'SOMEWHERE HOLIDAY', Part 5....(this is fast becoming a strange experience, as its becoming apparent that I am writing to myself...)

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

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

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

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

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

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