words by Williams

Wednesday May 24

Gauthier’s description of the 20-or-so-minute walk into town yesterday included talk of an ‘escalator’ although he wasn’t sure if that was the word he was looking for. It also talked of a legendary white bin that marks the way through the woods to the 'escalator'.

Naturally, because he’s a local, we ignored his advice and set off with Google.

We find the legendary white bin by accident, and Gauthier’s ‘escalator’ was supposed to be at the edge of a park. All we see is a long set of steps down towards town, followed by another shorter set before, hey presto, we’re in the market square in town where the market has, it appears, just packed up.

We assume Gauthier probably meant ‘escalier’ in a moment of poor grace that we were to unjustly benefit from later in the day.

For some reason, we’ve been late starters again, so by the time we make town, we’re hungry. There’s a busy looking bistro on a corner of the square.

Cal takes a rosé and a half roast chicken with gravy and chips and I’m into a beer and a Caesar salad. Again, the food is well cooked, well presented and tastes great.

Arcachon is built mainly in cream stone, real and manufactured by the look of it. It has a classy feel and we’re starting to like the atmosphere.

And that’s before we get down to the seafront overlooking the Bassin d’Arcachon, a massive lagoon on the Atlantic coast.

It’s not a particularly warm day, but people are out on the beach, or promenading like us. There are more bars and cafes on the front and a monument made up of the footprints of famous racing yachtsmen and women in brass plaques in the pavement.

Arcachon’s flag is grey, white and yellow, like the tricolour has been left out in the sun for too long and has faded.

Nothing faded about Arcachon itself, however.

Having stopped at the E LeClerc supermarket for supplies, we thought it best to catch the Ligne 7 back to the site rather than fight with the stairs in an upward direction.

We’re a touch early (as usual) at the bus stop and the day’s warmed up considerably.

We decide to grab a beer and a rosé while we wait. Cal, meanwhile, has spotted cheap white linen trousers in a cheap white linen trouser shop and leaves me people watching.

We’re at a bar called Le Mauresque, which is near the Centre Ville. It’s on a corner by a crossroads that gets significantly more busy in terms of people and traffic as 5pm rolls over. It’s fascinating - whether that’s the all elegant lady with the leather jacket with leopardskin collar and cuffs towing a tiny poodle, or the guy in the British Racing Green MGB who drives past one way, then back again a couple of minutes later.

Suddenly, at the top of the street, I notice a peculiar tower-like object, painted white, which has a tunnel entrance at the bottom.

I ask the owner what it is.

“C’est un ascenseur,” she says.

“It’s a lift?”

“Oui,” she says, expalning that it goes up to the park above.

And here it is, Gauthier’s ‘escalator’. On the edge of the park. As advertised.

We forget the bus. Cal wants to take the lift home. We do. The walk back is about 10 minutes shorter.

Never doubt a Gauthier.

By now we’ve decided we like this place so much, we’re booking extra nights. We’ll have to move pitch on Friday, but for now, we’re settled in.

Thursday May 25

Beach or blog? Blog wins it because we’ve started slowly again. Cal’s so chilled she’s had her wake-up cuppa and gone back to sleep.

It doesn’t really get much more energetic all day, to be fair. Except for the James Dean Bradfield incident.

I am concerned over dwindling supplies of our cassette loo chemicals. Isn’t Amazon wonderful. I order two bottles for delivery tomorrow. 

Today’s big intrigue is whether or not the guy eating pizza with the lady with the cropped grey hair on the terrace at the cafe is (or very probably isn’t) James Dean Bradfield, lead singer with the Manic Street Preachers.

I wouldn’t say that this becomes an obsession over the course of the evening, but a Pizza Royale and a bottle of rosé in, I’m hatching plans to out JDB in as polite a way as I can.

The couple have a couple of youngish kids in tow and Cal’s not convinced. We’ve seen the Manics a couple of times, but generally only from a distance from the middle of a field in Cheshire or somewhere.

Eventually, I go full Baldrick. My cunning plan is to walk casually past the man eating his pizza like a rock star and say “Diolch James”, which is ‘thank you James’ in Welsh. The success of the plan hinges on two key elements: First, is it actually James Dean Bradfield eating pizza on a campsite in France; second, even if it is, does he speak Welsh?

I carry out the plan. There’s zero reaction. None the wiser, then. Hope is dashed.

A bit later, however, Cal swears that when the guy walks past Betsy with one of the children later on, he’s speaking in Welsh.

Hope is rekindled, but I’m not going as far as to follow Cal’s friend Sally’s idea of playing Manics music loudly out of Betsy’s windows in order to attract his attention.

Friday May 26

Pitch move today. It’s the equivalent of moving out of a cul-de-sac and onto a main road, but it’s a decent size and we at least get to say bonjour to anyone and everyone who passes on their way either to the loo, or to the campsite office and back.

Hanging around in reception waiting for the loo blue to arrive, I try to draw Gauthier into the James Dean Bradfield conspiracy. He’s not sure he’s ever heard of him, but he’s sure as heck not going to tell me if there’s a Mr Bradfield staying on site.

We do Friday night Indian in town. My chicken dhansak is more like a korma and is a bit sparse on the lentils. Cal’s more than happy with her butter chicken, which looks more like a balti. We order too much rice, as usual. It’s an ok French/Indian.

Back at Betsy, we chat to the Belgian couple next door. I start off trying Franglais, until he says “my English is much better than your French, although I speak Dutch, I’m Flemish.” That’s the whole Belgian national identity crisis wrapped up in one sentence which, to be fair, was nothing less than an offer of help. 

I explain my connections to Antwerp through Consono. I don’t quite get to the ‘do you know so-and-so?’ question, but I’m close.

Saturday May 27

We head for the beach. That is to say, Cal heads for the beach. I head for anywhere there’s a bit of shade.

The golden/white sand of Arcachon Plage is shimmering. I am wearing the Damgan hat, based on the assumption that I’m never going to meet anyone I know.

It’s reaching 28 degrees or more and Cal’s only lasted an hour or so. At one point, I text her from a bench under the shade of a tree to tell her I can see she’s going red even from where I am 100 yards away.

We stop off at the Grand Café Brasserie Repetto, which looks as though it could once have been a hotspot and even now is busy for lunch.

Cal goes for the Moules Marinière for the first time on this trip, with a carafe of rosé. I go for a Stella (my first of the trip) and the hamburger, negotiating the waiter up from medium, through medium-well to English. He’s suitably disgusted. The food arrives quickly though and the burger’s really good. I think the kitchen’s rebelled against going full English and the burger comes more Franglais, which is good.

We take one last trip up into the Park Mauresque via Gauthier’s ascenseur. It’s a lovely space, laid out with paths, specimen trees and a rose garden.

The drag back to the campsite takes us up hill through a wood. Even in the shade it’s hot.

Back to the bus and zonk.