Bessie’s diary, Part 3
Destination France (UK): June 2006

This is the third instalment of a six-part series that appeared in Destination France, UK.

Every day’s an adventure when you’re travelling in a ‘camping car’. Driving towards the Atlantic coast from Pau, we came across a village called Orthez. We would have driven straight past except that on this evening the whole village was barricaded and a stream of people were pouring into the centre. A fete! Jon’s eye’s lit up at the thought of rides and hot sausages, so we parked Bessie and joined the fun.

A crowd had gathered to watch a cycling race begin. The 30 or so competitors would ride the dizzyingly short circuit 60-odd times, past the crowd of supporters, up the hill where local brass bands entertained makeshift bars, around the back of the village and then down to the start again.

The other half of the town was entertained by fairground rides, games and sausages. Jon and I found a table at a bar and watched the lads punch a mechanical bag. They watched as their strength was displayed on a digital screen while the girls they were trying to impress paid no attention. We drank our beers and enjoyed being the only foreigners present while the party raged around us.

Darkness fell and the cyclists kept circulating. We wandered off for a sausage and entertainment. A steel-drum band and silver people on stilts, spraying sparks into the crowd livened up the party, and we spent a happy hour in one of the tents where an impromptu brass band was jamming between slugs of beer. Among the varied costumes, the saxophonist was a scarecrow and the trumpeter seemed to be some kind of root vegetable.

With slightly sore heads the next day, we continued as planned to Ondres, north of Biarritz. We’d been told there was an aire de camping car here right next to the beach and drove along the forest-lined road to the beach looking for the usual mob of mobile homes and vans. Sure enough, there it was to the left of the carpark, an area with wide spaces marked out for 30 camping cars, water and toilet-emptying facilities, a couple of electricity outlets, and just minutes walk from the beach. We’d bought a kilo of big, sweet prawns from Carrefour for 5 euros, and ate these on the beach debating how we’d ever be able to leave.

The aire is open all year, and costs just 7 euros in July and August only. On our third day we managed to get up early enough to move to a free space with electricity (no extra charge) and we had it all – bread, croissants, cold beer and English newspapers were available from the shop, and there are 24-hour toilets and outdoor showers by the beach, plus a couple of restaurants and a few snack shops. 

But the whole point of being there was for the Atlantic’s surf. Our days became a routine: breakfast by the van in the morning sun, beach, lunch back at Bessie, beach, come in for dinner, then listen to the surf crashing at night. From Biarritz to Capbreton, Ondres Plage stretches some 10km in each direction. Just twenty minutes walk either way and we had the beach to ourselves. 

The nice thing about staying in an aire – as we learnt the hard way – is that everyone watches out for one another, regardless of nationality or language. Tools and condiments are borrowed, advice is given, hellos and nods are exchanged, information given – especially if you’re young, obviously inexperienced and driving an 18-year-old van. Despite this, we made the wrong decision one night and decided to park outside the aire. We were going out anyway and would only go back to the van to sleep so we may as well save ourselves 7 euros – that was our rationale.

Just before the beach carpark, there is a clearing in the forest where cars and vans parked during the day. We left Bessie between a mobile home and a few cars, and set out for dinner as the sun was setting. It was a beautiful night, the sunset an explosion of pinks and yellows, and we were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves for having had a budget week by the sea.

Every night we’d been tormented by the smells coming from La Plancha seafood restaurant, and this was to be our reward. A whole, fresh marbu for two, cooked in a lemony butter sauce with chillies and garlic, which melted in the mouth. We had a carafe of rose and finished it off with the gateau Basque, a local speciality with a creamy texture that tastes exactly like a warm madeline.

We were in high spirits as we walked back to the van after our perfect night out. I remember singing along to a cheesy song coming from a nearby campsite disco as Bessie came into view. The clearing was a lot darker than we’d expected and there were no other vehicles around. I'll never forget the sight of Bessie alone in the dark with her side door open, or that sinking certainty: we’d been robbed.

They’d smashed the side window and come in through the front, taking off with our laptops, generator, lenses and – worst of all – our clothes bags. The police told us to come in in the morning, so there was nothing for us to do except drive back to the aire and tidy up the mess.

The next day, as Jon was filing a police report, in walked two gendarme saying that they’d found some stuff in the forest – our clothes! They’d been rifled through and ditched as non-valuables. I’ve never knew I’d be so happy to see my grubby t-shirts in the back of a police car.

While we waited for a replacement window, we had to spend more than a week at Ondres with a non-secure van. If it weren’t for the kindness of our neighbours at the aire, willing to watch Bessie while we went for a swim or walk together, we probably would have gone stir crazy.