'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!