Is it your intention to create a movement oriented goal whereby your required destination of finality will necessitate entry to and/or residence within the City of San Francisco?

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike the Americans. Indeed, they are largely a rather warm and friendly, if somewhat eclectic, bunch. However I do have a problem with their utilisation and deployment of the linguistic structure and format of both the verbal and written version of the standard means of communicatory formulation vis-à-vis ensuring an understandability of the meaningfulness of said intentions actionable or otherwise…...

In theory, they speak and write in standard English, except they appear to have a penchant for a degree of contrivance that has resulted from sticking the words into a food blender, putting them back together in a slightly Bowie-esque random fashion (but without looking like Ziggy Stardust while doing it), and then both squeezing and stretching some of the words and phrases into almost a parody of themselves – god, I am almost doing it myself! Let me give you an example from an American company for whom I have the pleasure of doing some work in the UK, the following having been taken from an internal e-mail issued from the Head Office in the states:

“As we looked towards driving profitability for our business late last year and early this year, we crafted a plan that focused on finding ways to get our gross margin up and our SG&A expenses down. The plan we developed and the execution of that plan allowed us to accomplish both of these key objectives without having a resource action

In the Americas, we are well along in our plan to transform this region. The divestiture of the US deployment business was a real benefit. It allow us to divest of a business that, due to our size, we cannot make profitable

As we look towards the next phase of our transformation, we are starting to execute on our consulting and tools strategic plans. These are world-wide initiatives”

Answers on a postcard. Sorry, explanatory notes should be divested into a written formative for forwardment to the enquiring party.

This tendency to overcomplication and, dare I say a degree of bureaucracy, manifests itself before you have even arrived, in the form of the Visa Waiver Programme. Essentially, if you are from what the Americans have identified as nice little countries, then you don’t need a Visa to come in. However, you do need to fill in a strange green form for each member of your family, plus a white form for the whole family.

I wouldn’t mind, but you genuinely have to answer such questions as: Are you a drug dealer? OK, so there you are, one of society’s low life with little or no regard for human life, respect and integrity, probably a nervous tick and a hint of body odour, and suddenly you are faced with a question which if answered honestly will probably have you on the next plane to Guantanamo. Do they seriously think they are going to have a revelatory and redemptive moment, and declare to all that they are in fact someone who should be twinned with Hannibal Lecter, and immediately fired out of the planes cargo door? Somehow, I think not..

These declarations of wholesomeness are then handed over to a nice man in a military style suit, seated in a little kiosk, around which other nice men in military style suits, replete with guns, look on in an air of stern authority. They rather reminded me of the old school janitor that used to prowl the corridors of my primary school, trying to look hard and consummately organised, but actually looking a bit of a tit. And I am afraid I have to reveal that their efforts to manage and marshal the ever growing lines of incoming tourists were equally successful in creating chaos from confusion. Still, I am sure they meant well.

What I couldn’t quite figure out was the purpose of this green card, the stub of which was harshly stapled into an unsuspecting page of my otherwise rather neat and unblemished passport – only for the stub to be ripped out and thrown away when we went in the other direction 2 weeks later. I don’t mind being counted coming in, and counted going out, but this seemed to be done by the scanning of my passport, not to mention the thumb print and photograph which every entrant to the Free World has to endure. As for the white form, this seemed to be a declaration that in fact I had nothing to declare – in the UK, we do this by walking nonchalantly with a slightly guilty gait through the green channel, and if you do so with an air of overconfidence, you will most likely ensure a meeting between gloved hand and sphincter. In the US, you fill in a white card with all your personal details and sexual proclivities, hand it to a nice overweight lady, who looks at it slightly disdainfully, waves you through with a murmured grunt, and then promptly appears to put the piece of paper in a bin….

No matter. We made an easy exit from the airport and walked up to one of the ubiquitous yellow taxis, piloted by what turned out to be what I am fairly certain was a swarthy man of Eastern European descent (the name of Vladimir on his licence and the fact that his conversation was extremely limited gave the game away a little), but who filled me with little confidence when his retort to my hotel address was a blowing of the lips, a shaking of the head, and a stabbed query of ‘Streeeeet?!’ Fortunately, the address seemed to instil some calm into the situation, but I could not help but think that his demeanour, dark glasses and brooding manner would not have gone amiss in a Martin Scorsese film. He did not, however, say ‘You talkin’ to me….?’

In fact, the wonderful variety of taxi drivers that we encountered during our stay turned out to be one of the enduring memories. There was the Brazilian, who shared my interest in Motor Racing; there were at least two other Eastern Europeans whose stoic but mildly threatening deportment always made me involuntarily search for the proximity of the door handle; there were a number of fairly jolly and helpful black Americans, one of which chuckled with a little too much glee when he realised that as a man outnumbered by three women, he was about to drop us in female shopping heaven, in Union Square; there was the white American who somehow contrived to take us across Van Ness Avenue three times, even though a straight line from downtown San Francisco to our hotel takes you across it once, unless you are inclined to drive your car like you are participating in a full size version of Pacman; and last, and possibly least, there was the extrovert white American whose delight at having English occupants, was rapidly followed by a destructive thesis on his fellow Americans, followed by an acerbic assessment of UK politics, and a handing out of conspiracy theory literature that just stopped short of declaring Georg Bush as the son of Satan.

Our journey to the hotel took us onto a heaving multi lane highway, against a backdrop of sparkling hills, a lazy azure sky and evidence of the famed fog that lurked menacingly in the middle distance. Once into the nondescript suburbs of low rise blocks and multifarious roadside enterprises, we then turned off the elevated road, and wound our way through more largely forgettable city fabric, until the architecture began to get more interesting and defined, and started to display the more regimented style and rhythm of the Victorian era buildings for which San Francisco is famed. As we started to climb towards our hotel in Pacific heights, the arrow straight roads and constant angle hills and dips gave the impression of a suburb constructed of Lego. And it all looked just like it had on the television…

Sorry, people, but I'm back!

I will be creating a new travel blog soon...and this time, it involves our friends across the pond.

Keep watching!

'SOMEWHERE HOLIDAY' Part 10 (last post - read now while offer lasts!...)

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.

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

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.

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

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.

THE END

'SOMEWHERE HOLIDAY', Part 9....

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.

'SOMEWHERE HOLIDAY', Part 8 (I've started, so I am bloody well going to finish....)

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 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.

'SOMEWHERE HOLIDAY' Part 7......

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!

'SOMEWHERE HOLIDAY', Part 6 - The Basque Country continues to fascinate......

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 a 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.