'SOMEWHERE HOLIDAY', Part 4 (even though I dont think anyone is reading this....)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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