"A French Pilgrimage"

Europe » France » Aquitaine » Bordeaux
September 20th 2007

Published: November 2nd 2007

I descended upon France like a D-Day Landing, so eager was I to arrive at the beaches of Hossegor after a four month surfing abstinence. Surfboard in tow, I navigated my way by rail up to Paris, through the metro system and across town, rushing to make my connection with the outbound overnighter to Bayonne. It was a miracle that I actually found it and with only a few minutes to spare. "Monsuier! Si vous plait" the conductor cried as I flew past in search of my carriage. You see, it's not enough just finding the right train here, you also have to find the right carriage, which may be any one of a dozen identical locomotives. Usually the carriage number is written in some form of hyroglyphics or neatly hidden from sight. Anyway the conductor continued, giving my surfboard the once-over "You're not in America now" he says obviously mistaking me for someone else. "Thank god for that" I replied....."I thought I was lost!" "Where are you going to put that?" he motioned at my board. "I sleep with it" I replied matter of factly. He looked at my reservation and changed the compartment number. "Why did you do that?" I questioned. He told me I would have the carriage to myself and to lock the door after me. Great! My spirits lifted. It was 11:30pm and I was ready to sleep. I jostled my way through the crowd towards the sleeping department and tried the door. It was locked. I politely knocked and enquired if there was anyone in there. Nothing. My knocking progressively became more urgent as my frustration grew. Each time it was met with nothing but silence. Some numb-nuts has locked the door from the outside I thought! Tentaviley I left my luggage in the corridor and went to look for a conductor. It didn't take long to realise that there were no conductors on the overnight trains. I returned to my luggage with that familiar sinking feeling. It was impossible to sleep in the corridor. I banged on the door again in fruitless desperation before hanging my head and contemplating an entire night standing on my feet. It was then that a French woman, who seemed to be travelling with the entire contents of a small shop, noticed my distress and in broken english explained that there was a compartment two carriages along that was only partly full. I was very grateful for this information and helped her ferry her never ending load of possessions along the corridor to her cabin before disappearing in search of a bed for the night. I dossed down with my surfboard at my side amongst a cabin of bemused Spaniards. The train bucked and swayed down the track all the way to Bayonne.

Connecting by early morning bus to Hossegor, I was forced to walk the final 3km in search of my accomodation. Leg weary, it felt like I was accomodating a 100km weight by the time I finally arrived. The town was busy as I passed what was obviously the offical contest site for the 2007 Quiksilver Pro France. One of the prime reasons I had arrived...as a spectator of course. I arrived at the address I had scrawled on a piece of paper to find the place deserted. Quite fitting really I thought. The owners had indicated I would find someone there and it was still early so I thought I would go and take a look at the beach, pleasingly only 250m away. Plage Les Cul Nuls, which literally means "Bare Bums". It was a nudist beach. Things were looking up! Actually there is one long stretch of sand that connects several "beaches" which are moreso different stretches of the same beach. Looking south down the beach I could clearly see the contest site at La Graviere less than 400m away. North in the other direction were Plage Les Estagnots and Les Bourdaines. The Local council has a substational dune protection programme going which see you traversing a decent lenght boardwalk in designated intervals to reach the beaches which are neatly groomed and relatively free of litter. The beach itself 'feels' big, even the grains of sand are big and there is quite a slope as it meets the sea-shore. I surveyed the scene and the surf looked inviting. It was small but there were several good banks breaking left and right almost as far as the eye could see. As eager as I was to get in the water, I wanted to get my luggage stashed away first so rushed back to my Chambres des Libre only to find it still deserted. Luckily I had a phone number which I rang from my mobile as there were no coin phones around. In fact I hadn't seen any shops either which was a little disconcerting as I would need to stock up on necessities for the coming week. It seemed the only thing within a bulls roar was the beach. I later found a grocery store, a mere 4km round trip by foot. I studied up on my French, which was pretty much non-existent. It seems to me that the French language excells in wasting letters. By the time everything was sorted, I had given away a surf for the day and instead considered my home for the week. It was basically a smallish room stowed away underneath an unoccupied house. Most of the surrounding places also served as holiday accomodation but were deserted at this time of year. It had very little natural light and cooking facilites were provided by way of a twin element camping range. Water for cooking and washing had to be carried from the bathroom. The following day dawned a little cooler as I rose early and made my way to the beach. It was low tide and although the swell has increased in size a little it wasn't as clean as the previous day. The contest was on hold so it was time to take the plunge. Although the air temperature was in the 20's, I noticed with some angst that every surfer in the water was wearing a steamer. By the time I had got in myself, I had no doubt that I was under-suited and felt a trifle silly in my springsuit, not to mention way too cold. My surfing suffered accordingly as I struggled with everything. Both feet went numb in a matter of minutes and I felt completely out of sorts. Leaving the water somewhat dejected, I warmed up quickly before heading off towards the contest site . They were running an expression session. The waves at La Graviere were way more serious and although still not very clean were serving up the occasional stand-up barrel and all this was happening not 50 yards from shore. A great spectators wave.

The next day was huge. A fresh swell had kicked in there were sets marching in out the back that I estimated at 8 - 10ft. The outer banks didn't seem to take any of the steam out of them either as 6 - 8ft death barrels detonated close to the shore. There were plenty of thrashings and more broken boards that day than I have ever witnessed before. I didn't surf that day.

It seems there was to be no Indian Summer in Europe as the temperature took a big dive the following day. This coupled with the rain saw me wait out the day indoors. Each night there was a movie played on an outdoor screen on Place des Landes, usually followed by a live gig anywhere between Capbreton and Le Penon. The trick was finding the venue. Cheap beers not, at €6 for a pint. I managed one further surf with similar results but was really hoping on some warmer water as I thought ahead to Spain & Portugal. Everything I had read however suggested the opposite. Just this year it seems a little colder than usual.

"A French Pilgrimage"

Cote de Argent - Hossegor

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