I’ve been talking for the past few days about being in France, but of course from another perspective I’m in the “Basque country”. This is not, in general, very evident, except for the traditional Basque houses, most of which I suspect are not very old, the Basque language on the official signage, and the odd restaurant and linen shop.

One night I asked for the wine of the region and got Irouleguy. I wrote it down phonetically as “ir-ree-le-goo” – I don’t think there’s much point in trying to pronounce Basque words any other way.

I found this interesting piece on the Basque tradition in America and a simple online dictionary.

Don’t miss the latest early modern Carnivalesque, up on (A)musings of a Grad Student.

There’s the “heavenly craft” of woodcuts, a history of windmills, and more than a little “Shiver me timbers …”

… and English so bad?

I had lunch today, in a little glassed-in concrete area above the public toilets in a little bay on the headland of which stands a statue of the Virgin Mary, just south of the old port of Biarritz. No, you guessed, I’m not quite sure what the bay is called, but with that description you’ll find it.

A similar facility in England would probably serve indifferent fish and chips, microwaved hamburgers and similar culinary monstrosities. At this cafe, however, I had the dish of the day, which was two dorade fillets, panfried to have a crispy outside but with still firm flesh, on a bed of carrots, with a light cream mustard sauce. The sweetness of the carrots was perfectly balanced by the cut of the mustard, the textures were all different, and all complementary, and on the side was a green salad of half a dozen different flavourful leaves, with a tasty dressing, accompanied by a giant, crispy, garlic slice of fried bread.

All of that, and coffee, cost 11 euros (about £7), with a gorgeous view.

Why is there such a difference between the two cuisines and food cultures? I’m really trying to work that one out!

P.S. You’ve probably concluded that I survived the surfing lesson without any broken limbs – and I even stood on the board for about 5 milliseconds at one point. I think it would be possible for me to learn to ride a surfboard (and if I can anyone can), but I reckon I’d have to devote two solid weeks to the task.

I’ve also discovered, however, that it takes a lot more work from your shoulders than you’d expect – in the moment of upward propulsion from lying to standing, which would require me to get my dodgy shoulder fixed first. (Still to recover from a lot of painting of ceilings earlier this year – can’t imagine how Michelangelo managed it!)

Bon jour, mes amis …

Okay, I’ll switch out of French now (since I’ve probably already made several grammatical errors), but rather excited that slowly but I hope surely my French is coming along – I’m increasingly not only able to ask questions, but understand the answers!

In fact I organised a whole lesson for tomorrow in French, and the organiser didn’t once switch into English, although I’m sure she could have.

Now you might think I’m being insulting in calling Biarritz an old whore, but I mean it in the nicest possible way. It reminds me of Luxor, of Sorrento and, perhaps less surprisingly, of Nice – towns that have all been utterly tourism-centred for a century or more (well millennia in the case of Luxor) and have relaxed gracefully into the role.

They take an extra percentage off every tourist (and local) wallet, but don’t egregariously set out to rip off – well except the really green travellers – but in all cases it is done with a smile and a laugh, and perhaps a shot of free local liqueur – which tastes vile, that’s part of joke – but it is all in good humour. They’re not embarrassed about the fact this is their business and they wants to have fun themselves and for their visitors to come back, or at least tell their friends to come along.

Not all long-term tourist destinations achieve this – Venice is one that still retains a remarkable ill-humour towards the whole business – maybe they have to be sunny places? And newer places tend to get very surly and sour about the whole “grubby” business. (E.g. Greece, with the honourable exception of Crete.)

Previously for coastal France I’ve only been to the Med and it is nice to see waves again; they make a beach complete. And there were serious waves yesterday – tres dangereuse, a fellow guest at the hotel was telling me this morning. I agreed, showing her my skinned knees, the result of being heavily dumped by a wave that treated me like the T-shirt at the bottom of the washing machine load.

It wasn’t that big, but there was all the power of the Atlantic behind it. For their size they’re much more powerful than those I’ve encountered in Australia. Perhaps because most of those showed the effects of the windbreak off Sydney heads otherwise known as New Zealand. (It’s all right – a joke – really Kiwis!)

Today, however, la mer is showing her pussycat, calm side. I’m hoping for the same tomorrow, since the lesson I was arranging was my first-ever attempt at real surfing (as opposed to bodyboarding, at which I am – or used to be 10 years ago – moderately competent.

To any relatives reading, it’s OK, really. I’ve watched the lessons, and they don’t get beyond waist-height. If I get serious about the business I’ll have to improve my swimming.

But I’ve always said I wanted to learn to surf one day. Expect a report tomorrow, provided no broken limbs prevent it …

… intermittant blogging for a week or two.

(Well one week, actually.) Next post will be from Biarritz, on the French Atlantic coast. Expect some reviews of “beach reading”.

(And hopefully this pic will keep working – some in my archives aren’t because Flickr appears to have changed all its URLs without notice! If you’ve got the same problem I’ve found the way to fix it is to go back to the original photo on Flickr and use the new URL.)