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It usually takes months of gentle persuasion before my
holiday-averse, grumpy husband finally caves in. He was quicker this time.
“Great, so we can go to Capbreton for a week?”
“Yes, yes, if only to stop you nagging about it.”
“Oh come on, you know you love it.”
“I really don’t.”
He does.
Capbreton, a quirky little seaside town on the south-west of
France, is home to one of the best surfing areas in the world. The sandy
beaches are endless, the dunes enormous, and when conditions are right, those
cherished rollers are downright spectacular.
We arrived bright and early with our two bouncy Australian
Shepherd dogs, Aby and Max. Access to the apartment from the underground
carpark is via a lift. It’s tiny but quite posh with one side made of glass.
Despite this being their second visit, Aby still hasn’t got
the hang of the moving world business. Shocked by the disappearing trees, she
scored an early own goal by trying to fit into Jack’s jean’s pocket, which was
never going to happen. Max, on the other hand, seemed keen to test the glass to
find out if he really can fly. Fortunately, the glass is made of tough stuff.
We reached the apartment more or less unscathed. It’s in a fantastic
spot. Stuck right on the seafront, it has a balcony overlooking the Atlantic
Ocean. I quickly unpacked, grabbed the dogs and left Jack with a coffee to help
settle his post-lift experience nerves.
We knew the weather would be mixed during the week, but it
wasn’t too bad when we arrived. Seafaring folks would probably call it a fresh
breeze, you know, the type that blows your socks off. It’s probably why we had
the beach to ourselves.
The dogs, thrilled at the feel of sand beneath their paws, played
tag before racing helter-skelter towards the sea. Reaching the edge, they
stopped, uncertain. They hadn’t seen ocean spume before, and The Atlantic was
belching up lots that day.
Poor Aby, having only just recovered from her lift shenanigans,
wasn’t at all sure about froth flying off the breakers. Max, wondering whether
they were snacks delivered from Neptune, tested a couple. Nah!
It was time to bring out the toys that make an Australian
Shepherd’s happiness complete. Frisbees! Bounding around me, trying to work out
which way I’d throw them next, frankly, it was anyone’s guess. It’s uncanny how
these flying discs develop a mind of their own when cast from my hands, but
they give the dogs a great workout.
A squall increased the wind to seafarers ‘fresh’. The inevitable
sandblasting of my face probably did a marvellous exfoliation job, but it
wasn’t doing anything for my Frisbee-throwing technique. We packed-up and
fought our ways back to our apartment, where Jack had rallied.
“Come on, let’s go and have a coffee, I could do with a
snack. Erm, and you might want to tidy yourself up before we go.”
I had a quick look in the mirror.
“Ooh, no wonder the janitor looked a bit unnerved when I
said hello to him!”
I looked like a Halloween horror story. A couple of shiners,
courtesy of my drizzled mascara, hair that had transformed into a wire wool ball, and my cheeks were covered in multi-coloured grains of sand. That’s beach
life for you.
The weather is apt to change very quickly here. In passing,
the squall had blown holes in the grey skies, and we strolled in puddles of
bright sunshine to a café nearby. The coffee is excellent here as are the tiny
Madeleine cakes served alongside. And it wasn’t just us who wanted a nibble.
A sparrow family appeared intent on helping with the excess
crumbs on Jack’s saucer.
“Would you look at this lot,” he grumbled, “can I ever get a moment’s peace from animals?”
Jack (wannabe animal-hater) immediately donated half his to
the delighted flock while continuing to moan about his tortured life with
animals.
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Our lazy days continued in a similar vein; dog walks followed
by meals and extended coffee breaks, one of which featured a lady who stopped
to admire Max.
“I must stroke your dog,” she gushed. “Bernese mountain dogs
are so much nicer than Saint Bernard’s,
and she is a lovely specimen.”
Now, while this was all very kind, as a passionate Aussie
lover, I always feel obliged to enlighten others about the breed. The gender
mix-up needed sorting out too. I was a sparrow’s toenail from putting her right
when Jack interrupted (he’s heard me drone on about the breed values before).
“Do you always take your dog for walks in a pram, madame? ”
“Ah no, monsieur,
but today he is tired.”
With that, she gave us a cheery wave and wheeled her pooch
away.
“I suppose it wouldn’t have fitted in her handbag,” he
muttered at the departing stroller.
September is an ideal time of year to visit Capbreton. The
summer season has finished, and the kids have gone back to school, so it’s much
quieter. The restaurants are still open, though, which gives diners an almost
endless choice.
Being a doggy place means that restaurant owners are very
welcoming. Dog bars (bowls of water) are positioned strategically, and mutts
are generally posted under tables or in handbags, out of other diners’ ways. It’s
ideal for us.
We are seafood lovers. Oysters may be gloopy-looking to
some, but they are a particular fave of ours, especially the Gillardeau variety
offered here. Uber-healthy, they are consumed in vast quantities by customers.
Similar to this palate-teasing pair, all our
meals turned out to be culinary triumphs. But it wasn’t just the food that turned
heads.
For a couple of country bumpkins, Aby and Max are
surprisingly well behaved when we eat out. Galloping 15-25 kilometres each day after
disappearing Frisbees probably helps. They’ll lie under our table snoozing with
half an eye open, ready to field a falling scrap. It’s a tidy arrangement. Mind
you, this all changes when attention is shown, which I maintain it’s not their
fault. Jack doesn’t agree.
We had settled down to another seafood bonanza. Table set
nicely with drinks just delivered by the kind chap, who paused to tousle the dogs’
heads. An innocent error.
Aby and Max were thrilled. Our table erupted as they scrambled out to welcome their new best friend. This
had predictable consequences. Jack had a tantrum as his beer followed the same
route as the dogs, and I got tangled up in dog leads in my efforts to retrieve
them.
Fortunately, the waiter was very understanding. He survived
the canine welcome, gave them a log of bread each, and supplied us with new
beers and napkins. Jack gave him a big tip at the end. We ate there several
times.
Later on, we decided to explore the old harbour to have a look at the
food producers. Traditionally a whaling port, nowadays it is packed with
battle-hardened trawlers.
On the dockside, fishmongers were preparing their catches
for sale. I was captivated by one magnificent lady. Amazon-like, this seasoned
fish-stacker effortlessly lobbed her catch around like feathers. I certainly
wouldn’t have messed with her.
As the week wore on the weather changed. It was glorious now,
but the swell was still high, which meant the old pier was too dangerous to use.
How on earth the skippers of those small trawlers negotiated entry into the
port beat us, those seas were huge.
We sat on a bench with a couple of ice creams, waiting for
the next boat to negotiate entry. For some strange reason, an ebullient lady
draped in a floaty kaftan (possible ex-surfer) eyeballed Jack and planted
herself next to him. Apropos nothing at all, she launched into a discussion
about the local birdlife, which was more of a speech, really.
Then, to his horror, she announced she wanted to show him
something special. Before he could respond, she started rummaging around the
folds of her frock and plucked an IPad from a voluminous pocket.
“Here, you must look at my darling,”
“Honestly, there’s no need.”
“I can see you will love him. Everyone does. This is
Siberus, my pet wolf. He is famous.”
Yes, it really was a wolf, something to do with The Game of
Thrones. I was riveted, but not Jack. He was distinctly underwhelmed. I’ve
never seen a grown man consume an ice cream so quickly. Wallop! Down it went. We made all sorts of appreciative noises
about her beloved and escaped.
Poor Jack. He was still looking a bit twitchy about the
entire social encounter, so I left him in the apartment to recover and took the
dogs for a ramble.
We headed to one of my favourite beaches. Backed by immense
dunes, the shoreline seems endless. And it has a remarkable collection of
features.
During World War II, the occupying Nazis built a series of
blockhouses as defences against the Allied invasion. As it happens, the
concrete structures were unused. Now they serve a happier purpose as home to
curious crabs and other crustaceans, and easels for graffiti artists.
The dogs and I had a closer look. The art had changed from
last year. The new messages about saving the planet were a brilliantly ironic
twist. There’s no doubt, the French are passionate about protecting their
environment.
The whitecaps on this beach were incredibly impressive. Rubber-clad
surfers were strewn all over the place; riding the white horses, in them, or napping
on the beach, spent after a watery pummelling.
A couple of pretty French girls wandered up, one clutching a
surfboard that looked heavier than the pair of them. They asked if they could
stroke the dogs. I nodded, knowing what would be going through Aby and Max’s
minds. A cuddle? Rrrreesult!
I asked how the surfing was going. The lass with the board replied
in English.
“The waves, they are confusing, it is too hard.”
“Confusing?”
“Yes, they bump into each other, I cannot stay on my board. Today,
it is my first go.”
Wow! Sure enough, the breakers looked horrifically chaotic.
These conditions looked more suited to experts than novices.
“Have you tried the other beach? The surf might be easier
there.”
“I will drown! These waves, they are three times bigger than
me, I will definitely die.”
Her friend gave her a quick hug and suggested she have one
final go on their beach.
“No, I am too tired now, I will probably die here too.”
That was that then. We all decided it was far better to
enjoy the beach and play with dogs in the sun instead of facing imminent death.
We took some pics and parted. A gorgeous pair of girls, who I sincerely hope
didn’t bother with that surfboard again during their holiday.
Our final day was peerless. We made the most of it with another
trek. Watching the surfers, it struck me that there’s an awful lot
of bobbing around. Clearly, I have no real idea of what’s involved, but I
presume they are waiting to ‘catch a big wave’, and it can be a long wait.
Every now and again, a gigantic barrel wave appeared way
offshore. Cresting, growing, curling into a monstrous cask of immense force, it
peaked before smashing back into the sea. Surfers appeared on top, sometimes
through the middle, but more often than not in the folds of the wave. It was
mesmerising. No wonder these courageous sportspeople need naps.
Our week came to an end too quickly. One last Frisbee
session, one last shared portion of heavenly oysters and a head of hair that
now resembled a cat’s hairball. It had been a fantastic few days. And did Jack
enjoy it? Well, aside from one incident I'll tell you about in my newsletter, yes, of course, he did!
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| Another perfect holiday |
