Liz and I worked a season for a UK holiday company in Landes, about 40 minutes north of Biarritz, France.To jazz up our reception area I wrote a series of "off line blogs" chronicling our days off. Meant to be a sanitised travelogue, of the sort you find in an in-flight magazine, it didn’t always turn out that way.
Athough we both know France quite well, having variously worked and holidayed here, Landes is new to us and we are discovering it for the first time, just like many of our guests. So here is a little off-line blog which we hope will help you along the same enchanting journey of discovery It is the unexpected, those last minute decisions that can lead to the best finds and the most rewarding experiences. After a hard days couriering Liz and I decided to delay our usual al fresco evening of salad and a glass of red wine sitting under the towering pines watching the wildlife, “look there’s, a red squirrel,” “where?”, “up on that tree peeking round, I think he’s eyeing your radishes”. Instead, we headed out, on our first trip to find a local bar for a couple of drinks.
Description, prosaic verbiage, cute analogies here would be superfluous. Instead consider a few items from the beer menu: “Westmalle" 9.50 , Trappiste, triple fermentation,” “Guillotine", 90 (petite Sœur de Délirium) or “Scotch Silly" 80. And 29 more, plus the specials board. ‘Nuff said I think. That’s the beers then, (lowest ABV 50), then there’s the food. We didn’t go out to eat, but a glance at the menu changed that. A Moroccan tagine is, in our joint opinions, and for different reasons, one of the tastiest dishes in the world, and here in a bar we fell into by accident they serve the classic Lamb with Prunes, the amazing Lemon Chicken and a Vegetable Tagine, just as if we were in a little café half up the Atlas Mountains.Well, what were we supposed to do? It was délicieux, mes braves.
We arrived on a Sunday night at about 7:30 and by 9 the bar/restaurant was filling up, mostly with French and Dutch vacationers
So, in words of the late great Mr Spike Milligan, “plan nothing, then nothing can go wrong”. It fact it went marvellously right. Sage advice indeed.
Athough we both know France quite well, having variously worked and holidayed here, Landes is new to us and we are discovering it for the first time, just like many of our guests. So here is a little off-line blog which we hope will help you along the same enchanting journey of discovery It is the unexpected, those last minute decisions that can lead to the best finds and the most rewarding experiences. After a hard days couriering Liz and I decided to delay our usual al fresco evening of salad and a glass of red wine sitting under the towering pines watching the wildlife, “look there’s, a red squirrel,” “where?”, “up on that tree peeking round, I think he’s eyeing your radishes”. Instead, we headed out, on our first trip to find a local bar for a couple of drinks.
We headed into Messanges and randomly went straight on at the roundabout in the village centre, and passed a likely looking venue on the right. We turned round in a lay-by a few metres down the road, where the fruit and veg man sets his stall. A sprinkler was damping down the dust and as I swung the car round jets of water from the industrial grade watering apparatus found the open window of the car. Suitably dampened we parked outside the bar, wandered across and perched outside on a couple of stools.
Description, prosaic verbiage, cute analogies here would be superfluous. Instead consider a few items from the beer menu: “Westmalle" 9.50 , Trappiste, triple fermentation,” “Guillotine", 90 (petite Sœur de Délirium) or “Scotch Silly" 80. And 29 more, plus the specials board. ‘Nuff said I think. That’s the beers then, (lowest ABV 50), then there’s the food. We didn’t go out to eat, but a glance at the menu changed that. A Moroccan tagine is, in our joint opinions, and for different reasons, one of the tastiest dishes in the world, and here in a bar we fell into by accident they serve the classic Lamb with Prunes, the amazing Lemon Chicken and a Vegetable Tagine, just as if we were in a little café half up the Atlas Mountains.Well, what were we supposed to do? It was délicieux, mes braves.
We arrived on a Sunday night at about 7:30 and by 9 the bar/restaurant was filling up, mostly with French and Dutch vacationers
So, in words of the late great Mr Spike Milligan, “plan nothing, then nothing can go wrong”. It fact it went marvellously right. Sage advice indeed.
If you don’t go for the beer and the food go for the tree. Is it really possible, a tree with two trunks? It should be two separate plants, shouldn’t it? However, we couldn’t see the split. If you are a bit of a botanist and can explain this phenomenon, we would love to know.
Pete and Liz’s Off Line Blog, The Second.
It’s our “jour de repose”, our day off, and we are intending to scale a mountain, with the help of an electric motor and some cogs. We have heard that the mountain railway at La Rhune, on the French, Spanish border is an excellent day out and, purely, of course, in the interests of research we have risen from our bed at a ridiculously early hour and are heading southwards. In less than 90 minutes we are parking in the village of Ascain Pyrenees shrouded in a wispy cotton wool of cloud, so we decide to come back another day, when we will be able to fully appreciate the reportedly magnificent views and can leave our woolly jumper’s in the car.
Plan B, or perhaps it was an extension of plan A, sees us heading through Bera, a unexpectedly beautiful and charming town, the picturesque meander from one end to the other interrupted only by a single concrete monstrosity probably of a Russian design from the ‘60’s.
We headed out, following the signs for Irun, the border town where I, years ago, used to spend hours waiting for French and Spanish customs officers to stamp the necessary paperwork, and that is now a cluster of tobacconists and souvenir shops, where you inevitably find yourself asking, “are we in Spain now?” as you whiz through. A few miles outside San Sebastian France
And so, home again, up the autoroute, stopping every so often to feed the ever ravenous Péage, 70 cents, €2.20, €3.30, but that’s OK, its all subsidised by lower fuel prices and inexpensive tapas, its seems a fair exchange.
Pete and Liz’s Off Line Blog, The Third.
Early season, early morning, well about 9.30, means that there is no queue at the booking office, and no re-enactment of the seven O five, Blackheath to Clapham Junction sardine tin commuter crush. Comfortably seated on the polished wooden benches of a train built at the beginning of the last century with enough room to dash from one side of the carriage to the other as the views switch flanks we await the off.
The doors are secured by the train crew, a whistle is blown, the hundred year old electric motor, having benefited over the decades, from the occasional set of new brushes, jolts and shudders the old train into motion. The views from the train are spectacular; the sedate progress of the train, a modest 9kmh, 5½mph, gives us ample time to drink in the scenery and to click away with gusto, generating more than enough pictures to fill our hard drives.
Around half an hour later, we are deposited 905 metres above sea level, and about 765 metres above our staring point just short of the summit. A “table de Orientation” at the very top lets us work out what we can see from this eyrie and the views are breathtaking, eagles soar below us, riding the thermals with a casual indifference that would put world champion glider pilots to shame. I wonder, can things soar below you? They were though, and we looked down on some of the biggest birds of prey, not just one or two, perhaps a dozen passed our way as we peered over the parapets down into the sky.
Talking of parapets, you go for the views and that away from it all silence we so rarely experience these days. The architecture up there, it must be said, would win no awards, 50’s we guessed, whitewashed concrete angular buildings dispensing coffees, ice creams, sandwiches and meals, not we felt, given the location, at exorbitant rates. Should you be so minded you could pick up a flamenco dress or 5 litres of port for €9.40.
It is a grand day out, the combination of quaint an old train, tranquil progress through a picturesque landscape and the vistas from the summit leave an indelible memory of a pleasant and worthwhile little adventure, and the eagles, well, that’s just the icing on the traditional Basque gateau.
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Pete and Liz’s Off Line Blog, The Fourth.
It’s our day off again, my these Wednesday’s come around so fast, perhaps weeks are metric and therefore shorter here in France
A good French market is an experience that once enjoyed becomes moderately addictive. Needing a fix, we sallied fourth having picked a destination from the list in our reception. This was compiled from a guide provided (in French) by the local tourist information service, and needs desperately to be annotated with the experience of personal visits. Donning our researchers hats we set off to Seignosse in anticipation of some quality al fresco retail therapy. The “market” consisted of 4 stalls, only. I am sorry to say, we inscribed a tyre patterned circle in the adjacent car park and drove off, to Cap Breton. They have a market there too, its just inside buildings like a high street. Lots of shops selling knick knacks, and if you fancy adorning your sideboard with a quality model of a 4 masted sailing schooner several shops can assist, at we felt reasonable prices. Clothes, shoes, handbags ranging from budget to quality are on hand as are souvenirs, restaurants and an African “restauration rapide”, which we took a fancy to and so will be giving its menu a spin in the near future.
From Cap Breton we followed signs to the Côte Sauvage and paused briefly to walk over the dunes and gaze along the sandy beach, wondering if the signs saying “Page Naturist” and prohibiting cameras meant that, in summer this is a nudist beach.
By now lunch was on our minds and so we headed back toward the Camping and Messanges Plage where we had heard that the beach snack bar was worth a try. It’s sited on the top of the dunes, half way between the car park and the Atlantic Ocean , with we are glad to say magnificent views of the later and none of the former. It was true, what we had heard. The salad was formidable “mes braves”, and other diners, local French as well as tourists, were tucking into plates of prawns or steaks of morue (cod), it all looked delicious. It’s a busy place, and is open from noon to 9:30 pm every day. Customers report queues in the evening. A bit of a find, this, and it should be kept a closely guarded secret, no facebooking now.
Local merchant tries to solve the communities problems,
seems like a reasonable deal
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Pete and Liz’s Off Line Blog, The Fifth.
Verification that the S.I. week is briefer than its imperial equivalent seems now only to be a matter of time. Here we are at another day off. We begin at Vieux Boucau market, which we are happy to report is not a disappointment, except for the absence of the geranium man, whose blooms customers have recently exported to the west coast of Scotland
Despite recent success with Spike Milligan’s philosophical approach to planning, we have destinations in mind today the first being the nature reserve at Marais d’Orx, just south of Cap Breton. 768 Hectares, 1900 acres, or 3 square miles of secluded wildlife habitat centred on a lake, we arrive unprepared. The days forecast was cloudy, which was pretty much how it looked when we set off, but by the time we rolled into the reserve’s car park the sun had well and truly got its hat on. Wearing inappropriately long pantaloons, lacking sun lotion and hats, we strolled along the banks of the lake, leaking a lot. Our efforts though were rewarded by the sighting of several herons, a stork on the distant island standing, as is their wont, on something wooden, an egret and a beaver. The sight of the furry rodent rooteling in the weeds, it sodden flanks glistening in the light dappled by the overhanging branches was worth the trip alone. 
We are trying our hands at wildlife photography, a feat harder than tightrope walking over
From the reserve we headed into Cap Breton to make good on last weeks promise to try out the African restaurant. It turns out be run by a husband and wife, he is Polish and she is from the Ivory Coast, a republic in western Africa, bordered by Mali, Burkina Faso, Ghana, Liberia and Guinea. A former French colony, Côte d’Ivoire UK
Reliance on the internal combustion engine meant that Peter was limited to soft drinks, normally an unexciting prospect. Here though they have three “squashes” made from the berries, leaves and roots of the continent. He had a ginger based drink, more than, delicious, a very welcome change from fizzies and excellent value at €2.50. A not particularly huge smoothie in a nearby bar would cost you €5. The mains of Poulet Yassa, chicken, onions and olives in a spicy sauce and Foutou, beef and plantin in piquant gravy were tasty and filling. We got out, with a demi of wine for Liz, and some ice cream each for €38. If you fancy something a little different, this informal little eatery will enchant, replete and educate. And it ain’t pizza.
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It’s a tricky one this, where to take my infinitely better half for her birthday, a swanky lakeside dining room with white jacketed waiters, crisp tablecloths and a ten page wine list or the Snack Bar de la Plage? Put like that, the choice, if I want to enjoy next year as a married man seems like a no brainer. We went to the Snack Bar of the beach. This isn’t though really a snack bar, it does do sandwiches and draught ice cream, but in the evenings this modest shack serves truly delicious food, nothing swanky, steaks, salads, gambas, cod, a few other things, no starters and the desserts are not home made. The gambas though, Liz tells me, transcend excellence and transmit the diner to hitherto untrodden plateaus of nirvana. The salads are pretty good too, so good that one is my choice on my wife’s birthday dinner, which really says all that needs to be said about just how above ordinary they are. The food’s good then, the house white is superb, the service efficient, professional, friendly and they have a sense of humour, by which I mean they laugh at my jokes. None of this though, is why this place is packed in the high season, why people will wait an hour for a table and it is a little bit of a local legend. The star of this show is the Atlantic Ocean . You have a front row seat, atop the dunes on what must be one the most beautiful stretches of unspoilt coastline in Europe watching the waves crashing on the shore, and the slowly setting sun turning the sea the most unlikely shades of cobalt blue, the sky streaked with fire, contrasting spectacularly with wisps of jet-black cloud. Who needs starched napkins when the sky is the floorshow, the cabaret the heavens and the star mother nature at her most vivid and breathtaking? Next year looks like a safe bet.
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