Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
stretches of sandy beaches are bordered on one side by massive dunes and constantly swept
clean by the sea on the other.
Huge breakers relentlessly thunder in, bringing with them interesting flotsam from far-
flung lands, an energising salty freshness and the odd surfer too. We've spent many years
here traipsing happily with the dogs who consider it an ideal hole-digging location. Sam in
particular could never leave a beach without first digging many man-sized holes that, for-
tunately, were levelled out by the next high tide.
We were heading into Basque country, a place with a strong Spanish influence. The
fierce pride of the Basque people immediately grabs one's attention through the display of
their notices, written in their ancient and unusual language that almost nobody can under-
stand. The local seaside towns have great individual charm, our particular favourites being
St-Jean-de-Luz and Biarritz. Originally a whaling port, Biarritz was later made fashionable
by Queen Victoria's regular visits. She enjoyed the mild winter climate and obviously felt
quite at home when it was wet.
Our destination, Capbreton, is close to the pretty town of Hossegor which I adore but
which Jack always regards as a bit shifty. This is because it is a Mecca for the surfing com-
munity (a breed he has never understood) and fairly buzzes with carefree life during the
summer months.
The apartment we had rented faces the sea. It was one we'd used before and we loved
it. With smiles gradually broadening across our weary faces we pulled into our parking
space in front of the building. It was already late in the evening so, after unpacking our ba-
sics, we used the dogs as an excuse for a leg-stretching stroll along the beach. Fortunately
it was too late for Biff to contemplate any serious 'stone-searching' activities, but the late-
ness of the hour did not stop Sam from launching himself headlong into the first breaker he
could find. This proved to be an 'own goal' because Jack, now way beyond the bounds of
human tolerance, flipped.
“That rotten, sodding, bloody awful dog. I
knew
it was a mistake to bring them. Look,
just
look
at him. Soaking wet and now carefully caking himself in sand!”
“Honestly, darling, you do overreact sometimes. Don't worry, he'll dry off in a minute.
Anyway, just imagine, with all that fur he must have been boiling, poor lad.”
“There's just no point is there?”
“In what?”
“Reasoning with you when it comes to those animals.”
With that, Jack unceremoniously hauled Sam out of the sea, slung a slip-lead around
his neck and stalked up and down the beach until the dog was dry.
I finally managed to cheer him up with a beer and we ambled back along the harbour
towards our apartment. A couple of drinks and baked beans on toast later (courtesy of one
of the hampers labelled 'emergencies') and we fell into bed completely exhausted.
