Like a bear coming out of a long winter hibernation, I have emerged from a year of dancesport presidency and six months of nose-to-the-grindstone research and writing, hungry for travels. I fear that the last six months of thesis writing may have altered my lucid prose, but I'll leave that assessment up to those who dare delve into this post. Good luck.
As the title revealed, I handed in my thesis a few weeks ago and quickly escaped to sunny southwestern France, home to the zone known as 'Basque country', a region spanning parts of two countries, featuring its own flag and language, and dreaming of independence - much like Wales in the UK.
But as I discovered, Basque country is so much more. It is food, sunshine, mountains tipping into the ocean; it's history and culture. It is a lifestyle. Allow me to count the ways (I suspect that's why you're here anyways).
The trip was facilitated by my French labmate, Christelle, who played host and tour guide for the journey. Landing at Biarritz airport, we were greeted by an incredible fiery sunset and a box of Gateaux Basque, courtesy of Christelle's family. Both the atmosphere and the cakes were excellent omens of things to come. After a quick (well... not quick enough to keep the original schedule) pit stop at her grandparents' house, we left the coastal area and headed inland to her parents' house, a lovely home overlooking vineyards and rolling hills with the snow-capped Pyrennes playing peak-a-boo off in the distance. We had a lovely Basque-pork and mash dinner followed both by chocolate mousse and a king cake. Christelle's mother was the winner of the trinket, a tiny porcelain sheep, which she offered to me as a souvenir of my visit. We went to bed relatively quickly thereafter as the following day promised frolicking in the mountains!
Eat something new: check.
Our base of operations for two days in the Pyrenees was a hotel in the village of Cauterets. From there, a short (zig-zag, uphill) drive took us to Pont d'Espagne. There was a nice stone bridge there, which I assumed was the Pont, but where we were miles and miles away from Spain I cannot vouch for the legitimacy of the title. The first day featured clear blue skies over a fresh coat of snow. The snowy mountains rose ruggedly above us with a sparse evergreen forest providing a dark green and white mesh to admire. The piste we followed that day was mixed-use: tracks had been set out for cross-country skiers, though we donned our cheerful raquettes (snowshoes) and took the slower mode of transport. We only set out at around 13:00 so we very quickly stopped to consume our lunch, which consisted of baguettes filled with delicious locally cured ham and local cheese. Then on we went, stopping periodically to admire the scenery and shoot a variety of photos. We plodded along for about 2.5 miles while following a stream, which wound around a relatively level, wide and barren basin. This permitted lovely views of the surrounding mountains without too much hard work. Still, I acquired some excellent blisters.
First time snowshoeing: check.
In Cauterets that evening, we looked up a restaurant on TripAdvisor. Though we originally fancied tartiflette - a delicious lardon, creme, reblochon, onion and potato concoction - we discovered something much more exciting at the restaurant. Indeed, it's not everyday you have the opportunity to cook your own steak slices on the side of a blazing hot cowbell. Each of us had a plate of steak and cured ham with some tomatoes and mushrooms, accompanied by au gratin potatoes; the meats and veg could be stuck onto the cowbell via some small spikes (though typically the meat stuck of its own accord!). A herb mixture, Bernese sauce, and a blue cheese sauce were also provided to add different flavours. A post-dinner stroll past the edge of the village revealed crystal clear night skies and excellent astronomy above white-capped mountains. That's basically all I want in life.
Eat dinner off of a cowbell: check.
The second day, unfortunately, brought light rain showers. Undeterred, we donned our snow gear once again. This time, we elected to take a trail that was not maintained by the park. Though we were snowshoeing 'at our own risk', the trail was well trodden. This hike was much more forested than the previous day's, allowing us to do some 'real' hiking. We came across a clearing about a mile in, in which, to our excitement, someone had built a two-room igloo! Ready for a break, we crawled in the spacious abode, had a snack and relaxed for a bit, then became stiff and chilled and decided to keep going. There was also a lake nearby, which provided a nice spot to look out over the snowy, soggy, cloudy, rocky landscape. Turning around, we headed back towards Pont d'Espagne. At two points I noticed really fresh sets of deer tracks crossing the trail, which I hadn't noticed previously. Christelle looked out into the woods and we were surprised and excited to see two groups of a herd of Chamois, maybe 6 or 7 between the two sightings. Chamois are basically mountain goats with dark brown to black fur. The males had a distinctive dark stripe down their nose and horns. We won a staring contest with one such male, who became distracted by a tasty-looking pine branch.
Win staring contest against a wild animal: check.
Making a quick stop in Lourdes to check out the famous cathedral (which, sadly, was closed), we drove all the way back to Biarritz, our point of call for the remainder of our adventures. That night we dined on yet another French specialty, confit de canard, prepared by yours truly. It wasn't hard, really. Open can. Dig through congealed fat until you find four duck quarters. Fry. Even after leaving most of the congealed fat in the can, the duck legs were basically deep fried. It was amazing. After wine and duck and potatoes and more gateaux basque, all was well. We watched Pixar's Ratatouille and went to sleep. I hadn't slept that well in months.
Become an acclaimed French chef: check.
Biarritz and the coast was gorgeous. Temperatures around 20C made for very pleasant strolls in three seaside areas over the subsequent days. The first day we explored St. Jean-de-Luz, a town with a small harbour, a long beach, and yummy macarons. We also ventured down to Hendaye, walked on the promenade by the water, watching the surfers desperately try to make something happen. As the sun fell in the sky a mist rolled in off the ocean. It was an ethereal setting along the beach. Following the promenade, I realised we were very near to the 'end of France', so we carried on all the way to the end. There, a harbour with a protected inlet separated Spain from France. We watched the sun disappear behind the mountains over Spain, then turned around in time to see an impressive full moon poke through a few clouds to light up the dreamy, dark marina. Van Gogh would certainly have been inspired.
Sublime moonrise: check.
Believe it or not, the next day was even better. We drove from Biarritz down to San Sebastian, Spain; my first time in the country. San Sebastian (or Donostia in Basque) is an ancient city on a wide natural elliptical harbour. One 'long' side of the harbour constitutes a beach over a mile long. Two tall promontories on the opposite side of the harbour, along with a turtle-shaped island, protect the harbour from the ocean beyond. It just so happens that San Sebastian has been designated a European capital of culture for 2016, so we were excited to see that a number of events were being hosted the day we visited. In particular we naturally had to check out the Basque folk dancing. It was exciting to see over 100 normal people doing the dances to a live band. An accordionist with a Basque flag-adorned instrument was the focal point of the band. It was fun to observe the festivities and draw comparisons with the British equivalent, Morris dancing.
Become cultured: check.
Afterwards we found a top-notch tapas (pintxos in Basque, pronounced pinchas.. an appropriate name) place: crowded, small, standing-only. They basically throw the food at you, especially if you can't speak any Spanish or Basque! We had some incredible octopus, salt encrusted bacalau (recall from Portugal, cod), a massive pork (I think) rib, risotto, something I can't now remember, and a mystery dish - Orejas de Credo. Mind you, it's not a mystery anymore. In fact, I'm proud to say I've tried my first pig ears. They were... squishy... and gelatinous... and were a pile of blackish strips on the plate. Christelle was unenthused, so I scored a whole dish to myself! After walking around the ocean side of the eastern promontory and pausing for a quick coffee, we started to climb up to the top, which hosted a medieval castle. The castle itself wasn't overwhelmingly impressive but it afforded the most amazing views westward over the harbour and along the coast of Spain. From here - under clear skies - we sat for a couple hours as afternoon turned to evening and evening into night. The sky transitioned from blue to blazing reds and oranges as the distant mountains became mauve two-dimensional shapes against the radiant backdrop. Speckles emerged in the sky as orange lights began to light the harbour town below and, with the moon blocked by the promontory at our backs, we had a near 360 degree view of a perfect night sky. A lighthouse on the opposite promontory joined two others far off in the distance in a firefly-like display.
The most amazing tapas and sunset: check.
Regrettably dinner was a bit... missable. We decided that rather than going to an amazing restaurant in the Spanish countryside, it would be far more interesting to get a flat tire under a moonlit sky. It's the first time I've changed my own tire out of necessity, but hey, it was all good fun and part of the experience. We also learned how to use a Spanish air pump after playing charades with a petrol station attendant ('Do you speak English or French?' 'No, only Catalan and Basque' 'Hmm... Numatico..' *draws line across throat*).
Invoke Boy Scout training: check.
In our remaining time, we wandered in the country around Christelle's grandparents' home and meandered up and down the rocky and beachy waterfront in Biarritz. Her grandparents live outside a very small village about 30-45 minutes from the coast. The village and environs are known for their production of Espellette peppers, a bright red mildly-hot pepper with a delicious flavour (I had it in chocolate!). The communities harvest the peppers each summer and hang them up to dry on vertical strings on the facades of all the buildings. Her grandparents have been living in the area for decades and - according to tradition - they built the house themselves. It has an amazing country feel and a lovely, iconic view (of another amazing sunset). The only thing warmer than the cozy wood fire inside was the hospitality of the residents, who insisted on serving us apple tart and drinks. I should also mention that the region is known for a digestif called patxaran (pronounced: pecheran), which is apparently made from macerating sloe berries in anisette (an anise liqueur) over a long period. It's very nice... and fruity. As for Biarritz, I particularly enjoyed seeing the waves crash against the rocks, surveying the beach from the city's own promontory, and watching the lighthouse check up on the beach every 10 seconds at nighttime. We went to a delicious pizzaria one evening. The tartiflette pizza - a special - was a bit heavy, but the quattro stagioni was very nice. And of course there was dessert: homemade baba au rhum... which was probably more rum than cake!
Ponder the merits of a life in the countryside: check.
For what it's worth, I haven't said much about our typical meals over the trip. Indeed, we ate a lot of cake, croissants, pain au chocolat, hot chocolate, baguettes, cheeses, cured ham (lomo is a common Basque variety), fruits, biscuits... and not many green things. You know, typical French food with a side of duck confit and boeuf sur la cloche.
So if you ever go to France, I encourage you to find its southwestern end. The land with the green, white, and red Union Jack and a language that predates almost any other in Europe (the Basques are genetically distinct from Indo-Europeans and have probably been there for tens of thousands of years) is well worth a visit. You can also do as I did: miss your train to Paris due to an ill-timed (or well-timed?) power outage, and use the opportunity to eat more duck while Basque-ing in the peacefulness of the region. And whatever you do, be sure you eat the cakes, be they gateaux basque, berets basque, or something else. It's hard to go wrong.