18 August 2005

This was the day we arrived in Biarritz. The Atlantic coast's most glamorous French resort. Beloved by roayalty, pop stars and French sun seekers alike. With cunning planning on our part we had arrived in Biarritz around during mid-afternoon in the middle of August. With the true motorcyclist traveller's bravado and disregard for for any sort of forward planning we failed to consider whether we would be able to find a campsite (or indeed anywhere) close to Biarritz to stay. After failed enquiries at the L'Hôtel de Tourisme (the cruel irony being the in the name), we realised that the only chance we stood of finding a place to stay was to head inland. Out of Biarritz and well away for the longed for beach, bars, sea front, restaurants etc, etc. The obvious choice was Dax! I'm still not sure why we aimed for Dax. In any event we never made it to Dax. Oh no! We were bound for greater things. We found a campsite instead next to a roundabout, but a stones through from a large shopping arcade (Inter Marché, Brico Marché, a whole host of petrol stations - you get the picture). The campsite was full. Very full. At least I presume that is why we were given the pitch we were. Next to us was a half abandoned caravan. On the other side a reasonably modern, fairly large caravan which looked as though it had been there for a number of summers before. The grass had grown up around the wheels and wood pannelling placed around the bottom to hide the underneath. This in itself was fine. I've seen this a million times before. What was disturbing was the family of three sitting in a row in absolute silence. The mother and father were in their late forites, perhaps even in their early fitfties - it was hard to tell. The son was definatley in his mid to late twenties. They sat in stony silence watching as we, perhaps four or five feet from us, pitched our tents. After a quick swim we ate and retreated into our respective tents to hide from their searcing gaze. No wine to drink that night.