'SOMEWHERE HOLIDAY', Part 8 (I've started, so I am bloody well going to finish....)

A quiet word with the parents amongst you, just make sure the kids aren’t listening. As upstanding and responsible adults, and as conduits of wisdom for our offspring, we of course always like to think of opportunities to enrich our minds and our souls, seeking out experiences that rise above the cheap thrills of theme parks and arcades, that question and teach, thereby underpinning the good morals and social values that we endeavour to engender for ourselves and our children. Of course, that’s all total bollocks, and you don’t have to pretend with me. I know precisely where you’re at, and you are not going to persuade me that a saunter around the National Gallery is going to get the thumbs up ahead of a trip to Thorpe Park. But its okay, I won’t tell the kids, even though they already know – must maintain some semblance of worldly stoicism. I understand, I am there with you, making all the same mistakes.

And so it was as I pondered what to do on a rather nondescript Thursday, with the Hound of the Baskervilles at least mercifully silent for a moment, a map and a local guide spread before me, and the thought of nobility rather then entertainment beginning to whisper gently from the wings – Perhaps the Oriental Art Museum, or the Imperial Chapel (‘A charming construction of Roman-Byzantine and Hispanic-Moorish style, dedicated to the Notre Dame of Guadaloupe, the Mexican black virgin’ – to which, I really have no answer). Then I looked at my children, already showing early signs of boredom, easily recognised by their willingness to watch French television without understanding a word of what was going on, and I came to my senses. In any event, it is possible to be entertained and educated, even if the education bit can sometimes go in one ear and out the other so quickly, it is worth checking if there actually is some cerebral matter between these two particular points.

First stop was the Chocolate Museum. Yes, I know this sounds a bit odd, but consider if you will the ingredients of this little package – Chocolate (confectionary beloved of children and wives) and museum (makes you feel at least modestly worthy). Now I am used to unprepossessing buildings, since you can usually take the opulence of a structure as being inversely proportional to the interest of its contents (I call it the Black Magic syndrome – remember the ever so dull chocolates in the ridiculously overblown box with a rim and ribbon?), and the Biarritz Chocolate Museum appeared to be housed in an annexe to an Argos Depot. Actually, that’s a bit unfair, but it did give the impression of being just a tad industrial. No matter, in we went, to be greeted by a cheery young lady who took all of a nanosecond to deduce that we were English, and then offered us each a rather worn Walkman. This is a good start, I thought – they obviously think the British will be so bored that they would prefer to wander round listening to their holiday tapes rather than pay any attention to the museum and its contents. Then I realised that as she was giving us a tape as well, this was to be our spoken guide. How quaint and thoughtful. Or at least it would have been if my left earpiece hadn’t kept cutting out, and the tape hadn’t continuously slowed down and then speeded up, the poor commentator veering from Pinky and Perky impressions one minute, to Darth Vader the next. I abandoned this very special form of French torture within about 5 minutes.

No matter. The exhibitions were really rather charming and entertaining on their own, including some extraordinary chocolate sculptures of animals that must have taken hours, if not days, of painful dedication. There were also ancient contraptions and implements that might not have looked out of place in the London Dungeon, but I was assured were used at some point in the whole cocoa bean-to-Cadbury Dairy Milk process. Of course, the Aztecs must take the rap for chocolate and all things associated, and while I have no problem with most of it, even they may have shot a poison dart in the direction of Fererro for the most contrived and naff twist on an otherwise rather pleasant comestible. However, it seems even the Aztecs themselves may have taken the odd wrong turn along the way. Apparently, when Cortes rolled up in Mexico, he was offered what Montezuma and his pals thought was something a bit special made up of grilled cocoa, pimento and corn flour. While my little notes didn’t actually tell me that Cortes threw up on the spot, suffice to say, he didn’t share the view of his hosts. Still, Cortes prompted the Spanish to trade rather than use cocoa beans (‘ 100 beans a slave’ I was proudly told), and hence it spread around the rest of the globe fairly swiftly. Clearly, the Europeans in particular couldn’t help messing around with this bean for more imaginative and decadent use and consumption, while the Aztecs, bless them, stuck to their view that it was just another medicine – to quote my little information sheet (verbatim, and with no spelling correction, for added amusement), “Aztecs thought the flower of the cocoa tree was the ultimate medication against all kinds of decease from shyness to mental apathy or foot wounds. The bark of the tree was used to cure diarrhea and hemorrhoids”. Please, do not try this at home.

The whole Basque region is of course more than a little connected to Spain, and it would appear that when the Spanish and Portuguese Catholics became a tad anti-semitic, the Jews settled somewhere not too far away where they could continue to trade and manufacture. Since some of them had dealt with cocoa and chocolate during their rather troubled stay south of the border, they kicked off something of a local industry, hence the local prevalence of confectionery establishments and something of an obsession with one of the worlds great indulgences. The journey around this really quite fascinating little museum included a brief demonstration of grinding, molding and generally messing about with the little dark bean in as many ways as you can, and the usual lesson on the difference between dark and white chocolate (the former having the cocoa powder in whatever quantities you want according to darkness and bitterness required, while the latter is without said cocoa powder, made essentially with cocoa butter). And of course, you really can’t come to a temple of chocolate without just a little bit of tasting, and herein is another little nugget of quirky information, which I shall again lift from my equally quirky information sheet – “1920: At that time, women were not allowed to consume liquor in public. Chocolate filled with liquor will permit a discreet consumption”. I can imagine the French husband in 1920’s France perpetually perplexed that the wife seemed to have a constant adverse reaction to a bit of chocolate troughing, almost as if she were pissed in fact. Que’est ce qui se passe?

After the obligatory purchase of vastly overpriced chocolate merchandise from the end-of-tour shop, we handed our walkmans back to the front desk, whereupon I (think) I was asked if they had performed up to their supposed specification. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I had the vocabulary and linguistic skills to accurately portray the true uselessness of these contraptions that would probably have been discarded from a 1970’s memorabilia auction. I briefly flirted with simply saying in straight English ‘they are utter shite’, but our engaging host had such a warm smile that I couldn’t bring myself to spoil here day, and ended up saying the opposite – “Tres Bien!”. And with that, we were gone.

Our next stop was not a great distance, in fact just a ten minute scoot back north into central Biarritz, and into the Marine Museum. This is a rather Art Deco confection of white buildings and red tile roofs, tumbling down a rock face on one of the more obvious promontories that thrust out from the town into the Atlantic, and a rather splendid location it is too. Not only that, but I also happen to think it’s a rather splendid little mix of museum and aquarium, and one which is clearly rooted in its locality, featuring as it does a particular focus on marine life in The Bay of Biscay, the waters that lap around the shores of the region. Firstly, its not too big, which is good for children whose attention span can sometimes be more fleeting than a genuine witticism from Anne Robinson. Secondly, it retains interest partly from being on four levels, rather than one big sprawling, seamless exhibition. Thirdly, it has just the right combination of ‘AAhhh’, ‘OOhhh’, ‘Uuurghh’and ‘Woow’, in the order (as an example) respectively of Seals in an open pool (particularly at feeding time), some seriously menacing sharks in their own underwater viewable tank, and a lower level of succeeding small aquariums that have some of the most strange and mysterious fish and other aquatic creatures I have ever seen. Favourites of the latter included an octopus that I am sure I last saw on an episode of Doctor Who back in the mid 1970’s, a fish that looked as if it had turned itself inside out and then exploded, and the rapidly created game of spot the Flounder. This extraordinary bottom-dweller can nestle itself in amongst the debris and sand and appear utterly invisible to all but the keenest eye. And all of these are of course native to the seas of The Biscay, and, as far as I am aware, none are an endangered species, which also marks this place above your average zoo – in essence, it was like a little porthole into the water world that surrounds these shores, but it took nothing from them. Indeed, if my vague understanding of some of the French was modestly correct, I think I am right in saying that the majority of the seals were in captivity purely because they had been injured and rescued, and would not, on their own, have survived the rather harsher waters of the Atlantic. Of course, it is entirely possible, that word on the excellent facilities at the Marine Museum have leaked out to the wider seal populus, and maybe the odd rather roguish seal has feigned a collision with a dinghy, and contrived to wash himself up on the beach. Don’t ask me why, but I have this picture of a seal laying half reclined on one of Biarritz’s beaches, propped on one fin, the other draped mournfully across its brow, and a pained expression on its cheeky face, asking if there is any room at La Musee.

The rest of the museum (founded 1935 for those who require such information) contains a variety of exhibits, particularly the cetacean gallery which includes the skeletons of some of the animals caught or washed ashore along the coast, most notably one of the poor mammal most associated with Biarritz, a whale. There are also presentations of different fishing techniques employed in the Atlantic, and, not surprisingly, a significant feature on whaling, while if you are of the tree-hugging variety, you will no doubt appreciate the sections on coastline conservation and study. Indeed, the museum is a permanent home to ongoing scientific research in the area. Personally, I would thoroughly recommend the place, and for the children (and those adults who are still children, but would rather not admit it – which is most of us) it is absorbing, entertaining and educational, and you really cant say fairer than that.

But we were not quite finished for the day. As you step out of the Marine Museum, you face Rocher de la Vierge, or (for those of you who have even lost your ‘O’ level French) Virgins Rock. Crowned with a statue of the Virgin Mary, it is one of, if not the, Biarritz’s main landmarks, and it is another of dear old Napoleons legacies for the town. Originally, this was a long, jagged reef extending from the rest of the mainland, poking out into the sea for more than 140 metres. Napoleon, perhaps intoxicated by the sea air and his rather heady romance with Eugenie, or possibly because he had had a bevy too many, came up with the idea of hollowing out the rock and linking it to the cliff by a wooden bridge. It was not the work of a moment, and the poor buggers who got lumbered with the work must have felt more than a bit peeved, as it took them two years to complete, thanks to someone having a bit of a blind spot to the fact that waves crashing against the rocks in the vicinity did not for a pleasant work environment make. The story doesn’t end there however. While the bridge was opened in 1865, and soon became a major attraction of the town, the ravages of the sea were no respecter of a great French Generals flight of fancy, and it seems that by 1873, you would have to have been mildly bonkers to attempt to cross, as two thirds of the bridge ‘est disparu!’. No matter, by this time, steel was coming into general usage, and none other than Gustave Eiffel restored Napoleons rather eccentric little whimsy with something a little more robust. While on this fine and sunny day, a saunter along to say good day to Mary was rather appealing, and afforded splendid views around the whole bay, I am reliably informed that were you try and repeat the feat during rough weather, you will indeed be swimming with the fishes when you had not intended. To turn a blind eye to the obvious religious elements for a moment, I rather like this little Folly, and its all the better for being modest and intimate, laced with a little stupidity along the way. I can relate to modest and stupid.