, like a dog marking his territory, proceeded to urinate. Having finished he turned, smiled at us, then disappeared into the woodland in pursuit of his wards. Although undeniably feral, there was something quite attractive about this display of carnal masculinity. To this day I regret not scrambling up that bank behind him, Bugs Bunny swimsuit and all. The holiday romance that never was: Adventure Bae, the one that got away!