'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.

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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.