I thought Rhosilli was an amazing long sandy beach, two miles of uninterrupted sand from Worms Head to the Loughor estuary.
I thought the series of beaches stretching west from the Ogmore estuary were quite something; Newton Beach, a few rocks then Trecco Bay, Rest Bay, a few more rocks at Sker Point then Kenfig Sands, the Kenfig River then Morfa Sands, the Afon Afan then Aberafan Beach, Crymlyn Burrows and the sweep of Swansea Bay round to where the sand peters out in the mud of Mumbles Roads and the rocks of Mumbles Head. At least twenty miles of sandy beaches, uninterrupted apart from a few rocky headlands, estuaries and the Corus Steelworks deep water harbour.
The Côte d'Argent made all that seem a bit inadequate. The name was coined by a group of journalists who travelled up the coast early in the 20th century, then picked up by the local authorities as a marketing tool. The journalists said the sands stretched uninterrupted from Biarritz to Cap Ferret. Actually, on the northern side of Cap Ferret they continue at least to Soulac on the tip of the Médoc. It must be one hundred and fifty miles at least.
We stumbled onto it at Lacanau Océan; an immaculate strip of fine squeaking sand backed by towering dunes. Inland from the dunes, a forest of 'Pine Maritime'. Seaward from the sand, a steeply sloping waterline where Atlantic waves thunder endlessly, then the vast blue ocean.
Out of season a few surfers hang on. You see them in their hand painted vans with towels pinned across the windows, parked up in odd corners. Out of season no-one seems to mind. Sometimes we even saw them in the water. The surf isn't always up to scratch, but when the wind's in the right direction there's a huge reach and big deep-ocean waves. The hairdressers in Lacanau had a sign 'Last hairdressers before America. Next haircut Miami 6,000 km”.
We kept visiting other coastal towns to see if the beach had run out yet; Carcans, Biscarrosse, Mimizan, Soustans, all the same story. Every morning we were stunned by the beautiful beaches (we got a lot of very similar photographs), and every morning Scooby went wild with delight digging, swimming and chasing his ball (it almost killed the poor old fellow), but to be honest, it got a bit samey. Walk out of sight of the resort town and you couldn't tell where you were. Even within site of the resort town, they all look pretty much alike, especially in autumn; a shuttered surf shop, a bar, a seafood restaurant and a waffle stall.
But this incredible stretch of uniformly beautiful sand helps satiate the French population's love of seaside summer holidays. Near Arcachon we got lost looking for a free campsite and drove for miles alongside the fence line of a deserted summer holiday camp. This area must be able to absorb millions of people; every Frenchman and woman who can get time off work, plus a fair number of northern Europeans who are in on the secret. There's space enough even for the unsociable and the naturists to wander a few hundred metres from the boardwalk and find a stretch of sand they can have to themselves.
So in the dark days of Word War 2 this must have been the dream posting:
“Liebe Mütti” (the Atlantic coast was occupied by Germany from 1940) “They said we were going to be sent to the eastern front to support the attack on Stalingrad, but there was a last minute change of plans and they've ordered us to guard this beach instead. It's three days sailing from England, two weeks sailing from America and far out of range of the RAF, so I'm not expecting much action. Please send me some Blutwürst and my swimming trunks, tell Granny I don't need any more mittens.”
The strandline is also amazingly clean, apart from these things:
Anyone know what they are? There are millions of them. Some of them look like pasta shapes, but they're definitely not edible.
Basque Country
A strange sense of homecoming. After weeks in Bordeaux and the flat sandy plain of Landes, we were suddenly climbing through lush green hills on a winding road lined with oak trees. The hills were draped with fields in which sheep and cattle grazed. Even the road signs were in two languages (with one of the languages obliterated with aerosol paint).
It was great to have some topography again. Even the mist was comforting. The old farmers here wear berets like those of Carmarthenshire wear flat caps (the British think of berets as typically French. The French think of berets as typically Basque. The Basques think of berets as typically Basque, and they really do wear them).
Some things are very different to home. We climbed a steep slippery path through a sodden oak wood (more sweet chestnut trees than I'm used to, but generally pretty familiar), emerging on a rutted track, separated from the adjacent field by a wonky barbed wire fence. So far so familiar, but the field was filled with neat rows of chilli plants (Piment d'Espelette, maybe more on that later), thriving under the grey sky. It was quite a jolt of unfamiliarity to see the perfect red fruits ripening there in the open air.
This blog is lagging badly behind events. We're still in the Basque country, but on what the Basque nationalists call the southern Basque country and the Spanish nationalists call Spain. We're currently (31 October) parked up in Victoria / Gasteis watching Spanish telly and listening to the rain.
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