This journey begins, as do so many, with a thunderstorm. Nimbus clouds quiver as they purge their liquid souls to the green land and blue-grey ocean below. Trees hang their dripping branches, bedraggled and content. A bird screeches in distress or delight.
I pay little attention to the storm unfolding (yet betray a glance as lightening spiders a trail to the distant mountains) for I am transfixed by dark swell lines lurching from the gaussian horizon towards the rocky U-shaped bay below.
From this cliff-top on the southwest coast of France, in a sky blue Volkswagen van, my real journey begins.
A few days ago a plane drifted heavy with humans onto the black strip of tarmac that dissects Bayonne and her sister city, Biarritz. Customs melted into baggage carousels and that into the warm autumn afternoon. A one-hour cruise north to Moliets-et-Maa found us inspecting a gleaming Vantripper van, complete with all the trimmings. Stop at the bakery – because you have to in France – and a couple of stomach-turning lane swerves later we were cruising the meandering backroads that unwind alongside some of the Bay of Biscay’s most dreamy and dramatic beach terrain.
The windscreen wipers see-saw against the deluge. A set wave explodes, hollow and forbidding across the reef below. I find myself ghost-like out in the rain, soaked and struggling into my wetsuit’s unwilling rubber grasp. I hide the van key behind a prickly-looking plant and pick my way down the stairs to the ocean below. There is one other surfer out. The current is swift and powerful and my shoulders burn. Sheets of rain cascade upon the dappled surface. A wave threatens to peak but exhales and slips back through to the deep. I see the blue van like a beacon upon the cliff-top and line myself with her. Another set looms.
The session is a good one. Perhaps later I’ll realise it was the best of the entire road trip, at least in terms of waves that make you feel like a warrior – you know – under-gunned, adrenalin-fuelled and brave. Seven more warriors are suiting up in the car park, preparing for the arena. I’m glad I got in early.
Rain, rain, rain. We sit outside McDonalds, tapping into their wi-fi from the comfort of our van’s double bed. Late autumn is the rainy season in this region, but is also when the ocean becomes fierce and alive. We watch people in the Maccas drive-thru all do the same thing when they get their paper bag of sugar-salted carbohydrate: open it with trepidation, a look of wonder and a quick scrunch to seal it up again, as if the magic might escape.
We head north and the scenery slips to the shadows as night pours a heavy darkness upon us. Our destination is Lacanau which is surf-city France-style and famous for her solid beach-breaks, summer parties and the Sooruz Pro surf comp which brings the ASP circus to town in August. We stop at the almost-too-beautiful Gujan-Mestras which lies upon the southern side of the Bassin d’Arcachon. Like champagne, the stars effervesce above us as we cook a stir-fry in an empty car park, which is way more romantic than it sounds. I like having a house on wheels. The moon appears and the rainy days are lost to this fairytale, until we get lost ourselves, trying to find our way around the Bassin and end up close to Bordeaux.
Daylight. Condensation on the windows. Roll over and part the curtains just enough to see a sliver of ocean, satin-skinned and turgid. A distant boom confirms there are waves. Creak, creak, rumble of the door and I spill out into the shorefront parking area in sleepy Lacanau, which is quiet and hungover after another heady summer. Two foot lines peel towards intersecting rocky outcrops. It looks fun but in the spirit of search we fire up the engine and head just a little further north to Carcans. It is pumping at three foot (Hawaiian, of course) and glints under the mid-morning sun. We’re out there, my girl riding the shorey on her fat summer fish and myself a little further out, scratching my way into steep little racetrack ramps. The sun bakes and I’m feeling the essence of surfing Français: miles of uninterrupted dunes, a sprinkling of surfers and a soulful, chilled vibe. It’s all about where you’re prepared to venture.
Here surfers say bonjour to each other – even to strangers like me. Café au lait is served with a smile and people stop for chats about things I don’t understand. “Pourriez-vous déplacer votre voiture?” says an old lady. I nod enthusiastically and pat her dog before returning to my magazine.
Having had a barrel for breakfast I unsuit with a smile, pour some fresh juice and prepare to soak up the sunshine. A quick excursion to Carrefour for lunch and supplies and we spend another very happy day in and around our blue home, with an alternating Justin Martin and Jack Johnson soundtrack. We park beside some funky spaceship toilets at Lacanau’s central beach, share our dinner with hungry beach kittens, slide the curtains shut and drift off to sleep satiated, stoked.
The swell recedes and we head south, back into the rain, stopping just briefly for a hopeful glimpse at Mimizan, which is pretty as the sun struggles through the clouds for a majestic sunset – but flat. A chilly night precedes dawn at the iconic home of French wave-riding. La Gravière in Hossegor is flat and as lifeless in the ocean as it is on land. These towns seem to empty out fast in the off-season, so while you can savour the lack of crowds you sometimes find yourself wishing for a bit more action. Nevertheless Macaret café provides a respite from the weather along with the most delicious toast I’ve ever tasted. Venturing all of 30 metres, Café de Paris provides surfing on the screens, a fine array of amber nectar and fast wi-fi, which is about all a travelling writer needs. The surf picks up at Estagnots in the arvo but a howling westerly renders it messy and uninviting.
Lack of waves changes a surf trip and weather can truly make it. Anglet might be good on it’s day but today we find the jetty ugly, the McDonalds on the beach tacky and the river mouth looks like a recipe for an ear infection. A nasty pitbull-cross nips at my heel and we drive off downtrodden.
We plough forth to Biarritz, which is one of my favourite towns as far as scenery and elegance go. A drive along the front past Rocher de la Vierge and down Boulevard du Prince de Galles to Côte des Basques is imperative. On high tide you can almost high-five the surfers as you cruise on by. I’m getting itchy for a wave and there are a few one footers crumbling in at Bidart, just south of Biarritz. I’m out there weaving some imaginary lines across very, very small waves. Still, it’s good to get wet.
The ragged stretch from Guéthary to Saint-Jean-de-Luz hosts swell magnets, big wave ball-crushers and some legendary reef set-ups like Lafitenia and Avalanches. Unfortunately we spend more time cruising to shops and restaurants than in the water.
Magicseaweed paints a bleak picture as we sit outside McDonalds tapping into their wi-fi once again. The ocean is at rest, except for a monster weather system brewing off the coast of Portugal. We have a van full of vigour and tank full of fuel so decide to head away from the ocean for a bit of culture. The Basque Country seeps past, rainy and colourless as we aim for Bilbao in the north of Spain. We check-in to a cheap hotel near the Guggenheim where a slicked back mafia-style dude ushers our van… straight into a wall. With great sadness I inspect the scratch… it’s not bad but still. This Vantripper van, who must have a thousand names but who we’ve imaginatively called “Blue”, has become part of our crew, our travelling family.
The Guggenheim looks like it needs to be straightened up and given a purpose, but people have said likewise about me so, after a relaxing, non-judgemental couple of days, we motor off through a confusing spaghetti of flyovers and freeways to get back to the coast. Next destination is Gijon in Cantabria because, even though it’s further than we planned to drive, it promises a spike of swell that the rest of the coastline lacks.
Spain is harder travelling than France. Beyond the Basque Country people’s English is sparse and this makes simple things like ordering a meal complex. Nevertheless, in our van we have developed a routine of stopping in at bakeries and supermarkets to buy our own supplies which get cooked up on the hotplate or chilled in our fan-powered cooler box. It’s novel and fun, even for someone like myself who owned a ’72 Kombi (in 2007) and rode the east coast Australian dream for years.
Thunder grumbles off towards the Pyrenees and the sky begins to glisten. We hit Santander which is a place that I wholeheartedly recommend no-one ever visit. Weird, filthy skyskrapers give vertigo to a landscape that begs to be forgotten – which is exactly what we do. Onward another six or so hours and by midnight we’re on the quaint and revelrous Gijon foreshore.
Gunmetal dawn creeps into the van and we stir as the shadows sharpen. It wasn’t a lullabye rocking us to sleep. It is a stiff onshore wind. Action stations as we dash towards Xivares, which is registering the brunt of the swell according to the latest forecast. What we find, when we find it, is a creepy mining settlement with gates, fences and conveyor belts of coal. The wind has rendered the surf impossible (it’s hard just opening the van door) and we’re getting malicious stares from zombies so we dash back to Gijon. The wind eases, showing just how changeable the weather is along the north coast of Espana, so after a lunch of incorrectly ordered cold meats (enough salami to feed a school) I plunge in for a few tasty walls. You’ve got to be careful at the Gijon main beach for as the tide floods in the beach disappears leaving any unfortunate surfers to get truly slammed against the promenade wall. There are videos on YouTube showing their misfortune. I score some fun ones and dry off smiling.
After some van start-up issues and swift roadside assistance we are off again, arcing well past Santander, with all sights set on spending our last three days in the Pais Vasco region, the Basque Country. After nine days of rain the sun dazzles and Spain becomes Disneyland, complete with butterflies. This is perhaps my favourite place in Europe, if not the Northern Hemisphere. We roll into Mundaka and treat ourselves to a fancy hotel and wholesome cuisine. Playa de Laida lights up, providing endless peaky walls, reeling off across the forgiving sand banks. The water is translucent and the sunshine permeates our wetsuits and souls. My girl gets the longest ride she’s ever had. She looks back, beaming, as I cheer from way out. This is the surf we will both remember most fondly.
It’s our final day and we wander the cobble streets of San Sebastián’s Old Quarter. It’s the perfect combination of culture and beauty, with the golden swish of La Concha beach tempting beautiful people into her waters. The view from atop Monte Urgull on the north end of town is breathtaking, all the way to the distant mountains. It’s time for our final drive back to the Vantripper depot.
There are many ways to travel. Some methods get you to faraway places at ankle-swelling, high altitude whilst others get you there by your own energy, step-by-step. For surfers nothing beats the freedom and potential of a road trip. As far as I’m concerned, life is not complete until you’ve experienced the classic European surf odyssey in a van.
At least once.
Many thanks to Ben and Johnny at Vantripper for providing us with the awesome wheels. Get your van this summer by contacting www.vantripper.com or call +33 (0) 673 17 78 84.
Images by Bradley Hook and Helerin Kereme.