Biarritz, France | Basque Identity Dominates

I was told from several people that Biarritz is worth visiting. The splendid first picture that popped up in google maps for Biarritz caused my jaw to drop. That was all I needed to convince me to make the trip, in the opposite direction of where I needed to be in a week. I strategized to use Jost Bordeaux hotel and hostel as a base and visit Biarritz (with my bicycle) 2 hours away by train. I was allotted 6 hours from Bordeaux; no earlier or later trains on the L51 route. It took 20  minutes or so to reach the spectacular view of the wide ocean cove before me after leaving the train station; disassociated from the town which is tucked in the hills above the coast. Here was a steep drop, with a very attractive network of walkways. Glad to have a bicycle.

It was only after arriving there that I realized I was in the Basque region. After arriving at the Biarritz train station from Bordeaux, I saw a guy with Asian eyes and a bun in his light hair walking from the same train. I asked him if he’s local. He nodded yes. How do i get to, and I had to fumble through my pack to find my little red book, where I’d hastily written down tourists notes about places to see in Biarritz, . befor they’d disappear from the screen because of lack of WiFi. Ou est le ‘Rocher de la Vierge’?

At this point he said, I speak English. I asked him if he surfs, since I was told Biarritz is a known surfing spot. He answered that he does, adding that he’s from Tahiti, enough said. I asked if one of his parent’s is European? He answered, Yes, my mother is Basque. Hmmm. He didn’t say French, though he lives here in Biarritz, France. So, I was thinking to myself, Basque people identify more with their traditional roots than the country in which they reside.

I was told that the Basque history extends thousands of years before Christ. There’s a strong identity of the Basque people (the Spanish perhaps even more so than the French) and that the Basque language really has no roots with any other language. and I began writing this on the train returning from Bordeaux to Montpellier; about my Sunday venture on a local train line to Biarritz from Bordeaux. 

This half Tahitian half Basque guy told me the way to get to this area by the ocean. Up this road straight ahead, and which direction to go at each roundabout. The oceanside was the first place I intended to visit. A priority. I wasn’t interested in the town or in restaurants or shopping, but the ocean view I saw on google maps. I asked him where do people here surf? He answered that personally he goes to the south surfing beach, ‘Cote de Basque’. I remembered writing it down. There’s another beach north called ‘the Grande Plage’. 

I followed his directions…later winding through these streets, I asked two french women walking their dogs who explained that basically – waving their arms – the ocean is that way. I followed the steep streets and the road lead me finally to an opening overlooking the Atlantic ocean far below. I was looking down at a postcard view of the Atlantic ocean far below, extending quite a distance to my left, on my way to the Rock of the Virgin which I still hadn’t a clue where it was.

I wanted to touch the Atlantic ocean. 

I gazed along the coast from this high lookout point, then wound down the very well maintained walkways to the sea level. I noticed two surfers in the water, far out from the shore. Then saw one of them moving towards the coast lined with boulders. The wind was strong, the waves were tumbling in to these large black boulders mounded up in front of the sea wall. I was dubious as I watched the surfer approach the waves crashing into the rocks. It looked like it had to be well choreographed and times in order to not get pounded into the rocks. Soon at the boardwalk just above sea level I spotted first wet suit booties perched on the wall, then came upon several tents and signs indicating that it’s a ‘Surf School’. There was a lot of paraphernalia, boards and wet suits. I approached a man at the tent rolling a cigarette and said to him in french, that i saw surfers getting out of the water and that it looks quite dangerous. He nodded, the tide is coming in. He said the surfing school only operates in mornings. An hour or so later, walking by, the tents were sealed shut with no indication of a surf school.

I walked first away from the touristy place in the direction of where I had spotted from above a sandy beach, beyond a chainlink fence. Sure enough, as I approached them there was no way to get through, signs stated No Entry. I spotted several wide concrete paved walkways, like a boat launch, leading down to the water with stairs carved out in the middle of the path. The waves at their base already looked hectic, thrusting up into the walkway from where they crashed below. The water was rushing in with power. There were occasional high sprays as the waves hit the wall of this walkway.

Yet, I decided that I had to be touched by the Atlantic Ocean. I watched the water, the sprays, the metal hand rail that stopped abruptly several meters from the sea level below. There was no way I’d risk attempting to get in the water as these waves gushed in to the walkway with tremendous force. However, I could walk down it to where the hand railing ended, to be sprayed by the ocean. The metal hand rail ran down the sloped concrete walkway to within several meters of the water level where at the opening, waves as waves thundered into the wall and rushed up the concrete slab. The surfers know when they need to get out of the water. The surfer I saw timed it to the last moments. The waves were already pounding into the stairs surrounded by rocks that he was approaching. It looked really sketchy.

I didn’t have time to contemplate. Time was of the essence; one last train. There was an elderly Asian woman doing leg stretches at the top of the walkway, and an elderly couple whose path I crossed. Á guy was standing, staring down at his phone. I lifted my pack over a low wall land side to stash it. Took off all my clothes, no bathing suit, no wait, maybe i did have it (back at the Jost hostel in Bordeaux). I walked down the slab of concrete, hen to the stairs in the middle. When i reached a stair moistened by water, it was really slippery. I decided to move to the wall immediately and reached for the hand rail. I was close enough that the likelihood of a wave crashing over me was more probable. The couple stood watching from the inner walkway. I waived and smiled. They were grey haired. They waved, curious perhaps to see if I was stupid enough to attempt going all the way down to where the waves were barreling up the concrete walkway. Pretty soon a huge wave of the Atlantic sprayed forcefully over me as I gripped he rail. It drenched me. And frankly it was a bit scary, and enough to get the taste I wanted. I turned around immediately, and almost ran back. The couple were still watching me, smiling. I was nude and really didn’t care because hardly anyone else was there. The Asian woman now reading, had never looked up. The guy staring at his phone earlier was gone. I stood exhilarated, letting the strong breeze quickly dry me off. I was fascinated looking at the tremendous force of the ocean. I dressed, unlocked my bike, and proceeded to bike and walk along a number of different look out touristy points. 

At one place where I came to, I paused and happened to peek over the rail and was surprised to see a restaurant below, built into the rocks. There was a boardwalk deck and tables tucked into a low cliff. Below it was a small cove with a lot of kids swimming and screeching. Most were wearing wet suits, some with snorkels. I could hear their laughter and shouts way before I saw them swimming and playing. I had turned to look in the other direction when I heard a crash and screams. I quickly looked over the railing. A huge wave had come in and spewed right over these outer tables. Five or six people were scrambling away from the table, soaked. I saw a broken glass on the table and a woman reaching under it for her cell phone and pack of cigarettes. The picture below is where they exited from the tables.

By the time I was returning back to the train station I better understood the layout of the town in relation to the ocean front. In retrospect, I recall taking a photograph and noticing a prominent white virgin statue on top of the rock. Okay, so that was the ‘Rock of the Virgin’.

Biarritz, France on the Atlantic Ocean

So, I made it there (he he). It’s a rock island which juts out into the ocean, connected by a very high and narrow boardwalk bridge. Tourists streamed along to visit it. Every once in a while, I’d here screams when a wave sprayed over them on the boardwalk surrounding the rock, drenching them. 

I found plenty of lovely places to sit among nature’s beauty throughout the day.

It was on the train returning to Bordeaux that a young guy sat down catty-cornered from me in the same 4 chair facing seats. I was writing in a mini notepad, he got out a notepad and was transferring info from his phone. Eventually I got out the iPad to write, then he got out a laptop. We hadn’t yet even had eye contact. I asked him if he’s studying and taking notes from text on his phone. He told me that he teaches and organizes dance for kids, and is gathering information about students. He studies in Bordeaux, and was returning there from visiting his family in Bayonne. He announced that he’s Basque. Once again, the individual identified with the Basque heritage, outweighing the French. 

I told him I noticed that the signs have two different languages. Yes, one is Basque. I mentioned that it seems to have a lot of X’s. I asked how you pronounce an X. He responded with ‘shhh’, like the Portuguese. Yes, he said with a smile that Basque has a lot of X’s, Z’s and K’s. I asked him to say a phrase, and then commented, wow, it seems to be much shorter, with far fewer words than typical french or english. He answered, that’s right, Basque is a condensed language. It was quite into the conversation that I learned he is a dancer himself, and that the dance he teaches and performs is traditional Basque dance. 

I asked him in french if he speaks Basque. Yes, he does. I was surprised, thinking that like other traditional languages, it’s more the older people who speak the language. He mentioned that it’s been quite the opposite. That during the time of the dictator Franco, it was illegal to speak Basque. I said, perhaps because he, Franco, couldn’t understand the language whatsoever (no roots close to languages of Latin origin or any others), and feared that people would organize amongst themselves to overthrow him. Or it could be he just wanted to preserve Spanish, as pure, and deride any other culture. 

Mattin mentioned that back in those days, in schools for example, any time a student was caught speaking Basque, they were handed a baton. It was passed to different students throughout the day. Whoever was holding the baton at the end of the school day, was punished. He said that since that time, there has been tremendous progress in preserving the language. Presently, there are schools that teach Basque only, others that are French and Basque.

In a later conversation I chatted with a Turkish architect in Montpellier. I said that the Basque language was not permitted by Franco. He mentioned that although indeed Franco did horrific things, he also did some quite good things. He said that as a conservative, Franco felt that it was important to repair the many monuments and historical ruins that had been crumbling in disrepair. The architect Fuoad mentioned that the Spanish have become experts in the finesse and technique of renovating antiquated structures, particularly in the town of Granada. He had gone there as a VIP architect to learn specifically their restoration techniques. He brought up a phrase describing that nothing is merely black and white, good and evil. He mentioned this due to the fact that though Franco is remembered for the horrific things he did oppressing people, he also was strategic in beginning to preserve historical architectural sites and monuments, which had been abandoned and left to deteriorate in many countries.

This Sunday venture to Biarritz was preceded by the weekend in Bordeaux. I had earlier looked at the event calendar of Deus Ex Machina, a restaurant, store, merchandise located on ‘the Hanger’, the wharf of Bordeaux. I discovered the place months earlier the last time I was in Bordeaux. I was scouting for a new bicycle kryptonite lock all over town and finally found one at a shop way down at the wharf. I happened to be sitting in the restaurant of Deus Ex Machina afterwards to learn that later that evening a band would play, free entry. It is a really fun place, the music was good, WiFi and a band playing later in the evening. Sure enough, they were hosting dj’s and live music again.

After creating and posting two blogs this particular Saturday, I happened to look at one of my tabs on Safari where I had saved info about a music event on FB which once again was happening at Deus Ex Machina. I was suddenly reminded. I bicycled there across town, along the river’s edge on a concrete & boardwalk pedestrian / bike path. As I approached I saw a large crowd. 1 IPA pint is €9, so it’s not exactly free. A dj played music and then a live band.

A drummer, bass and xylophone player ~ playing the melody with two sticks in each hand. The rapper was obviously native tongue English. Ah, but 15 minutes into his set, he started rapping fluently in French. When the first set finished, I followed the band on their break out to the deck to ask him if he’s from San Francisco, cuz I thought I heard him say, “I’m from the Haight”. He said smiling, no, I’m from the eight! His birth date.

It looked like it was a full moon, riding back to Bordeaux on the train from Biarritz. Both Bordeaux and Biarritz are lovely.

My thoughts

A dog’s wagging tale is an extension of their heart and genuine expression of joy and affection.

A french woman’s words.

“The antichrist is ‘money’.”

Carol Keiter aka nomadbeatz welcomes donations for her writing, photography, illustrations, eBook and music composition. The PayPal donation button functions in Safari and Firefox, however is broken in Chrome.