Somewhere Holiday - A Real Person Travel Guide (Sample Chapter)

Somewhere Holiday

A Real Persons Travel Book

Sample Chapter

© Al

The French Basque Country
Or
Do you buy stamps?

You know that roller coaster feeling of utter desolation followed very rapidly with overwhelming elation, which does nothing more than get you back to where you started, albeit that the journey has taken you the long and tortuous route along three sides of a triangle? Yes, you do – like standing in the Tesco queue, only to find that both the checkout girl and the wizened old lady three places in front of you clearly escaped from the same mental asylum only yesterday, and they have the combined speed and urgency of a retarded snail, but then suddenly the old girl shuffles away with her zimmerframe, the vacant dimbo at the till is replaced by the Olympic Checkout Champion, and the bar codes are a blur as the provisons start to pile up faster than you can pack them into your inadequate carrier bags.

Well, I relived the experience sitting in a Ryanair 737 while sat on the tarmac at Stansted Airport. At 11.45 in the morning, having already wandered past our take-off time of 11.30, the Captain came over the tannoy.
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen, and welcome aboard flight ……….”
Yes, yes, yes, just take off will you
“…..Unfortunately, the airports a little busy this morning, and we have been told by air traffic control that we wont be able to push back until half past one”
What?! Apart from being mildly curious about the term ‘push back’ (I had a fleeting vision of being in a Flinstones scene, the floor of the aircraft dropping away, and everyone being asked to heave the plane backwards with their feet), I more particularly looked at my watch just to confirm that this would mean sitting in a metal cylinder which would have had more than one sardine vacating for a bit more elbow room, for another hour and three quarters, with not even the hint of any entertainment or diversion (unless you counted the chap across the aisle who wore an impossibly loud and intricate paisley shirt). Then almost as the shock started to penetrate through the cabin, and probably just in time before the general hubbub rose to the level of grumble, he was back on the tannoy
“And I have just been told we now have clearance”
All was well again. Just as well really, I fear my defence mechanism might have had me ripping the aforementioned shirt from the back of the bemused looking passenger, running up to the flight deck and confronting the captain and his crew with the evidence of the only realistic alternative to the in-flight magazine.

An hour and forty minutes later we touched down at Pau Airport, nestled quietly on the toes of the foothills of the Pyrenees. This was our gateway into south west France, specifically the Pays Basque, an area I last visited exactly 20 years ago as a young lad with a couple of friends, two pairs of shorts, three T-shirts, and a thirst for French lager. In the event, I was now a greying father and husband (to Sharon), with this time two lively children in tow (Sian 14 and Cara 9), a juicy mortgage, and a dubious sense of dress. Still, I was sure the French wouldn’t mind, although they hadn’t exactly brought out the weather that might make me feel at least a little welcomed. The skies were leaden, and the air was thick with impending rain, which it duly spewed all over the landscape, five minutes after we entered the modest, but rather modern and chic, little terminal building, full of glass, chrome, polished wood and confident, sensuous curves.

Confident and sensuous was however not how I would describe my experience at the rental car collection desk. Slow to the point of stagnation would be more apt. Indeed, I swear the craggy old airport worker in blue trousers and shirt who walked out one door, later walked bag in again, only this time sporting a whispy greying beard, such was the breathtaking pace associated with picking up a pre-arranged car at this particular venue. It was further emphasised by the fact that he more shuffled than walked, and looked like an extra from ‘Allo, Allo!’. Still, I eventually got to the desk, wiped away the cobwebs, and went through the tedious exercise of them trying to sell me extra insurance that I didn’t want and couldn’t possibly need - £1m payout in the event that I was hit by an outsized green Mongolian parrot, which then caused me to wipe out the whole of the French government travelling in the bus beside me. I don’t know what it was, but I was probably covered several times over, and at a price which would have needed me to fly home and take out a crippling loan, so I politely declined. The girl behind the desk smiled sweetly, but ever so cynically, as if to say ‘If only you knew just how many crazed green Mongolian parrots there are in this part of France you foolish Englishman’. I took the keys, and we found our way out of the terminal, and straight into the teeth of a monsoon.

We found the car, stuffed in our luggage, got in, wrung out our clothes and then wondered what to do next. It is hardly novel to drive on the other side of the road, but still it is a little disconcerting if you haven’t done it for a while. Added to this is that the French like to play little games with their road signage, they do love you to have to guess where it is you want to go. My immediate problem was finding the way out, rain cascading from the sky, and in the middle of the sort of quiet afternoon that makes you think that either war has broken out, aliens have kidnapped the entire human race, or that you are in fact in a less than populous area of France – all three look much the same. I eventually headed along a route that looked vaguely right, and since there was no-one around to tell me it wasn’t, what did it matter. But thereafter, this French game of now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t takes on an air of inevitability. It is very simple, highly effective and hair-tearingly irritating. You will get two, maybe three signs pointing you to where you want to go, causing you to take enough turns and exits, that you are nicely disorientated, and then the signs disappear. Nothing. Well, nothing except signs to places that didn’t have a sign before, and bear no relation to where you thought you were going, or where you have just come from. Now, you wont see a bemused Frenchman trailing aimlessly and endlessly around a roundabout looking like he is being spun helplessly in a washing machine, so they must know how this game works, but I’m buggered if I know the rules. They probably get untold amusement from it, maybe the kids play spot the hopeless foreigner on long car journeys.
‘Eh, Francois, zats tree ‘undred and ninety feur to me, and I ‘ad zee arse ‘oo was going zer wrong way urp zat wern way street!’

Eventually, we found our way onto the Motorway, and trundled our way towards the coast, heading west to Biarritz. The brooding, wet and depressing weather hardly created an early ambience for our sojourn, but the journey was uneventful, save the exchange of modest French and Euros at the tollbooths on the peage, thrusting a 10 Euro note hopefully in the direction of the attendant, and being mildly surprised to get something back in return. But it was not long before we found our way into Biarritz town, and despite having to navigate with the aid of a map on which our charming French host at the rental agency had written the wrong instructions (all part of the plan to confuse the unwary), we discovered our villa. Well, villa might actually have been a misnomer. Rather foolishly, this had been booked via the internet, and was based on a halting description (all shortened words and confused syntax – ‘quiet posn. With pan. views. 1400sqm. 4Km beaches’) and a photo that neatly cut off the top and one side of the house. While I had prepared myself for the possibility that it might have been by the railway, behind the slaughterhouse, and one block down from the new French asylum centre, I had hoped it would be reasonably rural and tranquil – In as much as your typical suburban setting is rural and tranquil, yes it was, but we didn’t exactly have far reaching views over fields and mountains, a babbling brook, and the soothing sound of birdsong playing lightly over the scene. What we had was a sort of uncomfortable melding of your typical Florida Villa, scaled down a bit, within a new housing estate out of Reading, only instead of the houses being neo-Georgian or Victorian, they were neo-Basque. Big sloping roofs with deep overhangs, token exposed exterior beams, heavy wooden shutters, and even a little decorative flourish to mimic a dovecote underneath the eaves.

It wasn’t unpleasant, and even quite spacious, but the plethora of white UPVC windows, white plastic reinforced fencing and metal sliding patio doors killed any hint of a conception that you might have that this was a rustic retreat. Okay, it had a swimming pool, and a garden, but it also had your next door neighbour handily perched at the bottom of the garden, easily able to view and share in whatever pastime you happened to be partaking at the time. Mostly, this was eating and swimming, but hey, I could have wanted deviant sex on the patio. But it was leafy, with lots of heaving oak trees, and a hefty smattering of bamboo used as boundary hedges, which looked strangely out of place – I half expected to see a contented Panda quietly munching away by the roadside. Of course, Pandas are not indigenous to this part of the world, and my theory on that has nothing to do with climate, and everything to do with the dogs from hell, in particular one nasty, slavering black evil looking canine that on some days seemed to be barking/calling the dead at every hour of the day. As much as I love dogs, this one should have had an unfortunate accident with an errant French car at an early age. All I could do was sneer at it every time I drove by, there would not be the opportunity of a meeting between said black beast and sedately driven Renault Scenic.

*************

The Basque Country has a distinct flavour and feel about it. Yes, it has all the usual tourist places, disappointments and paraphernalia that you would expect of an interesting part of France that also has some splendid beaches and a rather pleasant climate, but it maintains an identity that sets it apart, and the Basque people are clearly proud of that.

The distinctiveness of the region seems to have its origins in both landscape and politics, given an edge by the fact that as a culture it straddles a national boundary. The apparent chaos is perhaps what gives the area its individuality, today most obviously expressed in the exploits of ETA. Geologically, the region is characterised by the tumbling folds, shakes and splits of the edge of the Pyrenees, with lines of communication twisted around these natural obstacles. The Basque country was once divided into seven provinces, and the boundary that separated France from Spain that ran through the area was, at best, coincidental. The French and Spanish Basques have been both feted and persecuted by their national governments, perhaps victim of that curious human trait that neither quite trusts or accepts something that is on the periphery, and different from the norm, but it is that very uniqueness that makes it so attractive, at least if you are a visitor.

Monday saw a pristine azure sky with the odd fleck of white cloud, and a brilliant sun that was clearly set in residence for the day. In such circumstances, and being a short drive from more beaches than you could shake a plastic spade at, we had to head for the sea. I always find this a rather trepidatious experience, rather pessimistically expecting to find hordes of people and cars fighting over every centimetre of space like a re-enactment of some latter day and modern equivalent of Dunkirk, but this time shouting insults, throwing sand, and hitting each other with beach balls and bats. Beaches can also be the epitome of mans worst propensity to create a shithole out of a haven of natures best efforts, generally by the act of dropping every conceivable wrapper from every conceivable food item, establishing an instant recycling point full of empty bottles and cans, but most particularly by being generally unpleasant and loud-mouthed. I was to be disappointed in the most splendid way. We took the option of heading for the nearest beach to the Villa, and rather fortuitously, this was also right on the southern edge of the town at Ilbarritz. Okay, we were there by soon after ten o’clock, but we hadn’t exactly bolted down a bowl of cereal and rushed out half dressed in order to make it before the sun got up. The car park just behind the beach was busy, but far from full, and we wandered over a small brow, to find a wonderfully delicious vista of an almost perfect crescent shaped beach between small rocky promontories, a steep hill behind topped with a typical nineteenth century grand Biarritz Villa, and neatly trimmed and kept lawns and borders leading invitingly down to the clean sand. The views south were of the coastline gradually curling around as it meandered towards Spain, the light haze creating a whitewash across the peaks and hills that lay just inland, as they rose to the Pyrenees. It was delightful.

And the beach itself instantly won a place in our hearts. It wasn’t just that it had clearly been cleaned and raked that morning, and fresh rubbish bins put in place (rather than the usual broken effort that is so common in Britain, overflowing with coke cans, McDonalds wrappers and dead dogs); Even the placement of a little range of fresh water showers under a simple wooden arbour just back from the beach was surprising, but not the clincher. It was the general ambience and experience of the place that made you wish that every beach was like this. There was plenty of room, and even when significant numbers of humans began to populate, it remained a place of relaxation and serenity. Don’t get me wrong, there was plenty of running and shouting, ball games and boules, not to mention a terrific amount of splashing and jumping around in some of the best surf that Europe has to offer, but the whole atmosphere and environment was the sort of calm and harmony that you wish you could bottle ……and flog to gullible Germans at an obscene profit. What I mean is that it was entirely non-threatening, peaceable and amiable, and coupled with the weather and the scene, it was quite exquisite. Okay, I am sure that there are beaches in far flung Caribbean islands that have the most unbelievable and surreal panorama with white sands, cobalt seas and swaying palms, but we are in the real and accessible world here, and in that context, I am not sure that it gets much better.

**************

Biarritz town is a fairly typical large French seaside resort, and is frequently described as having the clichéd air of ‘faded grandeur’. Certainly it can boast a grand history, although its roots are a little more mundane and, by modern sensibilities, perhaps somewhat distasteful. Somehow, when I peered down into the small cove that served as the original port, I couldn’t imagine the place being full of thrashing Whales in various states of disembowelment, the latter being perpetrated by hordes of hardy French fishermen. Today, it is a neat little beach backed by a small, vaguely Art Deco restaurant, all pinched between rocky outcrops, and sheltering below the bigger Biarritz that has grown up behind, filled with roads, shops and apartments. But in the Middle Ages, Biarritz was a small port whose fishermen were renowned for their skill in harpooning whales and extracting more uses from one whale than Blue Peter presenters had uses for an old Fairy Liquid bottle. Apparently, this included oil for fuelling lamps in houses, using bones and ribs to make fences (I’d like to see B&Q stock that in the timber aisle), the skin to make seats or caps, while the flesh (particularly the tongue) was eaten. According to my little snippet of local information, “the villagers worked on the beach, where they installed ovens to melt the blubber, fireplaces to cook and smoke the meat, and amphorae to conserve the oil” – I think it fair to say that such activities today might blunt the tourism industry just a tad.

Biarritz rather continued in this vain until the beginning of the 19th century, when going to the seaside started to become fashionable, and indeed bathing was seen as something rather therapeutic (presumably, without a rather dismembered whale by your side). But things really took a turn for the better when Princess Eugenie became Napoleons wife, and like all good wives, dragged her new hubbie to one of her favourite childhood holiday spots, but mercifully stopped short of buying him a ‘kiss me quick’ hat and a ice cream cone. Napoleon was rather smitten, and in 1855 had a rather splendid summer residence built, naming it rather sweetly (but utterly unoriginally) after his wife. Villa Eugenie is now the very grand and imposing Hotel de Palais, sitting at one end of the Grande Plage in all its imperial splendour, and rather cheesily built in the shape of a letter ‘E’

In Napoleons wake came a whole stream of royalty , aristocrats, glitterati and no doubt a whole bus load of hangers on. I have to say that the English seem to have quite a hand in Biarritz’s later transformation, particularly discovering its delights at the beginning of the 20th century, including the future King Edward VII. Now whether this is a good or a bad thing, I will leave you to decide, but apparently, it was the English that gave Biarritz its first golf course, while partying and generally having a good time seems to have been the towns stock in trade for much of the time, right through to the 60’s and 70’s – you see, drink, drugs and debauchery get everywhere eventually.

I have to confess, I have never been to Monaco, but I have seen lots of pictures. I wandered past the Casino, along the path above the Grande Plage, and then around the slightly precarious route around the outside of the Hotel above another rocky outcrop that separates this, the grandest of Biarritz’s town bays, from another to the north, and stood at the furthest point, so that I could see in both directions, the coastline meandering and curling away in both directions. The town sat behind me and to my left, not so much looming, as sitting quietly and unassumedly, in gradually increasing tiers, looking rather blankly out to sea, an assortment of buildings, new and old, handsome and ugly, good and bad, like a motley collection of children sat looking vaguely disinterested at a rather dull third division football match. But if I lulled myself into a more romantic mood, squinted my eyes and ignored the smell from the public loo just down the path, I suppose it could have been Monaco – almost – if you were delusional.

**********

On a slightly grey and overcast Wednesday, we bundled into the Renault, and headed inland, our destination being the rather touristy but still interesting town of St Jean Pied de Port. Lying in the valley of the River Nive, the town dates principally from the middle ages when it was a major stop-off and gathering point for pilgrims heading for Santiago de Compostella. St Jean remains a meeting place for travellers following this route, lying at the foot of a port or pass heading for Spain, particularly as a last stop before the climb to Port de Roncevaux and the monastery of the same name, where refuge and hospitality (or such as existed in the Middle Ages) awaits.

The upper old town on the north bank of the river is dominated by the old citadel, encircled by 15th century ramparts, while the whole town at this time of year tends to be encircled by a range of very 21st century humans, bedecked in a variety of shirts, shorts sunglasses and cameras. These garments and adornments themselves encircle the human form of every shape and size, though those of a girth which would have had the Biarritz fishermen of old drooling at the prospect of more oil and bone should know better than to wear clothes that show complete disregard for their own health and wellbeing. Unfortunately, quite often for ‘tourist’ these days you have to read ‘fat biffer’

I have to confess, St Jean Pied de Port had lost a little of the remembered charm from twenty years previous, when the narrow cobbled streets and steep alleyways had looked altogether more fascinating, mystic and alluring. Today, the inevitable shops selling everything you never knew you wanted, and lots that you never dreamed existed, rather spoiled the impression. Two examples – Firstly, the entire Basque production of espadrilles appears to have found its way into St Jean Pied de Port, in every shape, colour and style imaginable – it was at least a good way to keep my eldest daughter quiet, as I threatened to buy a pair in vivid green unless she stopped pestering her sister; Secondly, if you really want to top this off by looking a complete arse, you could also buy the frequently worn local costume. The latter looked like a cross between a bad BBC period drama set and a Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen cast off, in colours to match, and in a style that even Vivien Westwood might not even dare to propose. I cant imagine for one minute that locals would be seen dead wearing such preposterous outfits, but then the French have a combined sense of style and wisdom that usually leaves the British with a traditional ‘nil points’ score, with only themselves thinking they look either cool or funny, while everyone else knows that they are what they wear – Plain stupid.

If you ignore the superficial tat, and the odd British twat, St Jean Pied de Port is nevertheless an intriguing relic of a religious and medieval past. The most photographed view is of the old town clustered around the imposing church, with their combined tall rugged walls and balconies facing onto the river, across which spans a bridge so ancient, that tourists in shorts, sunglasses and lurid T-shirts look out of place – it really needs a few forlorn monks, and a donkey pulling a cart load of ….well, whatever monks have in their trailers. But the town still had a little twist up its sleeve that made us chuckle, principally a little shop selling clothes called ‘O Cara’. Now, unless my youngest has such undiscovered business acumen that she has managed to set up a new Multinational retail business in between her spelling homework and dance lessons, then I don’t think this has anything to do with her. However, that did not stop her claiming it as her own, and proudly standing in front of it, like a new football manager on his first day at his new club (only this would have been more Doncaster Rovers than Old Trafford).

After a suitably French lunch of fresh crusty baguettes filled with the local version of salami (rather more colourful, tasty and spicy than anything I have seen Tescos selling) and a salad that for once didn’t look as if it had been thieved from a hamster’s cage, we strolled back to the car and headed back towards the villa. While we were some distance from the Pyrenees, the landscape was nonetheless suitably rocky and (for a family used to the less than heady heights of East Anglia) vaguely mountainous, and rather reminded me of Devon, but a Devon on steroids – it was almost as lush and green as those dreamy rolling hills in that glorious part of England, and had more than its fair share of sheep and cows scattered almost aimlessly, like some great hand had decorated the land with them as if they were sprinkling a cake with hundreds and thousands. But it was then as if that hand had scoured out the valleys to make them deeper, twisted and more rugged, and then grabbed hold of the peaks and stretched and moulded them into an altogether more dramatic and craggy skyline. Okay, it wasn’t the Alps around Innsbruck or even the Highlands surrounding Loch Lomond, but I rather like these almost second division landscapes – they are often quieter, less pock-marked with loud commerciality and tourist traps, and have an altogether more real-world feel about them, while at the same time quietly charming and attractive. Even the tourist oriented enterprises that did exist had a clear affinity with the landscape, notably if you were daft enough to want to plonk yourself in lump of plastic that passed as a canoe and hurl yourself around in some of the less than tranquil waters of the Basque hills, or even park your backside on a horse and go trekking into the vast unknown. Being of the timid variety of British, and moreover, being the father of two girls whose obsession with the delights of a swimming pool border on the disturbing, we forsook these ephemeral attractions for the pleasure of immersing oneself in water without the aid of a lifejacket.

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I have a picture in my shambolic collection of old photos that shows myself and my two accomplices from 20 years ago, when we first travelled to this part of France. Once you have stopped laughing at the shiny blue running shorts, the ridiculously tight white vest, the mild beer-gut and the sunglasses big enough for two people, you notice that apart from me and my companions, all you can see is a spectacular clear view from the edge of this mountain top, across the green fields that sweep at an alarmingly steep descent through to the plain of the river valley beyond and out to the Atlantic Sea – it’s a bit like the biggest skate ramp in the Universe (Ever!). My memory of this place is one of wonder and tranquillity, but also (like so many discovered destinations) the fun of getting there.

La Rhune is something of a cultural symbol for the French Basques. At nearly 3000 feet high, close to the Spanish border, and lying just back from the coast behind St Jean de Luz, you should have the most splendid panorama across land and sea, the Basque Pyrenees to east and south, the Bay of Biscay to the West, and away towards the Landes to the north. Getting up to La Rhune was a happy discovery in 1983, when we stumbled across the little rack railway sited at the Col de St Ignace on the road to Sare. Granted, memory becomes more rose-tinted and less wistful with age, but I recall the bottom station being a small discreet affair, perhaps the odd small associated retail outlet, probably an obligatory ice cream van, and a gentle saunter in at any time of day, to buy a ticket and hop on board a quaint little carriage with other like minded amiable travellers, as we shifted around with eager anticipation whilst the train wound its way quietly up the steep slopes to the summit. I do recall marvelling at the views and vistas that opened up as we travelled up the mountain, and of course the truly breathtaking visual assault that greeted us as we stepped out at the summit, and made our way to what seemed a small viewing area, circled with a low, makeshift wall.

Either I have chronic memory failure, or 20 years has changed things rather more drastically than I had feared, or perhaps this is just what society is like these days. If there was one thing that I had savoured showing Sharon and the girls, it was La Rhune, with all its romance and beauty, but I suppose the cynic in me should have known better. To begin with, parking was a veritable Gordian Knot of a task – I had not seen such traffic chaos and lines of cars looking as if they had been thrown into the verges by some cantankerous giant since Silverstone 1983, although at least this time we did not have to walk so far that by the time we got there, things were almost over (I still remember the sinking feeling when on the last section of our marathon trek into the circuit, my ears were assaulted by the unmistakeable sound of a pack of Formula One cars blasting away from the grid, while we were almost on our knees with exhaustion, and yet to even get into the circuit). Having found a spot beside the road which seemed a perfect fit for the car, providing you didn’t mind it being an occasional hazard for oncoming traffic, and wended our way up the road to the station, we then had to join a line that would not have looked out of place in a Moscow bread queue (except the Muscovites probably behave rather better than the average tourist, and dress rather more soberly).

Eventually, we managed to make the ticket office, and my money was taken with the practised art of someone who was on commission for the number of passengers he could get through his turnstile. Problem was that having squeezed onto the platform, there appeared to be a mismatch between the number of people waiting and the capacity of this waiting place. That is to say that the former grossly exceeded the latter, so that the mass that waited, bundling and spilling over the track and every other area around the station made it look like an evacuation scene from a Hollywood blockbuster. When the train arrived, it was clear that this actually was a scene from a Hollywood blockbuster, as people elbowed and trampled their way into the carriages, so throwing my polite, English meekness aside, I of course let them, but we still managed to find two spaces opposite each other of sufficient size that if Sharon and I melded into a single person, and Cara sat on Sian’s lap, we could sit in comfort. Okay, it wasn’t quite that bad, but it was all pretty cosy, and that in itself spelt, sorry, smelt, another problem.

Immediately behind us in this mobile open sided sardine can was a family of swarthy appearance, most of more than ample girth. There must have been ten of them, but chances are they were double this size, but to save room, they had swallowed the other 10 offspring, which would have accounted for their somewhat portly stature. They were also inclined to talk profusely, in a language that had me baffled, and at a level that challenged ones comfort. Okay, okay enough of the pleasantries – they were fat, greasy, loud and – worst of all - unpleasantly fragrant. The smell was difficult to describe, but if you were to blend the atmosphere of a boys sports changing room from a 1930’s school that was in need of refurbishment, a condemned kitchen from a flat in Hackney where they probably fried everything (twice), and an armpit that hadn’t seen soap for a fortnight, you wont be far wrong. The look on Sharons face was a curious combination of distress and amusement, and total relief when we got to the top.

I am pleased to say that the view from the summit of La Rhune was still splendid, if a little misty on that particular August day. The coast and the sea were just visible, while to the south there was a wonderfully textured landscape of hummocks and peaks, winding valleys, and sweeping little swathes of forest painted onto the hillsides far below. A solitary footpath swept away from the summit down a slope that seemed to run at a constant 45 degrees, perfectly zigging one way and then zagging the other, like a lace track in a corset, until it disappeared in a closing funnel of trees into the quiet green idyll below. Tracks and roads ran amok in this distant countryside, thin and apparently random as if they had been scratched and etched by a dreamy doodler. Above all of this birds soared, wheeled, circled and rose amongst the mist and the green and the mountains. While a clear, crisp view would have been particularly splendid, it was still beautiful and tranquil, providing you kept away from Mr & Mrs Loud n’ Smelly and their assembled horde.

The problem with the summit however was a function of the welcome that was perpetrated in its retail establishments, particularly the Café. It seemed a reasonable idea to have a sandwich and a drink, but such an experience is inevitably coloured by three things 1) The staff 2) The food 3) The price. I am afraid that on all three counts, this place failed so badly, I began to pine for McDonalds. Surly would have been a polite way to describe the tight black haired princess of evil that deigned to take our order, and then threw it on the table when she returned. Your choice of food was processed warm cheese, processed warm ham or (if you were feeling in particularly celebratory mood) warm processed ham and cheese in a flaccid baguette, while we opted for Coke all round for drinks to save entering into what might have been a dialogue we would regret with Mademoiselle Merde. To cap it all, I thought I was going to have to telex my bank to release sufficient funds to pay. To be honest, all they needed to do was put a big collection box at the summit station exit with a sign simply saying ‘Give us all your money – now piss off back down!’ At least that would have had some honesty about it.

This all rather tainted the experience, and certainly shattered the memories that I had, but I wouldn’t want to dissuade anyone from making this trip. The railway ride is still delightful, and if you choose the right day, the views are awesome. I can also categorically say that our encounters with those of a dubious nature were not representative of what we found elsewhere. An example may help to illustrate.

On the way back to the Villa, we decided that the time had come to change some of the travellers cheques into hard, cold cash, failing which it would have to be Euros. For this we needed a bank, and for this we needed a reasonably sized town. Unfortunately for the bank concerned, we chose Cambo Les Bains. Cambo is a quiet, very green town, particularly known as being one of a number of spa towns in the region, and on this afternoon, it seemed particularly hushed and serene – I am always faintly troubled when you can find a parking spot with consummate ease in a place where you really should have to have a fight to secure it. But here we were, pulled up outside a bank that was clearly open for business, and I assumed was used to tourists wandering in to try their faltering French and exude embarrassment at their own failings as compared to the French mastery of English. We stood politely in the queue while a succession of ordinary French people did whatever French people do at a bank at three o’clock in the afternoon – pay their TV licence, buy stamps, swap a few funny jokes about the English. And then it was our turn.

Even before I opened my mouth, I sensed an air of uncertainty and concern, although not a hint of menace or displeasure. This young girl sat before me, on the other side of a counter so pristine and sparkling you could probably have seen your reflection (if you had been stupid enough to try), looked equally unsullied and pure, and somehow I just knew that we were about to enter the twilight zone together. Here we go, best false smile to preface your worst French
“ Bonjour, est ce que vous changez les Travellers Cheques?”. To the best of my knowledge, there wasn’t a decent French equivalent of travellers cheques, and in any event, saying it in your strongest English accent made sure they had no doubt that you couldn’t really master the language if they had locked you up in Linguaphones headquarters for three years.
I thrust my passport and the travellers cheques onto the counter, but this did little more than confuse her further. For a few seconds she looked at me with a curious combination of total blankness and abject fear, but unlike a rabbit in my headlights, she didn’t choose the option of walking aimlessly into danger to be flattened by Michelins finest. Instead, she disappeared out to the back office where there were heard a variety of voices in differing pitches and tones, but all with the same unmistakable tinge of panic. Sian and I looked at each other, and fidgeted nervously. Maybe what I had actually said was an insult to her family, and that if she didn’t hand over one million euros instantly, I would fart profusely in the corner. Perhaps she had gone to fetch the armed branch of the Gendarmerie, who of course all sit around drinking coffee in the back of all French provincial Post Offices.

She returned with an equally young and fresh faced man, and a handsome Madamoiselle, but all were smiling, no pistols or AK47’s at their side.
“You word like to change zees into Euros?”
“Oui. Yes please” I said, as if saying yes in two languages might get me preferential treatment.
More smiles, and concerned shuffling about.

To cut a rather long story short (or to précis, to give its proper French translation), all three gave me the utmost attention in what I thought was a simple task, but clearly one which to them was akin to being asked to build a bridge with a packet of polos, two rubber bands and six empty matchboxes. They cheerfully, yet purposefully sorted out what was clearly the wrong form for me to sign, put down my address as my next of kins address (which in itself is wrong, as my parents moved two years ago, and I hadn’t bothered to change it in the back on my passport), and failed to charge me any commission.

On departure I gave them a genuine smile, and they even seemed to join Sian and I in a little chuckle. I like to think that I was a major factor in training them in how to change travellers cheques, a little bit of cross channel consultancy.

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Actually, I have any number of examples of the French being both helpful and friendly, but there is one other that stands out. Leaving late one morning, we were venturing again into the interior, and by lunchtime were reasonably close to our destination, when we passed through the town of Hasparren. It is a fairly unremarkable, but perfectly inoffensive place, but at midday on a Tuesday, was all rather lifeless, virtually all shops closed, just a few bars with their doors open, usually with a wily looking old Frenchman sat at a table by himself, almost invariably with a fag drooping from his mouth, either remonstrating amiably (like only the French can) with someone else propped at the bar, or pouring over his paper. This then was not a promising trail for us to find something to eat of the snack variety, but we happened upon what I can only surmise was a small delicatessen, with a small line in the tiniest filled rolls I have ever seen. Owing to their size, and won over by the proprietors warm smile, we pretty much cleaned out his stock, even if he did clearly think we were mad to buy up what was probably a weeks supply of canapés and finger food. Like most others we met in France, they were polite, utterly forgiving of our atrocious French, and genuine in their good wishes.

This came home to me within 30 seconds of wandering out of his shop, when I heard shouts of “ Monsieur, Monsieur!”. I turned around thinking that once more what I thought I had said was wide of the mark, but within a few seconds realised he was brandishing something that was definitely not of a threatening nature. In fact, it was my wallet. A tip – if you do not know the language well enough, beware of being profuse, as you probably sound like a total dickhead. For me, I didn’t care, but was aware that trying to say ‘thank you very, very much, you are a hero, how can I thank you, you are truly a God etc’ in another language would probably bring ridicule. Like the affable French gentleman he was, he shrugged and toddled back to his shop, bless him.

Our destination for this journey were the nearby prehistoric caves, or Grottes d’Isturitz et Oxocelhaya. These are in fact two sets of long abandoned chambers and cavities of the underground course of the River Aberoue, located one above the other. What I liked about this from the beginning was the rustic, understated nature of the place, including the rough but neat gravelled car park, from where you had to walk a good 15 minutes along a track that led along the side of a hill, rising ever more steeply and affording long views across fields, thick hedgerows and scattered farmsteads, and out to more hills and distant mountains. This I felt was more French than we had seen, and was all the more rich for the relative peace and quiet, save for cawing crows and chattering birds, the gentle conversation of the odd group of people that passed by, and the bonkers antics of Cara, who insisted she make her way up this path, leaping from one hidden spot to another like a demented cross between James Bond and Wonderwoman, only without the satin tights.

When we reached the entrance, there was of course the obligatory visitor centre, but the quiet, discreet and tasteful theme continued, built tidily into the hillside, constructed of (presumably local) wood, and without the glaring signs and posters inciting me to ingest a triple whopper burger, whilst at the same time imploring me to inject a certain fizzy drink whose addictive qualities may bear more than a passing resemblance to its globally shortened name. In fact, all there was, was a sign telling us the time of the next tour, another pleasant lady who sussed our nationality within a microsecond, and a modest little exhibition and shop, all, of course, in the best possible taste. The caves were first discovered in 1895, and consist of some 600m of incredible underground tunnels and mazes. Neanderthal Man was the first tenant, but in the first hint of a changing rooms society, he was succeeded by Cro-Magnon, something of a handyman, inventor and artist (a sort of early Linda Barker and Handy Andy in one), who by all accounts had quite an impact on the world. In all there are more than 70 000 objects, paintings and engravings that have been uncovered on the site, and are witness to the importance of this place.

While the cold of these places is always the thing that hits you, you cant help but be stunned by the size, proportion and capacity of the caves, and your first entrance into the upper cave, the Grotte Isturitz is no exception. It is in this complex that there is most evidence of mans early obsession with interior design and decoration, but I am pleased to report, not a sign of MDF or Roman Murals. More impressive for me is the astounding natural geological theatre of the second stage of the tour, into the Grotte Oxocelhaya. The Caves own literature describes these as ‘a natural masterpiece, a cathedral of rock carved by water over thousands of years’ and I would not disagree. The incredibly convoluted shapes and formations, the fascinating and magical natural stalagmites and stalactites, columns, discs, petrified cascades and curtains, in a range of some of the earths most translucent and warm colours through reds, oranges, dusky pinks and ochres, are quite astounding. You could well imagine being in one of Disneys best and most imaginative scenes of make-believe, except this was real and all the more enthralling and captivating for that – you really could not imagine or make this up. It would have been surreal, if it wasn’t for the knowledge that this was as natural as earth, wind and water, and indeed it was all made by those three elements.

Just to round off the impression, our guide (who hadn’t spoken a word of English), then proceeded to ‘play’ a huge range of stalagmites that looked like a range of oversized organ pipes, but sounded like a monstrous and very deep glockenspiel - as he hit them, they resonated, like some great underground music system, only with a touch more finesse and mystery than The Darkness on CD. We then trundled back up several flights of stairs and then were thrust rudely back into the real, brightly lit world, as the warm air and the green vista of rural south west France lay before us. I have rarely witnessed the juxtaposition of two natural scenes so apparently diverse, but both deserve attention.

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I used to love football. I say this in the past tense, as it fails to get me excited or interested these days – angry and despairing, yes, interested, no. Call me a Grumpy Old Man (and personally, I am happy to wear the badge with pride), but it lacks the flair and honest passion that seemed apparent to me when I watched the likes of Best, Charlton and Law (sorry, the 1968 European Cup sucked me into Manchester United like millions of others). Instead, I have to watch snide sub-intellectuals who have abundant qualifications in cheating, acting and it would seem spitting in your opponents face when the referee isn’t looking. Call me old fashioned, but it doesn’t really do it for me like George at his best making an opponents defence look like a group of uncoordinated drunks. I could go on, but it would get very boring.

In this part of France however, the French have a game that will have you breathless just sitting in your seat. In fact, it’s the only live entertainment I have ever watched which made me forget that at all live events they make the seat so uncomfortable, you may as well be asked to bring your own concrete block. In Italy, every town, village and hamlet will have a football pitch. In the Basque country, you will find Pelota courts marginally more numerous than McDonalds – that’s to say, they are everywhere.

In it simplest form, it is a high wall that looks just like the back wall of a squash court, with a modest court (or ‘fronton’) laid out in front, but in its most theatrical and energetic format, it is a covered three sided battleground, with spectators ranged on stands at the open side. You could (just about) be forgiven for thinking this was just a glorified version of that old schoolground favourite (well, it was in my day!) of fives, but even the most seasoned fives champion from the back wall just behind the boys toilets at Richard Hale School during the early 1970’s would have been a cowering lump of mincemeat in this arena to the truly fast and furious. The game is believed to have developed from a Basque version of Handball in the 17th century, and found its true spiritual home in Spain. From there it was exported to Cuba and arrived in Miami in 1924 (the Americans steal all the best ideas). Apparently, it is played at its most serious and professional in Mexico, Cuba and Miami, and, I am told, ‘less competitively’ in southern Europe. Let me tell you, if what I saw was ‘less competitive’, then I suggest we simply round up some Pelota players from downtown Miami and send them after Osama Bin Laden, as I doubt he would stand a chance (unless he is secret world class pelota player of course).

There are a variety of versions of this apparently contrived form of sport and entertainment, but probably the most popular is ‘Cesta Punta’, where players use a curved wicker basket strapped to their arms like some alien extension out of a John Carpenter Sci-Fi horror. In keeping with the gladiatorial theme, players wear hard hats, and strike their opponents down with swords. Okay, no, they don’t slay their fellow competitors with large glinting blades, but this has all the speed and ferocity of that sort of arena, without the loss of whole limbs and pools of blood. There are however frequent pools of sweat which have to be mopped up at regular intervals, and I can’t say I am surprised.

In simple terms, in the game of doubles that I saw, one team hits (or rather launches) the ball against the court wall to the right, and tries to do so at such speed and with such perverse angles, dips and sheer guile that their opponents can’t (according to my simple understanding of physics and the ability of man to move at modest speed) possibly return it – except they do. To describe this as a manic game of squash does not do it justice. Consider: one little research article tells me that it is not unknown for the ball to travel at 150 miles per hour – then ponder that this is not just a one off rampant serve from a pumped-up Sampras, but is the velocity that this small, hard, goatskin ball travels at each fling towards the wall and then rebounding back. Now take four white clad combatants as fiercely competitive as I have seen outside a Wales vs England Rugby scrum, and mix in with abundant and astounding skills in running, catching, twisting on a centime and hurling the ball back towards the court wall in one, flowing, seamless balletic movement. And all this with an unnatural appendage attached to your arm to apparently aid the process. I can only really liken it to an engrossing lifesize version of pinball, with all the unexpected movement, colour and adrenaline that you could imagine, and with a crowd almost as fevered as the play. I was utterly transfixed, I saw catches, moves and returns that I would not have thought were possible, and I was more caught up in the excitement than I have ever been at any sporting event, save possibly seeing dear old Nigel Mansell monstering a Ferrari through the old Stowe corner at Silverstone, looking like it was on rails, when the speed suggested it should have been demolishing the scenery. In fact, in one small lull, I caught my wife looking at me with a mixture of disbelief and amusement, completely taken aback that her usually implacable and unemotional old man was twitching, gasping and gesticulating like a ..well, like a twitching, gasping and gesticulating old man – a sort of Terry Wogan on speed, I suspect.

If you ever get the chance to go and see this astounding game, do not miss it. 20 years ago, I saw the even more ridiculous version where they play on a smaller, and more intimate, court, and merely have some frankly inadequate little wooden plates strapped to their palms to hit the ball against the wall. It is possible that they are all completely barking, but to me it is simply sporting competition distilled to its finest and most exciting elements.

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To be nostalgic again just for a moment, when I was last in this appealing part of France, we stayed in an apartment block in St Jean de Luz, a short distance south of Biarritz, and almost close enough to the Spanish border for the French to leer disdainfully at their southern neighbours – you know, the sort of look that I find waiters in Paris have perfected to such an extent, it can make you wince, hide under your table, or simply run. During our period of residence, south west France suffered some of the most dramatic and catastrophic rainstorms ever witnessed, which, apart from wiping the smirks of one or two faces, actually caused rather a lot of genuine destruction and mayhem. Our apartment block was something of a godsend (being on the 5th floor) and a surreal vantage point to witness the results of such natural savagery, as we were located right next to the River Nivelle, that flows directly from the Pyrenees and out in the Atlantic through St Jean de Luz and neighbouring Ciboure. Only after water was sent into the River system in quantities that it could not handle, the Nivelle rather blasted through the towns and villages upstream, before positively roaring through St Jean at a height many metres above normal, and brought with it a mass of detritus that was both sad and bizarre. I still have photos that shows not only the normal flotsam of tree branches and modern day litter (perhaps Coke cans do grow on trees), but also several caravans and more than one fridge. It all rather spoiled the somewhat chic air that St Jean de Luz tried hard to portray.

Twenty years on, and on a warm and sultry Sunday morning, the only thing troubling me was finding somewhere to park. I didn’t remember St Jean being quite this busy or indeed, quite this large, but today it seemed to be doing a passable impression of central London. While this would be no problem for your usual balanced and calm individual, put me in a car where I have already been around the block twice trying to find a space, and have witnessed at least three old ladies in pristine little Renault Clios have the extraordinary good fortune of someone pulling out of gap that is remarkably Clio-sized just as they arrive, just one car in front of me, and with the added indignity of the rest of the family starting to giggle at my misfortune, and you can watch my pallor change in real time, hear my teeth grind and flinch at the expletives. All fathers will recognise the scenario, particularly the one where, having finally found a spot about 3 miles away, and where the size of the space is such that cutting a hole in the roof might make getting out of the car quicker, your ever supportive family deliver their final volley of mirth at your expense and are falling about in uncontrollable hilarity – and all this does is make you even more angry, until you finally turn and strop off somewhere (probably in the opposite direction to where you want to go, which makes the return journey back past the car and your assembled humiliators still more painful). But never mind, I am sure they love you really.

St Jean de Luz is undoubtedly smart, but not intimidating or haughty. You could wander around its pretty streets and squares for hours, and although many of the shops and stalls are tourist oriented, it generally steers clear of the worst excesses of tat. While as a resort, the town actually dates back only to the mid 19th century, the port dates back many hundreds of years, though few buildings survive from before 1558, at which point a fire destroyed much of the townscape, which means much of the seafront is modern. But there is sufficient of interest to make St Jean an absorbing and charming place, with many pedestrian precincts, and a rather neat, intrinsically French blend of pleasant beach resort and attractive port. The beach that lays out in front of the town, with a high promenade immediately behind, is a pleasure, and it would be both churlish, and disingenuous to suggest that the confection of buildings that lay behind the beach spoil the impression, because frankly, they do not. Time did not permit a lengthy stay on the beach, but we satisfied ourselves with a fresh tuna baguette, sat in the half shade, on the wall overlooking the beach and luxuriating in the atmosphere and contented scene around us.

The mention of Tuna neatly moves us onto the port. While I still could not imagine Whales being hauled up into this rather peaceable town, fishing is still a significant livelihood, especially fishing for Tuna. For those, like me, who had no idea as to the proportions and size of a Tuna fish, and who, understandably, equate the little cans you get with a sea borne creature of similar measurements, I have a shock for you. It was only when I first came here, that I saw being landed what looked like a cross between a dolphin in a tight black wet-suit, and the fish of Satan. Its big, its pretty much black and its ugly, but it tastes ever so good. The port itself is picturesque without being twee, a number of elegant and ancient buildings guarding over the harbour. I liked St Jean de Luz twenty years ago, and I like it now. Its not breathtaking, stunning, awe-inspiring or dramatic, but it is accommodating (save the car parking), human, attractive and relaxing – and pretty much everywhere does a mean Salad Nicoise.

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If St Jean de Luz is a little understated and modestly chic, Bayonne is rather more loud and impressive. I am not one to draw conclusions here, but the town was in fact English for 300 years. Okay, in 1451, it reverted to French rule, but perhaps there is a remnant of English brashness that resides in this lively and interesting town. A codicil however – Biarritz and Bayonne virtually merge into one big conurbation, but the true heart of Bayonne are the two areas known as Grand and Petit Bayonne, on the banks of the River Adour at its junction with the Nive. Park on the western side of the old town, and you will find yourself in pleasant parkland, looking up at striking ramparts that run around the southwest quadrant. Take the signposted route through these grand monuments and within minutes you are within an array of romantic and striking streets and tall buildings, peering at the splendour of St Mary’s Cathedral, built between the 13th and 16th centuries. If you are not bothered by a fixed itinerary (and in any event, Old Bayonne is not that big), then just wander and marvel. There are 14th century gothic cloisters, half timbered medieval town houses, impossibly atmospheric, and sometimes narrow, thoroughfares with tottering, towering buildings, busy squares and bustling cafes, museums, quays and attractive covered arcades sheltering pristine little shops serving such delicious looking pastries and chocolates, that you will need to take a Kleenex to wipe the drool off your shoes.

Bayonne was an extremely prosperous and busy port, reaching its peak in the 18th century, and in such conditions trades and crafts burgeon and blossom. One such was the towns Corporation of Ironworkers and Armourers, whose members invented the bayonet (named, unsurprisingly, after Bayonne), and which was first used by the French infantry in 1703. This might suggest a somewhat aggressive or pugilistic nature for these particular brand of French, or possibly its that latent English hooligan element from the 14th century, and perhaps it was this that prompted one of the few moments of disappointment in what was otherwise a harmonious Anglo-French meeting during our two week stay. According to my little guide book, if I was on a budget (and we have to take this term with a soupcon de sel as far as this particular guide book is concerned), I should head for a particular restaurant on the waterfront overlooking the Nive. We had checked out a few other establishments in the area beforehand, but thought that, yes, prices were reasonable, in a French sort of way, and the menu looked interesting without being too leftfield (always important when you have to feed two children as well). Being fairly early in the evening (another child led dictat), the place appeared to be empty, and so I sauntered in, and in my probably very obvious English version of French, enquired
“Excusez-moi, esque vous avez une table pour quatre, s’il vous plait?”
Perhaps it was that I had used the feminine noun for ‘table’, perhaps I really should have shaved before we ventured out, or perhaps the waiters blood line ran all the way back to an ancient Bayonne tradesmen who had had something of an altercation with an arriving Brit back in 1154 which ended in tears. Either way, I eventually made out that he was telling me that the place was fully booked. Yeah, right, and I am Jamie Oliver come to check out your ingredients. I gave him a mildly incredulous look, realised that wearing shorts might not have endeared me to him, and walked away.

No matter. We simply went to the other side of the river, found a slightly more down to earth café, and enjoyed, amongst other things, an excellent ‘soupe de poisson’, piles of crevettes piled high in garlic, and a refreshing beer or two, while we murmured barely audible insults across the water. It didn’t spoil the impression of Bayonne one little bit, but it did remind me that in every quarter, in every culture, in every country, you will always find a modicum of prejudice. And on reflection, you probably find rather more of it in England than anywhere else. Bon Apetit!

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A quiet word with the parents amongst you, just make sure the kids aren’t listening. As upstanding and responsible adults, and as conduits of wisdom for our offspring, we of course always like to think of opportunities to enrich our minds and our souls, seeking out experiences that rise above the cheap thrills of theme parks and arcades, that question and teach, thereby underpinning the good morals and social values that we endeavour to engender for ourselves and our children. Of course, that’s all total bollocks, and you don’t have to pretend with me. I know precisely where you’re at, and you are not going to persuade me that a saunter around the National Gallery is going to get the thumbs up ahead of a trip to Thorpe Park. But its okay, I won’t tell the kids, even though they already know – must maintain some semblance of worldly stoicism. I understand, I am there with you, making all the same mistakes.

And so it was as I pondered what to do on a rather nondescript Thursday, with the Hound of the Baskervilles at least mercifully silent for a moment, a map and a local guide spread before me, and the thought of nobility rather then entertainment beginning to whisper gently from the wings – Perhaps the Oriental Art Museum, or the Imperial Chapel (‘A charming construction of Roman-Byzantine and Hispanic-Moorish style, dedicated to the Notre Dame of Guadaloupe, the Mexican black virgin’ – to which, I really have no answer). Then I looked at my children, already showing early signs of boredom, easily recognised by their willingness to watch French television without understanding a word of what was going on, and I came to my senses. In any event, it is possible to be entertained and educated, even if the education bit can sometimes go in one ear and out the other so quickly, it is worth checking if there actually is some cerebral matter between these two particular points.

First stop was the Chocolate Museum. Yes, I know this sounds a bit odd, but consider if you will the ingredients of this little package – Chocolate (confectionary beloved of children and wives) and museum (makes you feel at least modestly worthy). Now I am used to unprepossessing buildings, since you can usually take the opulence of a structure as being inversely proportional to the interest of its contents (I call it the Black Magic syndrome – remember the ever so dull chocolates in the ridiculously overblown box with a rim and ribbon?), and the Biarritz Chocolate Museum appeared to be housed in an annexe to an Argos Depot. Actually, that’s a bit unfair, but it did give the impression of being just a tad industrial. No matter, in we went, to be greeted by a cheery young lady who took all of a nanosecond to deduce that we were English, and then offered us each a rather worn Walkman. This is a good start, I thought – they obviously think the British will be so bored that they would prefer to wander round listening to their holiday tapes rather than pay any attention to the museum and its contents. Then I realised that as she was giving us a tape as well, this was to be our spoken guide. How quaint and thoughtful. Or at least it would have been if my left earpiece hadn’t kept cutting out, and the tape hadn’t continuously slowed down and then speeded up, the poor commentator veering from Pinky and Perky impressions one minute, to Darth Vader the next. I abandoned this very special form of French torture within about 5 minutes.

No matter. The exhibitions were really rather charming and entertaining on their own, including some extraordinary chocolate sculptures of animals that must have taken hours, if not days, of painful dedication. There were also ancient contraptions and implements that might not have looked out of place in the London Dungeon, but I was assured were used at some point in the whole cocoa bean-to-Cadbury Dairy Milk process. Of course, the Aztecs must take the rap for chocolate and all things associated, and while I have no problem with most of it, even they may have shot a poison dart in the direction of Fererro for the most contrived and naff twist on an otherwise rather pleasant comestible. However, it seems even the Aztecs themselves may have taken the odd wrong turn along the way. Apparently, when Cortes rolled up in Mexico, he was offered what Montezuma and his pals thought was something a bit special made up of grilled cocoa, pimento and corn flour. While my little notes didn’t actually tell me that Cortes threw up on the spot, suffice to say, he didn’t share the view of his hosts. Still, Cortes prompted the Spanish to trade rather than use cocoa beans (‘ 100 beans a slave’ I was proudly told), and hence it spread around the rest of the globe fairly swiftly. Clearly, the Europeans in particular couldn’t help messing around with this bean for more imaginative and decadent use and consumption, while the Aztecs, bless them, stuck to their view that it was just another medicine – to quote my little information sheet (verbatim, and with no spelling correction, for added amusement), “Aztecs thought the flower of the cocoa tree was the ultimate medication against all kinds of decease from shyness to mental apathy or foot wounds. The bark of the tree was used to cure diarrhea and hemorrhoids”. Please, do not try this at home.

The whole Basque region is of course more than a little connected to Spain, and it would appear that when the Spanish and Portuguese Catholics became a tad anti-semitic, the Jews settled somewhere not too far away where they could continue to trade and manufacture. Since some of them had dealt with cocoa and chocolate during their rather troubled stay south of the border, they kicked off something of a local industry, hence the local prevalence of confectionery establishments and something of an obsession with one of the worlds great indulgences. The journey around this really quite fascinating little museum included a brief demonstration of grinding, molding and generally messing about with the little dark bean in as many ways as you can, and the usual lesson on the difference between dark and white chocolate (the former having the cocoa powder in whatever quantities you want according to darkness and bitterness required, while the latter is without said cocoa powder, made essentially with cocoa butter). And of course, you really can’t come to a temple of chocolate without just a little bit of tasting, and herein is another little nugget of quirky information, which I shall again lift from my equally quirky information sheet – “1920: At that time, women were not allowed to consume liquor in public. Chocolate filled with liquor will permit a discreet consumption”. I can imagine the French husband in 1920’s France perpetually perplexed that the wife seemed to have a constant adverse reaction to a bit of chocolate troughing, almost as if she were pissed in fact. Que’est ce qui se passe?

After the obligatory purchase of vastly overpriced chocolate merchandise from the end-of-tour shop, we handed our walkmans back to the front desk, whereupon I (think) I was asked if they had performed up to their supposed specification. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I had the vocabulary and linguistic skills to accurately portray the true uselessness of these contraptions that would probably have been discarded from a 1970’s memorabilia auction. I briefly flirted with simply saying in straight English ‘they are utter shite’, but our engaging host had such a warm smile that I couldn’t bring myself to spoil here day, and ended up saying the opposite – “Tres Bien!”. And with that, we were gone.

Our next stop was not a great distance, in fact just a ten minute scoot back north into central Biarritz, and into the Marine Museum. This is a rather Art Deco confection of white buildings and red tile roofs, tumbling down a rock face on one of the more obvious promontories that thrust out from the town into the Atlantic, and a rather splendid location it is too. Not only that, but I also happen to think it’s a rather splendid little mix of museum and aquarium, and one which is clearly rooted in its locality, featuring as it does a particular focus on marine life in The Bay of Biscay, the waters that lap around the shores of the region. Firstly, its not too big, which is good for children whose attention span can sometimes be more fleeting than a genuine witticism from Anne Robinson. Secondly, it retains interest partly from being on four levels, rather than one big sprawling, seamless exhibition. Thirdly, it has just the right combination of ‘AAhhh’, ‘OOhhh’, ‘Uuurghh’and ‘Woow’, in the order (as an example) respectively of Seals in an open pool (particularly at feeding time), some seriously menacing sharks in their own underwater viewable tank, and a lower level of succeeding small aquariums that have some of the most strange and mysterious fish and other aquatic creatures I have ever seen. Favourites of the latter included an octopus that I am sure I last saw on an episode of Doctor Who back in the mid 1970’s, a fish that looked as if it had turned itself inside out and then exploded, and the rapidly created game of spot the Flounder. This extraordinary bottom-dweller can nestle itself in amongst the debris and sand and appear utterly invisible to all but the keenest eye. And all of these are of course native to the seas of The Biscay, and, as far as I am aware, none are an endangered species, which also marks this place above your average zoo – in essence, it was like a little porthole into the water world that surrounds these shores, but it took nothing from them. Indeed, if my vague understanding of some of the French was modestly correct, I think I am right in saying that the majority of the seals were in captivity purely because they had been injured and rescued, and would not, on their own, have survived the rather harsher waters of the Atlantic. Of course, it is entirely possible, that word on the excellent facilities at the Marine Museum have leaked out to the wider seal populus, and maybe the odd rather roguish seal has feigned a collision with a dinghy, and contrived to wash himself up on the beach. Don’t ask me why, but I have this picture of a seal laying half reclined on one of Biarritz’s beaches, propped on one fin, the other draped mournfully across its brow, and a pained expression on its cheeky face, asking if there is any room at La Musee.

The rest of the museum (founded 1935 for those who require such information) contains a variety of exhibits, particularly the cetacean gallery which includes the skeletons of some of the animals caught or washed ashore along the coast, most notably one of the poor mammal most associated with Biarritz, a whale. There are also presentations of different fishing techniques employed in the Atlantic, and, not surprisingly, a significant feature on whaling, while if you are of the tree-hugging variety, you will no doubt appreciate the sections on coastline conservation and study. Indeed, the museum is a permanent home to ongoing scientific research in the area. Personally, I would thoroughly recommend the place, and for the children (and those adults who are still children, but would rather not admit it – which is most of us) it is absorbing, entertaining and educational, and you really cant say fairer than that.

But we were not quite finished for the day. As you step out of the Marine Museum, you face Rocher de la Vierge, or (for those of you who have even lost your ‘O’ level French) Virgins Rock. Crowned with a statue of the Virgin Mary, it is one of, if not the, Biarritz’s main landmarks, and it is another of dear old Napoleons legacies for the town. Originally, this was a long, jagged reef extending from the rest of the mainland, poking out into the sea for more than 140 metres. Napoleon, perhaps intoxicated by the sea air and his rather heady romance with Eugenie, or possibly because he had had a bevy too many, came up with the idea of hollowing out the out the rock and linking it to the cliff by a wooden bridge. It was not the work of a moment, and the poor buggers who got lumbered with the work must have felt more than a bit peeved, as it took them two years to complete, thanks to someone having a bit of a blind spot to the fact that waves crashing against the rocks in the vicinity did not for a pleasant work environment make. The story doesn’t end there however. While the bridge was opened in 1865, and soon became a major attraction of the town, the ravages of the sea were no respecter of a great French Generals flight of fancy, and it seems that by 1873, you would have to have been mildly bonkers to attempt to cross, as two thirds of the bridge ‘est disparu!’. No matter, by this time, steel was coming into general usage, and none other than Gustave Eiffel restored Napoleons rather eccentric little whimsy with something a little more robust. While on this fine and sunny day, a saunter along to say good day to Mary was rather appealing, and afforded splendid views around the whole bay, I am reliably informed that were you try and repeat the feat during rough weather, you will indeed be swimming with the fishes when you had not intended. To turn a blind eye to the obvious religious elements for a moment, I rather like this little Folly, and its all the better for being modest and intimate, laced with a little stupidity along the way. I can relate to modest and stupid.

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The call of sun, sea and sand had proved irresistible to the rest of the troop, and having sampled a variety of beaches within Biarritz and south, we took a run through the thick pine forest of the Landes and to the beach at Hossegor, just north of Capbreton. I confess we took no time to look around either town, but suffice to say that both are reasonably attractive seaside and holiday resorts, though the emphasis is most firmly on resort.

The virtually unswerving straight shoreline that runs almost unbroken from Bayonne in the south all the way to the estuary of the Gironde (near Royan) in the north measures over 140 miles, and is essentially one vast beach, known as the Cote d’Argent. According to my indispensable Michelin Green Guide, the sea deposits sand at an annual rate of 15 to 18 cubic metres per metre of coast – imagine two skip loads of sand being dumped in your front drive for every metre of width. Bit of a bugger when you try to get out of your garage. This sand is then blown inland to create what are the highest dunes in Europe (the highest being the Dune du Pilat, just south of Arcachon at some 114 metres), but of course by the same token, that means if this process goes unchecked, the dunes will continue to move inland. Sensibly, the French were not keen on losing half their country to marauding sand dunes (another idea for a Doctor Who episode, though), and so planted great swathes of shrubs, grasses and trees to keep the whole thing in check. Again, with thanks to the Michelin Men, I am reliably informed that by 1867, this had entailed 7,500 acres of dunes being carpeted with marram grass, and 198,000 acres of dunes being planted with pine trees. Go on then Ground Force, give that one a go!

On this crystal clear cloudless day, the full force of the heat smacked you in the face like a hot towel as soon as you stepped out of the air conditioned cocoon of the Renault. Having parked land side of a constant run of the aforementioned dunes, adjacent to one of a number of little breaks that parted the dunes like a small pass, with large boards that looked like forlorn and discarded palletts placed on the surface as makeshift walkways, we made our way up the dune, and I made the mistake of going ‘off piste’. While these boards are of course placed to help you make some sensible purchase in order to ensure you do not spend hours constantly treading sand on your way up and over the dunes, they have a secondary purpose that I now discovered, courtesy of trying to walk in bare feet – they prevent pratts like me placing my chubby and uninitiated pink flesh directly onto a surface of such heat that the waft of barbecuing instep is but a few seconds away. The audible result of this would normally entail the F-word, but with kids around it was a loud shriek of ‘Jesus Christ!’ which filled the air, coupled with some manic footwork, the like of which hadn’t been seen from me since the days of Saturday Night Fever, while both shared the same trait of being largely uncoordinated. Of course, once again, this produced much mirth amongst the rest of the Neale clan.

You will have gathered from all of this that it was hot, and that was fine – splendid beach as far as the eye can see, inviting blue sea, with waves tumbling back and forth on the shore and enough rays to cause some serious skin cancer for those who thought looking as if they had just stepped out of a searing oven ready to be served up with roast potatoes, numerous veg, and a dose of bread sauce was cool. And there seemed to be plenty of the latter, some of them looking so deep and golden brown that you felt you might be able to peel off a nice piece of crackling. This I could tolerate and understand, since there are innumerable of these rather senseless beings wherever you go. However, it also soon became clear that we had stumbled on something a tad unexpected, and had discovered something that we had not encountered since finding a beautiful secluded and almost deserted beach in southern Spain some years ago. Back then, it only began to dawn when I spotted a beaten up Volkswagen Caravanette to one side of the beach which I swear was decorated with large flowers in lurid colours. This 60’s throwback was then firmly reinforced when out stepped a young thin man so bedecked in facial hair, that those of a religious persuasion might have thought they had witnessed the second coming, which of course then confirmed all my fears – he was stark, bollock naked. Indeed, dear readers, it was a nudist beach.

Back in Spain, this didn’t cause us too much grief. Our fellow bathers were relatively few, and seemed genuinely carefree (either that or they had been on the magic mushrooms a little early), and the kids were far too young to be either bothered or amused. In fact this rather liberating air on this tranquil little bay rather caught us all up in its spell, and the children frolicked around in the sand and sea without a stitch. I confess, the thought did cross my mind to abandon all inhibitions, but everything has its limits. Besides, despite the unshackled nature of the moment, I felt that exposing all my somewhat world weary and flabby torso was probably still an arrestable offence in this part of Almeria.

Pity then that it isn’t an arrestable offence in this part of France. Look, I’m all for a bit of nudity and freedom, but please spare a thought for those of us who remain a little squeamish – if you must put it all on display, please make sure the goods are all in decent order.
“Urrgh, Oh my god!” exclaimed Sharon, as if she had come across a particularly gruesome car accident.
In amongst the odd beached whale (to be honest, for these it doesn’t make any difference if they are clothed or not, they still look like they have been washed up helplessly on the shore), were too many aged and wizened souls who were so brown and wrinkly that they looked like giant prunes, or that their skins were made from recycled old Rover car seats. Hang on a minute, perhaps it’s the other way around. It really wasn’t very nice, and I hate to say this, but rather a disturbing number appeared to have an accent that was of the Teutonic variety. Having got over the initial shock, and accepting that except if you took to looking at them intently (really not recommended on a nudist beach) it wasn’t too offensive, we settled down a discreet (but sufficiently curious) distance away, and established our own little patch of England.

This was all fine and splendid until about an hour later, when I was myself trying not to waddle, as I made my way back to the family encampment after a refreshing drowning session in the sea (the Atlantic takes a fairly robust stance in pushing its contents onto the beaches of south west France, but in doing so it creates hours of endless, and active, fun as you jump and body surf the waves – that is until you meet one that is rather superior to your own reserves of strength, at which point it all suddenly gets a bit edgy. For this reason, I suspect this part of France has more Lifeguards per beach mile than any other). On reaching the sanctity of towel and umbrella, I was confronted by two prunes (of the well endowed variety – well, fat and floppy actually) playing beach tennis. To view such a spectacle is not for the faint hearted. Suffice to say that the old adage as to why ballet dancers wear such tight costumes is true (or to put another way, why you never see nude ballet – they may stop, but bits of them emphatically do not), only in this case there were so many body bits flying around like uncontrollable pendulums, that I thought if I got too close I would risk injury from a flailing wadge of cellulite, or wayward genitalia.

Emotions on this matter waned between amusement and distaste, but I have to say it didn’t detract from what was otherwise a most enjoyable mornings relaxation and entertainment. Despite this being the height of summer and a popular spot on this part of the coast, there was plenty of room to stretch out and play. The sea was just the right temperature to ensure a suitable cooling effect (essential in what was 30 degree heat) and yet sufficiently temperate that simply laying on the shore and letting it lap around you did not trigger creeping hypothermia. Granted, it was necessary to dodge the odd piece of detritus, and not all of it from natural sources (a possible Nobel Prize to the person who can work out the circuitous route that a piece of domestic carpet tile takes from house to Atlantic shoreline), but I have seen far, far worse on a British beach.

By lunchtime, and despite copious amounts of sunscreen, the reddening hue of our skins (except my eldest daughter who maddeningly goes in one simple bound from white to a healthy looking deep honey colour) strongly suggested that we find some other means of amusement, and a bit of welcome shade. Taking the less painful route back to the car (in other words, wearing shoes when walking across steaming hot sand), we then bundled into what had become a mobile oven, only it had the waft of searing cheap fabric rather than crunchy roast potatoes, and a tasty beef joint. There is little to match the painful impatience of sitting in a boiling hot car, whacking on the air conditioning to super-extra-fast-ice-cold, and waiting for the temperature to drop to something even vaguely comfortable, while sticky sweat continues to pour from most parts of your body.

While contemplating the possibility of whether flesh could actually melt, or just spontaneously combust, I poured over the map, and with a glancing reference to my ever present Michelin guide, decided we would head up the coast a little and inland to the small town of Soustons. Apparently, there is nothing remarkable about the town (I will second that), but it did have a large and enticing sounding lake on its doorstep, which I thought sounded like an inoffensive diversion and suitable excuse for a stroll and an ice-cream (it was getting to that time of day, usually foretold with unerring accuracy by Cara’s plaintiff pleas, and I thought a pre-emptive strike this time may spare the worst of any whingeing). In fact, the lake at Soustons (Etang de Soustons, for those who give a damn) covers some 800 acres, and looks it, assisted by its curious figure-8 shape. It is surrounded by the defining element of the ‘Landes’, dense pine forests, but is indeed an attractive and tranquil place to muse at life, while sampling the delights of the local ‘glaces’. Problem was, in this case we came across the one and only French chancer we had encountered all holiday, who thought it would be perfectly in order to rip off a bunch of seemingly off-course Brits. As I had been inclined to do all holiday, I had given the girls sufficient money, and pushed them in the direction of said tradesman to try out their burgeoning French on the locals. All fine and splendid, and the ice cream tasted genuinely, well….creamy and icy really. It was only a few minutes later that I noticed the amount of change they had returned to me seemed to be at odds with the supposed cost of these treats, no matter how fine and tasty they may be. I sauntered towards the hut from where this sneaky frog was peddling his wares, stopped a little short, eyed his prices, then down at my change, then looked accusingly at him. He looked straight at me with that ‘come and have a go if you think your French is hard enough’ sort of look, and I stared back at him. Then I ran up to him, picked him up by the lapels, and headbutted him into oblivion. All right, I didn’t – lets face it, I didn’t know the French for ‘Stitch that Jimmy!’. Indeed, I didn’t even know the French for ‘excuse me my good man, but I believe you may have incorrectly charged my children for your rather fine ice-creams’, and he knew it. I gave him my best ‘watch it sonny, I might just be back – sometime’, and returned to the lakeside, where the rest of the family were none the wiser of this potential showdown at the Crispy Wafer.

Having put the little incident down to experience, I returned to slurping my cornet and peering out across the whisper calm lake, fringed with reeds and, by the little landing stage where we were sat, what looked like a mountain of bougainvillea. But it wasn’t the flowers that were capturing my attention, but the winged insects that seemed to be supping from them. These were like minute and incredibly delicate, shimmering humming birds, hovering just in front of each flower, and dipping into their middle the most delicate proboscis. They were an almost iridescent green and blue, floating round like a swarm of manic bees, but with wavering staccato movements to and fro, probing into and out of these fabulous shocking pink blooms. To this day, I do not know what they were, but their mystery and wonder almost wiped out the rather tasteless memory of the slimeball not a hundred yards away in the opposite direction.

This all seemed a fitting way to round off a rather interesting, enjoyable and even entertaining day, and thus we returned to our mobile oven, to wend our way back to the villa.

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It was almost time to return home, and repeat our journey here, only in reverse (and hopefully with a little more direction). We should however finish with a few little vignettes from our trip, a small number of side-order memories that could never be considered main courses, but nonetheless contributed to the whole enjoyable experience.

There was the balmy Biarritz evening when, after a perfectly acceptable meal, we wandered along the coastal path and discovered the Old Port, packed with promenaders, families and the simply convivial, who were either eating, drinking or just imbibing the atmosphere, while a curious French version of a barbershop quartet warbled pleasantly away in the background. Behind this most sociable of scenes, the sun had long sloped off to bed, but had left behind a deep orange and purple glow along the horizon of the sea.

Within our last few days we also hopped on the ‘Petit Train’ of Biarritz, which is nothing more than a little motorised tourist train that does an ambling 30 minute inner circuit of Biarritz, complete with a passable English commentary. I confess, I get bored with commentaries, and satisfied myself with peering out at the multifarious-ness that is Biarritz and its buildings, replete with houses of the most grand and the most humble, leafy, almost soporific, squares, bustling shopping streets, and far calmer quaint little side roads. You wouldn’t say it was pretty or grand, and not necessarily impressive, but so many little bits of it are all of these, and that goes to make up a thoroughly interesting destination.

And on our last night, we sat down to an almost total fish meal (well, what else when you are sat on the edge of a sea so abundant with natural fruits), on an outside table, overlooking our favourite beach, and with a view out due west across the sea as the sun began to set. The food was splendid, the service was faultless, and although it got a touch chilly by desert, the whole setting as the clouds begun to draw in across the day glow sunset, like a stage curtain from the east, was almost magical. It even finished with a little French quirkiness, as we were politely accosted by a local photographer, the kind who make their money out of snapping hapless and gormless tourists, in the hope that they will purchase his ever-so-arty holiday snaps of you and your kin. This one knew without a word that we were English, and laid on his French charm so thick, it was hard not to resist. I even allowed him to take my children away to the beach just below the restaurant for what presumably was a particularly sickly shot of sisters in perfect harmony (Take it from me, this state does not exist in the Neale household). What made this even more different was that, not only was he disarmingly charming and pleasant, but he simply didn’t look like a weirdo child molester – you know the sort, virtually no hair, looking like he is in his mid fifties when he is probably mid forties, horrendous beer gut, dodgy tee shirt, beige slacks and trainers, and a definite dose of BO. Our suave French sophisticat looked like a young Sacha Distel, and could have just hopped off his yacht in Monaco. On second thoughts, perhaps we should be more afraid of him, at least you know where you are with a grotesque British slob. Still, our French David Bailey didn’t then get me in an arm lock until I bought his pictures, but merely proffered his card, in the hope that his charm and skills had been enough to persuade you to come down to his studio the next day. No, we didn’t go, before you ask.

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And yet there remains one more item, which will explain the title of this chapter.

Our vaguely local ‘supermarche’ had become almost a second home, and while I cannot claim that the behaviour of its clientele were any better than a British Tesco’s, the array of fresh and alluring produce was a revelation; there still seems no-one else on earth who can produce either bread or croissants like the French, while the display of cheeses covered every imaginable size, shape, colour and texture not to mention animal source and ways to consume (try Etorki – made from sheeps milk, and recommended to be consumed with sour cherry marmalade. You have to admire their imagination!) . On the other side of this mammoth presentation of the sublime seemed to be one of the ridiculous; a cornucopia of every fish and shellfish imaginable, and some that I could not possibly have imagined. Indeed, the peculiarity and grotesqueness of some looked to me like a pile of alien entrails, but I’m sure they tasted splendid (or possibly not. Some years ago, in a cavalier moment I once ordered andouilette from the menu of a small French restaurant on the Cote D’Azur. I came as close as I have ever come to vomiting while eating, they truly smelt and tasted of shit. They are in fact, a very French style tripe sausage – you have been warned).

I have to say the combination of these two displays constitutes a No Go zone for Sian; she cannot stand cheese, and is still the only person I have ever seen actually go green when we once walked through a very fragrant fish market in southern Spain. Fortunately, we rushed her out before she emptied her breakfast over the pavement.

But we digress, as it was immediately after we had purchased the normal pile of food that this final section of the story unfolded. Within the supermarket building, around the entrance to the store, were a number of small concessions, including a newsagents that we assumed sold stamps. The obligation to write cards to the usual friends and family suspects had finally prompted a flurry of inane scribbling, but these would not get very far through the French postal system without some stamps. Now, while I can still muster some O level French and (if I do say so myself) a more than passable accent, I still have to steel and prepare myself before launching into any conversation. This usually means constructing the sentence over and over again in my head, then pulling it apart, then analysing its content, deconstructing it, then reconstructing it so many times, it’s a wonder it doesn’t come out entirely back to front like some tortured anagram. Which it didn’t, but I had farted about so much in preparation, that I made the fatal mistake of using the opposite verb to the one I had intended. When I finally reached the head of the queue, confronted by a nonchalant looking proprietor, I blurted out
“ Est ce que vous achetez le timbre poste?”
His nonchalance dropped ever so slightly, and he gave me a look of vague pity and amusement, as if I had wandered up in a dirty raincoat and flashed a set of testicles that ranked somewhere between pathetic and sorrowful.
What I thought he said was “Non”, but by now I was drowning and lost, and looked beseechingly at Sharon.
“Vend” she said
What? I thought
Then it dawned on me – I had asked him if he bought stamps, rather than sold them. He was trying to tell me that I had used the wrong verb
I looked back at him
“Combien, Monsieur” he enquired, with as straight a face as he could muster, bearing in mind that my face was becoming a match for the beetroots in the adjacent food hall
“Cinq, s’il vous plais” I blurted, paid my money, took the stamps, swivelled on my heels and departed at a pace that turned yet more heads as I breezed out of the shop, and as far away from the scene of the fracas as possible.

In hindsight, they weren’t at all bothered that I had illicitly suggested that the shop keeper might be an under the counter stamp dealer, or that I had displayed beyond doubt that I was a complete pillock. While in Britain I might have expected some overt vilification, the French have a bit more class.

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I like south west France. It has great beaches that I have never, ever seen crowded; it has towns and villages on a truly human scale that to me are all the more interesting for that very fact; and it has the full spectrum of scenery and landscape within no more than an afternoons journey, from mountain to sea, from upland pasture to heathland and dunes. And it has that intrinsic quality of so many of the French - effortless beauty and style.