Biarritz to Hendaye

I came here to walk the Sentier Littoral, a trail that starts in Biarritz and will take me 66km across the border to Spain. I have had my croissant and coffee. There is a baguette with some chorizo and sheep cheese in my rucksack. I have a few choice bits of fruit stashed in my pockets for dessert. My water cooler is full. In case of emergencies I have a bag of sugary jelly sweets. My shorts are on and the sun is a hot hole in the blue sky. I have no map, not a word of a language but all I have to do is follow the red and white signs and smile and I should be ok, right?

Every man has two countries, his own and France.

John F. Kennedy

Biarritz is a fine town considering it is one of the wettest metropolitan areas in France. I saw the floods as I flew in. Not as bad as Southern Spain but still fairly wet. I also saw how green the place is. It’s not at all like I imagined. The glossy magazines and travel blogs led me to believe that the strand was wide and pedestrian and made for promenading but it is far from that. Refined buildings in the Belle Epoque style perch on top of the slope that drops down dramatically into the Bay of Biscay. Large waves of energy flow in from the Atlantic and pound the shoreline, spray and foam shooting off the lips in wild arcs. Right now it is too big and messy for the surfers. I take a 10 minute bus ride from Centreville to the quiet village of Bidart.

My starting point for the days walk through the French Basque country is Plage d’Uhubia, a small beach that is booming as the waves break offshore today. Pretty much every beach I pass for the rest of the day will have neoprene clad surfers running towards the water with boards tucked under their armpits. I don’t think I have ever seen this many surf beaches in my life.

I know next to nothing about the Basques. The internet says they are an isolated pocket of genetic anomalies with a tongue called Euskara that is unrelated to any other European language. The French Basques are governed by Paris. The Spanish Basques have political autonomy from Spain but I think they are still Spanish. People are people. Behind me are the typical timbered houses they call home. In this region the timbers are mostly painted red. They were originally painted with ox-blood to keep insects away. As I walk towards Spain, green timbers are more in fashion, but here they like their bright red to stand out against the whitewashed walls. Red, green and white are everywhere, like the Basque flag, along with the wide expanse of blue sea that is always on my right shoulder.

We dream in colours borrowed from the sea

Unknown

The trail brings me up through well-to-do houses on the headland and down to another beach watched over by St Joseph’s chapel. It has a large porch, traditionally reserved for lepers (or those with medieval eczema). I follow a series of steps down to Guethary port. A beachside restaurant is opening up. Five or six boats are out in the bay chasing shoals of fish. Old tanned men in black berets sit on the wall and cast lines or watch the surfers as they make darts for the peaks that rise around them. It is busy enough. Surfers are waxing boards, pulling on wetsuits, pulling off booties. The odd trail runner lopes by, bottle close to hand as the sun heats up the land. I take the trail up another wooded hill away from the beach. I come out at a road that runs parallel with train tracks. Campervans disgorge their sleepy heads. The road takes me down through large Pine trees to Plage Chenitz.

This is the rhythm of the first half of the day. Up to the headland, down to the next beach, pass by restaurants and holiday campsites, cross a footbridge, up again. Plage de mayorco. Plage Lafitenia. Plage Erromardie. The iodine smell of the waves breaking on seaweed. Surfers running towards the big blue. It makes for great walking and reminds me of the quote –

My Life is like a stroll upon the beach, as near the ocean’s edge as I can go.

Henry David Thoreau

I skirt around the Paul Jouvet botanical garden, pass a few world war 2 bunkers and come out onto Pointe de Sainte Barbe with its cute white chapel on the hill and the seawall below. My old neighbour, the Duke of Wellington, was based here during the Peninsular Wars (1807 – 1814) looking out over the wide bay. At the other side of the water, the Fort of Socoa juts out that side. In the centre of the bay is the Artha seawall. These three seawalls protect the town ahead from the full force of the Atlantic. Behind the main beach, another dyke has been built as a last resort for the shipowners houses that line the promenade like sentries looking out to sea. This is St Jean De Luz, the home of the 16th century Basque Corsairs. The Corsairs were not actual pirates. They were given letters of marque from the King to harass their enemies at sea and were allowed to keep captured ships for themselves. This is why they preferred boarding enemy ships in order to reduce damage. St Jean de Luz was known by English sailors as the Nest of Vipers, which is not a bad way to be known by the English.

I really like this place. It is a late October lunchtime and the long beach is full of families making the most of the last of the Autumn warmth. The seawalls are seriously impressive, although there are still waves coming through for the surfers. The main dyke is a lovely promenade with nice shade from the imposing tall houses. It was here that the Sun King Louis 14th married Marie Theresa of Spain in 1660. This ended Spain’s run as a major power in Europe and the occasion was marked by a local patisserie that invented a new delicacy – the macaroon. I turn into the fishing port and cross Place Louis 14th which is full of diners enjoying coffee beneath the shade of knobbly Plane trees that have been freshly pollarded.

A bridge takes me over the river Nivelle to the commune of Ciboure. This was home to Florentino Goikoetxea, the Spanish Basque smuggler (or import-export businessman, as he listed his occupation in Buckingham Palace when he received the George Medal from the Queen). He guided over 200 downed airmen across the Pyrenees on the legendary Comet Line so that they could make their way to Gibralter and return to England during World War 2. I pass by a monument to the fallen French from the wars. I skirt around the workers on cherry picker machines who are slicing the fresh growth off the plane trees with their buzzing powered clippers. I pass by a statue of the Virgin overlooking the bay and leave the road for a while to walk along the water’s edge towards the last sandy beach of the bay, Plage Ciboure. There is a tempting beachside restaurant here but I am eager to get to the Basque Corniche for lunch so I plod on under the midday sun.

Unfortunately the Basque Corniche is no longer accessible to walkers. This is a major blow to my adventure as it was one of the first things that attracted me to this trip. The cliffside walking trail has collapsed in places due to the relentless pounding of the Atlantic. In other places it is blocked off with steel fencing and danger signs. The parts that are accessible are completely overgrown from lack of use. My alternative is to walk the main road along the coast to Hendaye. I meet a Spanish hiker with the same problem and he is not keen to take the main road as it is busy. He heads back to Ciboure to look for a bus.

I have lunch at the Fort de Socoa. It is scorching. I watch the surfers sitting on their boards in the cool waves of Ciboure and wish I was in the water too. The Fort itself is impressive enough. More impressive is the seawall supported by giant concrete blocks that juts out from it across the bay. Around the other side I have a view of the Flysch that characterises this whole coastline from here and down the Northern Spanish coast. I have never seen this geology before. It is rare and I don’t really understand the science behind it. I don’t really understand much geology to be honest but I do like the way it creates the ground that I walk on. It something to do with the ocean carving different sedimentary layers underwater and something to do with the massive upheavals that created the Pyrenees which all happened millions of years ago. Sometimes they run along the beach towards the water and sometimes they run straight up along the vertical cliffs. They look cool, like long dragon ridges sticking out of the sea, which is why so much of the Northern Spanish coast was used in Game of Thrones.

I finish my chorizo roll and reflect on how this unfamiliar landscape is what I enjoy so much about walking abroad. I take to the main road. The Basque Corniche is still a beautiful road to drive for now with plenty of viewing points for cars and buses to stop. It won’t be for long though. Already the erosion is eating into the road in places so it too will have to be rerouted. The views are epic but the tarmac walking is tough and monotonous. It is an exhausting few kilometres and I find it hard to appreciate the views. There is a giant surfing wave off this stretch of the Corniche called the Belharra. It is created by a seagrass covered submarine rock that sends a wall of water upwards on rare occasions when the conditions are just right once or twice a decade. It could have been ridden that day by my mother-in-law on a surfboard and I still probably would not have noticed. Sometimes I have to walk on the grass verge and that is rough and uncomfortable. At times there is myself, a cyclist and a car sharing the one lane which means I have to be always on the lookout for traffic. It is hotter and my bag feels heavier and my feet are starting to feel the long march towards a trail that I can safely stroll along.

I make it to the Haizabia property without incident. This was where I was supposed to be able to rejoin the soft clay trails through grassland but it too was closed. More road walking but at least there is a footpath now. Over 20 km done so far and still a bit more to go. I check my heel where I think I can feel a blister forming. I reapply more suncream and gauge how much water I have left. My bag of sugary sweets are in action.

Finally I make it to the walking trail that accesses the viewing station of Point Sainte Anne. This is a beautiful green parkland with shaded woods and paths through the headland around the coast overlooking Hendaye. It is a renowned beauty spot with multiple trails to explore. At its centre is the fabulous gothic castle of Abbadia which was built by the Irish born explorer Antoine d’Abbadie. The castle is decorated with exotic gargoyles of crocodiles and snakes and it also has the Irish welcome of Céad Míle Fáilte over its doorway. I was looking forward to seeing it but I take the quick way through the paths towards my accommodation. Although disappointed, I have learned to listen to my body over the years. Besides, this feels like a place I might return to again some other fine day.