'SOMEWHERE HOLIDAY' Part 3 is now revealed....

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 an 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.

'Somewhere Holiday' - Part 2 coming up........

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.

'SOMEWHERE HOLIDAY' - PART 1 FOLLOWS

(The French Basque Country
Or
Do you buy stamps?......)

First off, I gave you a slightly bum steer on Kaye Trouts splendid review of 'Bricks & Torture' - this link will send you there in a trice! http://ktbrbiography.blogspot.com/

More importantly, there now follows Part 1 of the promised sample chapter of my next writing foray. The aim is to post a new chunk each week, by the end of which either you will all be thoroughly bored, or the world will be on fire, all a-buzz over this new literary talent that has burst onto the cyber world. Alternatively, it could be that I will simply be talking to myself...

Here goes!

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.

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

For reasons not entirely understood (but then at my stage in life there are many things I do not understand - The Ford Fusion: what the hell is all that about?), or perhaps its my dislike of anything fake, I have a bit of a penchant for Travel Writing - or should I say, the reading of Travel Writing.

Now, just because I can read it, does not of course make me an expert on attempting it myself. However, my experience with 'Bricks & Torture' clearly has not taught me a lesson, and unbowed by the trials of that episode, I began to create what was intended to be a 'sample' chapter of a book of travel writing. Like the masochist that I invariably must be, and in the proud British tradition of pushing on in circumstances where the chances of success are about as likely as Harrison Ford appearing as a token drunk in Emmerdale, I thrust these musings once again in the direction of multifarious publishers and agents.

The result was entirely expected, but still depressing, but then there is a finely blurred boundary between being confident and delusional.

So, this is another avenue. In the same vain as 'Bricks & Torture' (which I am afraid I still think is a particular apt and clever twist on a well known phrase - or it could just be me), I gave this a working title of 'Somewhere Holiday' - Yes, I know, its a bit weak, but then I was feeling particularly feeble by the time I had finished. The 'sample chapter' concentrated on South West France, and had the alternate titles of:

The French Basque Country
Or Do you buy stamps?

I will release individually tasty bites (or unpalatable mouthfuls, depending on your point of view), over the coming weeks, and the only thing I can promise is that they will work in chronological order. More than that, I dare not say.....

Two interesting things have recently happened. Now, bear in mind that at my age (somewhere within the Fortysphere), this is not any every day occurrence, and one must cherish these moments before they disappear into into an abyss that is even deeper than the one that opens up every time I phone BT.

1. A kindly, and intelligent (how lucky can this person be) soul in the States has reviewed a book that I wrote some 2 years ago, and has given it a thumbs up (see http://kayetroutauthor.blogspot.com/)
2. The Blookers - it seems that there are people in the world who will consider books that are not (a) by celebrities (b) about celebrities (c) dripping with inanity (usually a combination of a & b)

So at last, there may be an outlet for my own outpourings.

'Bricks & Torture' was published by myself in April 2004 with the not inconsiderable assistance of AuthorsOnline, but despite becoming a one-man, and probably very irritating, publicity machine, it didn't quite manage to get itself nominated for any major, or even minor, or even miniscule, literary prize. Still, I enjoyed it, and you can too! Try:

http://www.authorsonline.co.uk/New/Synopsis.asp?eBookID=329

Undaunted by the abject failure of this venture, I started to do something that I had always wanted to do. No, this did not entail a whoopee cushion on John Prescotts chair, but I share your ambition. I did however attempt to begin some travel writing, and despite the previous comments of all the publishers I had approached for the first book (which ranged from Thanks-but-no-thanks to GO AWAY!), I tried again. Surprised to say that their attitude seemed not to have moderated a jot.

So, emboldened by The Blookers, perhaps I can share my writing with others, and open myself to global ridicule and a mass of sorrily shaken heads.

Here comes the excuse - time is at a premium, but I will post what I have done in stages, as time permits. If I get rave reviews and a phone call from Steven Speilberg, I might continue. If I am heaped with indignation and derision, I will probably continue just to spite everyone. If I get nothing - I will get the message!