Someone Else's Cheese
On entering the town I spied a sign for 'Periferique'. Being a fast learner I headed straight for 'Periferique', and directly into a traffic jam. Three hours later in searing temperatures I gained the wisdom that the King of France builds his roads, not so much as to enable his subjects to move freely and conveniently around his country (in fact not to enable this at all) but to give his people the opportunity for philosophical thought on the meaning of life, travel and, possibly, inept road design.
The journey passed quietly, (largely due to the little squirrels having passed out in the back with heat stroke). Eventually we arrived at the entomological cultural enclave of 'Bee'd Art' and we set up camp next to all the conveniences needed for holiday recreation (a pool, a cake shop, a bar, a boulerie, and a teenage snogging spot).
It was just as we were starting to relax that the thunder and lightening came...followed by the rain, followed by more thunder, and then some more rain. After that we had some more thunder and just for good measure, some more rain. Fortunately, the lightening decided to leave early and harass the cave dwelling inlanders who make the cheese.
The following morning, the 'DARK LORD' awoke early, energized by the meteorological storm and demanded to go surfing. We arrived at Biarritz Grand Plage to a meaty 4ft swell. I ripped off my strides and ran into the surf, paddling furiously for the horizon. It soon became clear that in order to surf, a board was required and preferably some sort of neoprene warming garment.
The surf had a power rarely seen on Celtic shores and took all my surf squirrelling techniques to master the lumpy take-off and steep jacking section, inside. At high tide the shore dump took control and we headed in for a breakfast of courgette (a tasty vegetable adored by lonely French house wives) and croissant (an unusual meat free pasty, possibly named after the Welsh martial art of "Crwsynt" or "crooked knee").
Although full of "La Stoke", we had clearly not yet found the 'Perfect Wave' and decided to ask at the local 'shop du surf'. Again, being well versed in 'foreign' I looked the ageing assistant in the eye and enquired "Ooh hay lez Perfect Wave, Madman?"
The old crone eyed me suspiciously, cocked her head to one side and spat "GET ARRY!"
Even the 'DARK LORD' quivered at her terse reply and so fearing the sudden appearance of a 7 foot Neanderthal French mountain troll called Arry, we handed back her seadog and left. I told the 'DARK LORD' later that we really should have opened the door on the way out.
Very early the following day, we arose and continued our search. 'Plage de Cote Basques' was a great disappointment. There were no luscious young women dressed in sexy underwear, only glassy 2 to 3ft surf, and no-one out to share the experience with. With heavy hearts we paddled out and suffered a two hour surf of un-paralleled 'on-the-nose-ness'.
Later that day I took 'Elita Squirrel' and the 'Three Amigos' to sun it up on 'Plage Milady'. There was a nice left on the right, just to the left of the rocks on the right side of the beach. I surfed it with 'triumphant-ness' and showed them Frenchies a thing or two. Back on the beach the 'Sappy Pompiers' (a French version of Porthcawl lifeguards, only with a clear aversion to pies) said "Vous avez someone else's cheese". I laughed at his cheek!
At high tide I introduced the little ones to the shore break. They loved it and declared themselves to be true surfers forever more, making me so happy that I shed a tear. Mrs Squirrel told me off for being a soppy twit (she's a bit dyslexic though).
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