France is a golfing country? Who knew?

Turns out lots of people, including the 410,000 members of the French Golf Federation and hundreds of thousands of occasional players swinging and putting away at 733 clubs and on over 600 courses of 9+ holes.

And the world’s foremost golfers knew as well since France will be hosting this year’s Ryder Cup from September 28 to 30. Twenty-four of America’s and Europe’s top players will meet in the biennial USA vs. Europe match play contest at Le Golf National, 18 miles southwest of the heart of the Paris in Guyancourt, just beyond Versailles.

Held every two years since 1927, other than during WWII, and, skipping 2001, on even years since 2002, the Ryder Cup has grown from a U.S.-England competition to a U.S.-UK and Ireland competition to a U.S.-Europe affair since 1973. Alternating between an American venue and a European venue, this is the first time the event is being held in France.

That represents top-flight confirmation that France takes its golf seriously. It’s also the occasion to shine a light on some of the most prestigious courses and resorts in choice destinations throughout the country, from Normandy to Basque Country to the Riviera and Provence by way of world-class courses within easy reach of Paris.

Introduced into France by English visitors in the second half of the 19th century, golf initially developed wherever there was a significant colony of British residents and vacationers: Pau, which had first course in continental Europe, the Basque Coast, the Rivera, Brittany, Normandy.

Here is a selection of top golf clubs, courses and resorts throughout France, particularly those in areas where golf can be combined with tourism. The map shows their location throughout France. Also see Gold Digest’s list of best golf courses in France for this year.

Within easy reach of Paris
The greater Paris region and just beyond comprise France’s premier golfing zone. Among the dozens of courses within easy reach of the capital, a trio of prestigious clubs are within putting distance of the major palaces: Versailles, Fontainebleau and Chantilly. Well, maybe not putting distance, but certainly a quick drive. So a visitor to the capital can easily opt of a golfing daytrip, while the rest of the family heads to palace.

I take that back. There’s no reason to choose between golfing and touring. At Versailles, for example, you can stay the luxurious Hôtel Trianon Palace located just outside the palace gates and easily fit a half day at Le Golf National on your itinerary. The club’s world-class Albatros course is just six miles southwest of Versailles. The Trianon Palace is the official base camp for the two teams during the Ryder Cup.

South of Paris, Golf de Fontainebleau is a historic course in Fontainebleau Forest, less than a mile from the palace, making for an especially easy golf-and-palace daytrip or overnight from the capital. Though redesigned over the years, the course still bears some of the marks of Tom Simpson, the British course designer who was behind a half dozen courses in France, including Chantilly and Morfontaine on the opposite side of Paris.

North of Paris, Golf de Chantilly is also less than a mile from the palace of Chantilly.

Normandy
Deauville, the queen of Normandy resort towns, has four courses nearby, including Golf Barrière Deauville. Deauville is an hour’s drive from the center of the D-Day Landing Zone.

A simpler way to combine golf with war touring is to include in your itinerary a round at the Omaha Beach Golf Club. The course and club house may be less dashing than most of the others on this list, but its situation on the cliff between Omaha Beach and Port-en-Bessin makes it an easy fit into any touring schedule. Here’s your schedule: Utah, Omaha, golf, Gold, Juno, Sword. Supreme Allied Commander-cum-President-cum World Golf Hall of Famer Dwight Eisenhower, who installed a putting green on the White House lawn, would be proud of you.

Le Touquet Golf Resort, is a fine course that’s also by the English Channel, just north of Normandy in Upper France.

Loire Valley
Castle + garden, castle + biking, castle + vineyard, castle + fine dining, castle + golf. There, I’ve just created your itinerary for a few days in the Loire Valley. Les Bordes at the northeastern end of the heart of the Loire Valley, between Orleans and Blois, is the course of choice in the region.

The Bordeaux Region
We all enjoy a good wine pairing: wine and cheese, wine and women, wine and song. How about wine and golf? Pair your saint emilion grand cru classés with the Tom Doak-designed course at the Grand Saint Emilionnais Golf Club. Pair your haut-médoc, perhaps even your margaux, with Golf du Médoc, 12 miles north of Bordeaux.

Basque Country and the Landes
Golf got an early foothold in the southwest corner of France due to it being a destination for wealthy British travelers in the second half of the 19th century. Golf de Biarritz Le Phare, created in 1888, was among the first. A century later it was joined by Golf d’Ilbarritz, an accompanying training center.

Golf d’Hossegor is a 45-minute drive to the north from Biarritz, where Basque Country gives way to the pines and cork oaks of the Landes region.

Côte d’Azur: The Riviera and nearby hills of Provence
Given the wealth and lavish hotels along the Riviera, the nearby hills of Provence naturally offer an abundance of locations for luxurious puttering about. That’s why the Côte d’Azur region recently created a golf pass covering 20 courses. The pass is especially intended for those who would like to tour the area via its golf courses by offering special pricing for a 2- or 4-course vacation in fall and winter and for 4-course stay in spring and summer. Many of the venues lie in the Antibes-Cannes-Mandelieu-Grasse zone.

The first golf course created along the Mediterranean was developed in the 1890s at the request of an exiled Russian grand duke who had previously encountered the sport at St. Andrews in Scotland. Cannes-Mandelieu’s Old Course Golf is the heir to that first course.

A few miles inland from Cannes and on the edge of Mougins, a town known for its annual culinary festival, Royal Mougins Golf Resort is among the most prestigious in the region.

Further afield and an exclusive world unto itself lies the Terre Blanche resort.

Corsica
As far as golf courses go, you can’t get any more Mediterranean in France than Golf de Spérone in Bonifacio on the southern tip of Corsica.

For a complete listing of golf courses in France see Tous les Golfs.

General admission tickets for match play at this year’s Ryder Cup, Sept. 28-30, sold out long ago, but ticket packages are available at publication time. General admission during the three days of team practice and other events leading up to the contest are also still available.

© 2018, Gary Lee Kraut

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Case in point, Paris-Basque, a weekend festival—this year June 16, 17, 18—that brings Basque cuisine, sports, music and good cheer to Paris. Think of it as a Basque village on the bank of the Seine (8 Quai Saint-Exupéry, 16th arrondissement)… and a great occasion to wear a beret and a red bandana.

The Basque festival’s music of choice is that of the banda, an ambulatory brass band. Sporting competitions and demonstrations include rugby, Basque pelota (jai alai, a racket sport played in Florida, is a variation of this), an espadrille throwing (kicking off the foot) competition and various strong-arm activities such as a good ol’ tug-o-war.

Meanwhile, the Basque culinary experience has place of honor at the festival, with Basque chefs from Paris, Basque Country and elsewhere participating, bringing with them the culinary essentials of the southwest corner of France where the Pyrenees fall into the Atlantic: the cheeses, hams, peppers, octopus, plancha, Izarra, Egiaski and “apple wine.”

The chefs present over the weekend may go all-Basque for their festival fare, but in their restaurants, they cook well beyond regional folklore.

I recently met with two of the participating chefs at their restaurants in Paris to discuss the Basque influence in their cuisine and their participation in this year’s Paris-Basque festival: Thierry Dufroux of Bistrot Belhara in the 7th arrondissement and Mathieu Moity of Iratze in the 11th arrondissement. Both men grew up in Bayonne. Dufroux’s family moved there when he was 10; Moity was born there.

Neither Bistrot Belhara nor Iratze serves “regional” cuisine. In fact, these are distinctly Parisian restaurants, the former a modern bistro, the latter home to knowingly instinctive gastronomy. Yet both chefs pride themselves on their use of Basque products and on the influence of their home regio. Their Basqueness, whether subtle or more pronounced in a dish, is precisely what distinguishes them from more ordinary attempts within their respective restaurant categories.

Both chefs deemed it important to present their attachment to their Basque roots in the names of their restaurants. Bistrot Belhara is named for the tremendous waves that sometimes surge towards the Basque Coast near Saint Jean de Luz, recalling Dufroux’s own affection for surfing and echoing the rush that you will hear in his voice in the video interview below. Iratze is the Basque word for a type of fern, a plant Moity encountered frequently when exploring the forest with his grandfather. He speaks of the fern as a constant plant, secure in its roots as it spreads out. “It’s a beautiful image of what I can be and what my restaurant can be,” he said.

Thierry Dufroux at Bistrot Belhara

It seems that every visitor to Paris seeks out “a little neighborhood bistro, not too expensive, just nice and friendly.” Bistrot Belhara fully fits the bill. It is a modern bistro in that Thierry Dufroux does not work within a circumscribed traditional bistro menu yet maintains a sense of quality, freshness, reasonable pricing (under 40€ for a 3-course meal) and urban heartiness (including a gluten-free dish). Generous of spirit, the cuisine strikes a delicious a balance between rustic and refined. Situated in a well-heeled quarter near the Invalides, this 40-seat restaurant combines the tiled floor and wooden furnishing of a traditional bistro with elegant grey walls and an Art Deco ceiling. A string of red peppers hangs from a pillar at the center of the restaurant. The oak bistro tabletop, visible at lunchtime, is covered with a white tablecloth for dinner service. Two frontmen, Frédéric Clemence and Christian Bignaux, work the room like a polite vaudeville team.

In this interview with Thierry Dufroux, in French, you can hear the rush of his passion about his work and about Paris-Basque.

Mathieu Moity at Iratze

Mathieu Moity’s cuisine is dynamic, personal and shifting. He jumps on occasions to use Basque products without closing himself into the region. Located a side street between Bastille and République, Iratze is an ambitious eatery that Moity, along with partners Yann and Afrae Brasseur, who work the front of the house, and Didier Feuillet, opened at the end of 2016. Open only in the evening, the atmosphere depends on the combined spirit of its three spaces: the little tapas bar to the front, the restaurant per se in the middle, the chef’s table in the back. While friends on stools share tapas (4-17€ per plate) and sip Charles’s cocktails, comfortably seated diner enjoy a 3-course meal (44€) and guests at the 10-seat chef’s table (any number up to 10 can reserve) partake in a 9-step tasting (68€). Moity’s restless yet rooted sense of gastronomy is fronted by the upbeat and resolutely 30-something room staff (Yann and Afrae, Charles at the bar, Australian sommelier Jess).

Mathieu Moity explains Iratze, his cuisine, his Basque roots and the atmosphere at Paris-Basque in this interview, in English.

Don’t expect either Thierry Dufroux or Mathieu Moity to be walking around their restaurants with a Basque beret and a rugby ball. But when it comes time for the Paris-Basque festival tradition is de rigueur.

Other Basque chefs

Other Paris-based chefs present at Paris-Basque this year include Sébastien Gravé (Pottoka), Yves Camdeborde (Le Comptoir du Relais Saint-Germain), William Pradeleix (Will, Raw), Olivier Amestoy (Axuria) and Philippe Tredgue (Auberge Etchegorry), along with chefs working in Basque Country (Lionel Elissalde, Jean-Bernard Hourçouigaray, Ramuntxo Courdé, Cédric Béchade, Pascale Etcheverria, Christophe Grosjean) and elsewhere in France (Stéphane Carrade, Steven Ramon)

Bistrot Belhara, 23 rue Duvivier, 7th arr. Metro Latour Maubourg or Ecole Militaire. Tel. 01 45 51 41 77.

Iratze, 73 rue Amelot, 11th arr. Metro Chemin Vert or Bréguet Sabin. Tel. 01 55 28 53 31

Paris-Basque, 8 quai Saint-Exupéry, 16th arr. Metro Porte de St. Cloud or RER Boulevard Victor. Entrance is free.

© 2017, Gary Lee Kraut

If planning visit to Basque Country consider these articles about Biarritz on France Revisited.

Information about the Basque region can be found on the region’s official tourist office website.

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Yet within that silence came a steady stream of new readers clicking aboard as I met hundreds of Francophiles, citizens with passports, college students dreaming of travel abroad, and armchair travelers curious or passionate about one of the various topics of my talks: WWI and WWII touring in France, the history of wine in Burgundy and Champagne and the pleasures of touring there, understanding patrimoine (cultural heritage) in France, travel and travel writing beyond the clichés.

Toward the end of my East Coast road trip, I was pleased  as all get-out, both personally and on behalf of France Revisited, to learn that one of the articles published on this web magazine had just been awarded top honors as best culinary travel article written for the internet. The Gold Award, as it’s called, was for my 3-part article, Drome Provencale: Eat Like a Sixth Grader, Drink Like a Wine Enthusiast. This Gold is one of the NATJA awards given by the North American Travel Journalists Association (NATJA)  recognizing what the jury feels are the best articles published in print and on the web during the period from October 2012 through September 2013.

What’s especially gratifying about being honored for the Drome article is that it represents recognition by my travel media peers that one needn’t be a specialized food writer to write about culinary travel and one needn’t be a chronic foodie to appreciate the pleasures and insights of culinary travel. Wherever there is bread to break and glass to raise there is potential for a good story because the greater part of the experience lies outside the dish or the glass (as those who join me on organized Paris and France Revisited culinary and wine [and beer] adventures well know.)

Not quite Gold but also gratifying, my article Biarritz: The Surfing Lesson was a named a finalist in the NATJA Sports and Recreation category.

As sad as I was to leave the U.S. after 6 weeks on the road, I was happy to return to Paris. What traveler could ask for more when leaving home to come home?

Imagine then further pleasure of returning to Paris on a beautiful March day, wheeling my luggage toward my building, looking forward to further culinary, sports, recreation and other adventures in France, and coming across that surfboard standing on the sidewalk.

I take as a sign of a great new wave of articles, stories, and adventures coming my way… and yours.

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Kraut’s article “Biarritz: The Surfing Lesson” was a finalist in the Sports and Recreation category. It can be read here.

The NATJA awards competition honors the best of the best in travel writing, photojournalism, social media and other aspects of the travel and tourism industry. Now in its 22nd year, the awards announced in February 2014 were given for work represented in print, electronic and online media from October 2012 through September 2013.

“This year’s entries were an outstanding mix of local and international stories with dynamic and creative elements that provided the visual through words or photography to transport the reader to the destination,” said Helen Hernandez, CEO of NATJA. “The judging has become increasingly difficult every year given the abundance of talent in the travel journalism community.”

NATJA is the second largest travel media association in North America. The association also publishes TravelWorld International Magazine.

Gary Lee Kraut is the author of five guidebooks and hundreds of articles France. He is currently the editor of the premier online travel and culture magazine France Revisited. In 1996 he received FrancePress’s Prix d’Excellence for his guidebook to France. In 2012 he was elected to the board of the France’s Heritage Journalists Association, the first non-French journalist to be so honored. He has lectured extensively in the United States. In January and February 2014 he went on a 16-stop East Coast lecture tour, speaking on subjects as diverse as war touring in France, understanding the meaning of heritage in France, culinary travel, wine touring in Burgundy and Champagne, and travel and travel writing beyond the clichés.

Based on his highly personalized approach to travel as expressed in his award-winning work, Kraut also assists individuals, groups and elite travel agents in creating customized tours and itineraries in Paris and throughout France. He has worked directly with a U.S. senator, a Hollywood actress, a best-selling author, corporate presidents, educational institutions, charitable organizations and many curious travelers from across the U.S. and from a half-dozen other countries.

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Writer, inspirational speaker, radio personality, wife, mother, friend, stranger with a tolerant gaze and a kind word, Maura is a native of New Jersey, a longtime Floridian and an inveterate traveler who wants us all to carry a passport from the State of Happiness.

I got together with Maura and her husband Jim, a buddy of mine from high school, when we were all visiting family in New Jersey.

Maura makes interview videos and sight videos and inspirational videos on whatever theme strikes her fancy at the moment. You can see many of them on her terrifically upbeat website Maura4u.  She creates these snippets of happy living whenever she travels and has her cameraman (Jim) handy.

Well, there were all were. So Maura took a few notes, asked to see a copy of my old guide to Paris, and said “Jim, film.”

Here is Maura’s 7-minute interview with me, whom she calls “a cultural facilitator and travel therapist,” terms I quite like.

You can see Maura’s videos and texts and learn more about her work (including her e-books) on her website Maura4u or on the very likable Facebook page of the same name.

And if you’re a sports fan of any kind check out Jim Sweeney’s site Mike on sports!, featuring the animated figure and comic book big-mouth Mike Rafone, “the ultimate talking head on sports.”

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Versailles’s got its royal stables, Chantilly’s got its noble horse museum and Saumur’s got its Cadre Noir, but for me as a horse-lover watching the horsewomen at the Haras National (National Stud Farm) at Le Lion d’Angers is paradise.

During a season which stretches from end of February until late October, this equestrian center located 16 miles northwest of Angers holds competitions for several types of riding (dressage, jumping, 3-day event) for various ages and skill levels from club level to high amateur and professional level, with two international competitions as the cherries on top.

And each year in May side-saddling horsewomen arrive for Europ’Amazones, a strange and colorful weekend of pageantry, sport and beauty. Amazones may make them sound like arch-toting warriors yet they are among the most elegant horsewomen you’ll ever see.

But don’t get a false idea that this is just about looking nice. These riders come here to compete! They show their skills in dressage, jumping and derby (cross country race with obstacles). They also complete for the overall appearance of the rider and her horse. This year the ladies (somehow “women” doesn’t seem elegant enough) competed in two such categories: “historical,” where the outfit is an exact replica, and “fantasy,” where les amazones have more freedom in choosing their costumes.

The history of one-sided saddle riding dates to the Middle Ages, particularly beginning in the 14th century, when it seemed too unladylike (read: non-virginal) for young women to sit astride a horse. Straddling a horse in a long skirt wasn’t ideal in any case, but it was doable. Nevertheless, proper ladies were expected to sit sideways on a wooden construction resembling a chair with their feet on a small footrest—very impractical for controlling the horse and for going faster than pace.

In the 16th century, during the riding days of Catherine de Medici, wife of French King Henri II, one-sided saddles were improved in France in such a way that a woman could sit facing forward and better control her horse—a great leap forward for horse riding in a long skirt. But Catherine’s rival for her husband’s attention, Diane de Poitiers, the greater beauty, stole the show. It’s said that she rode daily and cut a fine figure will doing so—proof that for the finer things in life in France a lover is often more fondly remembered than a wife. Cause for reflection.

Sidesaddle amazone riding continued to be the norm for proper ladies into the early 20th century. Then women’s rights, among other forces, allowed women the freedom to sport split riding skirts and finally breeches while sitting astride their mount.

As a rider who uses both legs and the whole body to communicate with her horse I find riding difficult enough. An amazone can use only one leg and her body in a limited way, but still has to achieve the same results in dressage.

Two thoughts came to mind while watching the long-skirted riders at Europ’Amazones:  “Woah!” and “Why?”

I soon forgot the “why” in favor of the “woah,” for in addition to their obvious skill these women looked astonishing. No stable-boy look here (that would be me most of the time), no modern, hard-to-maintain clean trousers and tops. The horsewomen I watched were extremely elegant and made it all look so effortless.

Hats off to you, ladies! I mean helmets off.

Text and photos © Justyna Gawąd, 2013

Justyna Gawąd is Polish and is married to a Frenchman. They are proud parents of a European child, guardians of one dog and faithful servants of one cat. Three years ago they moved from Warsaw to the Anjou region of France, where Justyna rides often.

Haras Nationaux, National Stud Farms, were created in the 17th-century by Louis XVI’s minister Colbert in order to ensure the remounting of the French army. Eliminated during the Revolution, they were reestablished by Napoleon I in 1806. Twenty-two such equestrian centers spread throughout France are currently operated by the government’s French Horse and Equitation Institute to promote horse breeding and related activites along with the development of equestrian activities. They are, however, being restructured and will soon disappear in their current configuration although the centers themselves will continue to exist in some form.

Guided tours of the Haras National at Lion d’Angers are given mid-April to early September.

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* * *

An up-and-coming hotel group decides to make a move on a historic rural inn, expand the building, triple its number of rooms, install a spa and add a conference center. With a project like this, there’s a lot that can go amiss on the aesthetic side, but the Marseille-based Maranatha Group has pulled it off with panache.

The 4-star Moulin de Vernègues, whose foundations date to the 13th century, packs a whole Dan Brown mini-series into its stone walls. The Knights Templars slept here (a yet-undiscovered underground tunnel presumably leads to their fortress) and they may well have buried a secret treasure somewhere beneath the paving stones. PG-rated Good King René patronized the dining hall, but the family kept things kinky by marrying into the Marquis de Sade dynasty. Chartreuse monks brewed mysterious potions on the premises in the 17th century. Post-revolution, the building operated as a postal relay.

While the redecoration of the old house (which includes a private chapel) was not entirely finished when we visited in May, we liked everything we saw. The 13th-century fireplace and elaborately-painted ceiling beams mesh well with contemporary furniture in Provençal shades of almond, poppy, lilac and ochre.

The 34 rooms in this section of the hotel blend historically austere lines with fancy bathrooms and cable TV.

What’s more surprising is how well the modern extensions work. Architect Olivier Sabran has linked the old and new buildings with covered bridges and artfully harmonized the new construction materials with the old stonework. The spa (sauna, hammam, Jacuzzi plus massages and Occitan facial treatments) has been nestled into the former stables.

Those covered bridges add a labyrinth factor to navigating the hotel.  It’s easy to get lost betwixt the bedroom and the bar even before you have a drink. But if you do want a drink with dinner, the wine-list ranges from delightful Côteaux d’Aix en Provence from the Château de Calaron, 29€, to 1986 Cheval Blanc, 875€. The morning after, breakfast is large and lavish–don’t miss the house-made jams.

There’s more to Vernègues than tanning at the pool and hot-stone massages at the spa. Most visitors work off the calories at the adjoining Golf de Pont-Royal. (You can see the second hole from the dining room.) It’s a technical course designed by Seve Ballesteros. Bring your camera for the par 4 seventh hole, a dogleg with a spectacular view of the Alpilles and Lubéron hills.

A drawback for all this rural charm is that it’s about a 45-minute drive to Avignon, Arles or Aix-en-Provence, but that could also be seen as an advantage since it places visitors more or less equidistant from each of these towns as well as just 25 minutes from Cavaillon, home to a succulent melon.

Le Moulin de Vernègues, Route Domaine et Golf de Pont Royal, RN7, 13370 Mallemort, Bouches-du-Rhone. Tel. 04 90 59 12 00. Summer rates run 183-390€, slightly lower in other seasons plus other off-season packages.

© 2013, Corinne LaBalme

Corinne LaBalme, a Paris-based writer, journalist and editor, is currently developing a series of lifestyle documentaries for Muses Productions.

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* * *

Joël de Ronay pushes me from behind by the pool at the Hôtel du Palais in Biarritz.

“You’re goofy-footed,” he says when I fall forward on my right foot.

“Is that good or bad for my future as a surfer?” I ask.

“That depends on you. You’ll see tomorrow,” he says.

But I suspect that time is not on my side, not just because I’m over 50 but because I’ve only signed up for a 90-minute surfing lesson the following morning.

Mr. de Rosnay, on the other hand, has been surfing since before I was born. He is a celebrity in surfing circles, one of the pioneers of the sport in France—indeed in Europe. He first took board to wave in the summer of ’57 when surfing first took off on the shores of the continent, starting right here at Biarritz. Now in his 70s, Mr. de Rosnay still looks as though he could as confidently ride the waves as he can address an audience about the relationship between man and the ocean and between technology and the environment. We’d been discussing those relationships (the real reason for my visit to Biarritz) before I mentioned tomorrow’s surfing class (the reason for this text).

A brief history of surfing on the Basque coast

Surfing was well on its way to becoming a pop culture phenomenon in California when, in 1956, a couple of Californians recognized the potential of the waves along the Basque coast while here to make the film adaptation of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, which was being partially shot along the beaches of Biarritz. Peter Viertel, the screenwriter, and Darryl Zanuck, the film’s director, could largely only admire the waves from the beach since there were no suitable surfboards to be had. Returning in 1957, Viertel brought over his own boards, one of which he lent to Joel de Rosnay, a young man from Paris then on vacation in Biarritz. They were soon joined by others and news began to spread that a new sensational sport had arrived.

The first French championship took place here in September 1960, with Mr. de Rosnay crowned as champion. The following year the first European championship was held on these bikini-clad shores. Mr. de Rosnay placed fourth, but more significantly, that event affirmed Biarritz’s place as the European capital of surfing and, when wind of the championships reached California, put the town on the map for American surfers seeking thrills in Europe.

Biarritz had had a British connection ever since British aristocracy learned in 1854 that Emperor Napoleon III and Empress Eugenia were building a palace (eventually transformed into the Hotel du Palais) overlooking the beach. Now, a century later, it had an American connection beyond the Hollywood set. (Just as it took over 40 years from the creation of the imperial palace before Queen Victoria visited in 1899, it took over 40 years from the initiation of surfing in Biarritz for the Beach Boys—well, at least Mike Love an Bruce Johnston—to play here in 2001.)

In 1963, an international championship, won by Australia’s Peter Troy, was held a few miles north of Biarritz at the mouth of the Adour River.

By the end of the decade, T-shirts, Bermuda shorts, Frisbees, skateboards and shortboards had arrived along with Flower Power and Volkswagen buses. Within another decade the business of surfing had taken firm hold in Biarritz and the sport was claiming waves all along France’s Basque coast and north along the coast of the Landes (Hossegor, Lacanau). Meanwhile, kamikaze surfers began to gather round the campfire to tell stories of monster waves at Le Furoncle, just north of Biarritz, at Vanthrax, near the Spanish border, and about rare 30-foot swells 1½ mile from the coast at Belharra, just south of Biarritz.

Surf school

For my part, I head out the following day to confront the waves at the Plage de la Côte des Basques, where it all began.

Waves, however, may not be the word for what I confront this exceeding calm morning: 12-inch swells tumbling over to form a line of foam not even high enough to knock over a 3-year-old. In fact, the 3-year-olds are already surfing.

The baby of our group of five newbies is in her late 30s. You’re never too old to learn, I suppose, but you can be too claustrophobic to zip up a wet suit. I’m nearly prepared to call the whole thing off, but a couple passing by on the beach just then gives me the up-and-down with a smile that makes me think maybe that I look ménage-à-trois sexy in the tight suit.

I then reread their up-and-down and realized that it goes from the words on my chest (Biarritz Surf Training) to the height of my surfboard, longboard that looms over my head, and that their smile is at best one of pity. Anyway, I forget the strangling wetsuit and carry my board to join the others on the sand.

The Bay of Biscay as it washes against portions of the coasts of France and Spain can be too moody in some parts to be associated with smooth sailing, backstroking and first-time surfing. But Biarritz’s coastline is known for the consistency of its surf, making it a fine place for beginner and intermediate surfers, especially from May to early October when the water temperature is sufficiently warm. There are often also plenty of more unruly waves for experienced surfers both at Biarritz and north and south along the Basque coast.

The town’s historic focal point, however, is less the beach than the rocky outcrop at the center of the town’s coastline, where the striking Art Deco aquarium and the old port are. The outcrop is surrounded by tremendous boulders, possibly hurled by the gods to instill fear in the hearts of inhabitants tempted to search for Atlantis, which is somewhere out there.

In 1864, on one of the rocks resembling an overturned boat, locals sought to assuage that fear by planting a statue of the goddess Mary. An iron foot bridge, built by Gustave Eiffel’s company to replace an earlier wooden bridge, leads out to the Rock of the Virgin and no promenade in Biarritz is complete without crossing it.

That rocky outcrop separates the two central stretches of beaches: la Plage de la Côte des Basques to the south and la Grande Plage and la Plage Miramar to the north. The Hotel du Palais overlooks the central portion of the northern stretch, between la Grande Plage and la Plage Miramar.

My surfing lesson on the Plage de la Côte des Basques is with Philippe Beudin, director of Biarritz Surf Training, one of nine surfing schools in Biarritz.

It’s a beautiful morning, already 80 degrees and on its way to being a springtime scorcher.

“A perfect day for a first lesson,” Mr. Beudin announces to the five of us in the class.

We are all excited. The class looks longing toward the water but Mr. Beudin keeps us on the sand, where we practice standing up on boards, trying to memorize steps that undoubtedly come naturally to kids.

Born in 1962 and a native of Biarritz, a Biarrot, Mr. Beudin grew up at a time when surfing was finding firm footing as a sport of freedom on this coast. But he didn’t seriously take up the sport until his late teens, meaning in the early 1980s, the period in which surfing grabbed hold as a mass market sport in these parts. He has since traveled far and wide with his board, naturally including Hawaii, before returning home to create his surfing school.

We eventually take our longboards into the water until we are about waist deep, where the waves don’t break so much as push a pile of foam toward the shore. Mr. Beudin’s instructions are clear, patient and encouraging, yet none of us manages to stand up on our boards. I try not to feel past my prime when a six-year-old glides by and waves. But little by little we all make progress. My hour in the water goes something like this:

Foot forward, fall… foot forward, fall… foot forward, fall… push up, fall… foot forward, fall… push up, fall… push up, fall… half-stand, fall… foot forward, fall… push up, fall… half-stand, fall, drink seawater… half-stand, fall… stand, fall… stand, fall… half-stand, fall… stand one second, fall… stand two seconds, fall… and finally: stand one, two, three, four, five, si-, fall—a magnificent ride on a foot-high wave. Cowabunga!

Several hours later I cross paths with Joël de Rosnay again while having lunch at Le Sin, the restaurant at the Cité de l’Océan (described in the next article in this series to be posted this week), a museum dedicated to the ocean. Seated with a group of well-dressed lunch companions, this is clearly not an aging beach bum but rather a successful consultant and entrepreneur.

Indeed, for Mr. de Rosnay surfing wasn’t so much a lifestyle as a trampoline from which he followed his interests and opportunities in a varied career that has led him to make his name in the various fields of sports, technology, food and the environment. Surfing may have been his early attraction to visiting the United States but it was far from his last, as his CV includes a stint as research associate at MIT in the field of biology and computer graphics and Scientific Attaché to the French Embassy in the U.S. He currently serves as the president of Biotics International, a consulting company specialized in the impact of new technologies on industries. He is the author of books on his various fields of interest and expertise and has most recently published Surfer la vie: comment sur-vivre dans la société fluide (Surfing through Life: How to sur-vive in Fluid Society).

I reintroduce myself as the fellow he pushed by the pool yesterday. I tell him briefly about my first surfing experience, a story he’s certainly heard a thousand times.

“It’s a start,” he says.

He asks how I like the museum.

I say the same thing.

I ask to take his picture and he obliges.

That afternoon I decide to stay in Biarritz an entire week to learn how to surf.

I imagine the days ahead: morning lessons with Philippe Beudin, a chat with my favorite Basque merchants at the daily morning food market,

… an excursion to Saint Jean de Luz, then back to Biarritz to meet new-found surfing buddies for dinner at La Plancha or for a sunset picnic on the beach,

… and eventually attacking three- and four-foot walls by the end of the week.

It isn’t actually a decision. It’s a travel fantasy before flying home at the end of the day.

© 2013, Gary Lee Kraut

For more information about Biarritz on France Revisited read: Biarritz Ocean: The Brand Between Bilbao and Bordeaux and Biarritz Hotels.

Official site of the Biarritz Tourist Office: tourisme.biarritz.fr/en.  The tourist office a second site dedicated specifically to surfing: surf-biarritz-paysbasque.com/en/.

Biarritz Surf Training, 102 rue de Pierre Chevigné, 64200 Biarritz. Tel. 05 59 23 15 31. www.surftraining.com. Open April to November. See website for pricing for 1-10 lessons and for intensive or leisure weekend or week-long lessons/training. Surfboard (or bodyboard) and wetsuit included. Philippe Beudin, director.

Reservations of several weeks in advance are recommended for surfing lessons in July and August, but for much of the rest of the surfing season little advance planning is necessary. The seasons runs April to early November, with ideal time being the long spring days from mid-May (when the water has warmed a bit) through June and in the often very pleasant back season of September and October.

Philippe Beudin has teamed up with the local Alliance Francaise for a combined surfing and language vacation, with French language lessons in the morning and surfing in the afternoon, so that on returning home you can impress your friends not only with your surfing skills but also with your Basque accent.

A list of all of the surfing schools of Biarritz can be found here.

Other sports in Biarritz

Surfing isn’t the only sport for which Biarritz and the French Basque coast are known. Long before the Californians arrived with surfboards the British were coming with golf clubs. The Golf de Biarritz Le Phare dates to 1888, making it old enough that it’s now surrounded by city. The International Training Center at the Golf d’Ilbiarritz is south of the city. There are also nine other greens within a 20-mile radius. As a sign of the importance of golf here, Biarritz has been linked as a sister city with Augusta, Georgia since 1992.

More indigenous is Basque pelota (pelote basque), played in a variety of ways, whether barehanded, with racket/paddle or with a basket-type racket.

Finally, southwest France is rugby country and Biarritz’s team, Biarritz Olympique Pays Basque (BOPB or simply BO) is a premier league team. The season runs mid-August to early May, followed by three weeks of playoffs.

Then there’s the great sport of spa treatments and seawater cures (thalassothérapie) for which Biarritz is also well know. Thalassotherapie is practiced at two centers: Thalassa Biarritz at the Sofitel Biarritz Le Miramar and Thalmar, directly accessible from the Hotel le Biarritz. Hotel du Palais, the town’s most luxurious hotel, has a beautiful spa called The Imperial Spa (with Guerlain).

Getting to Biarritz

There are direct flights to Biarritz from Paris and other French cities as well as from various northern European capitals (London, Dublin, Copenhagen, Brussels, Rotterdam, Stockholm). By train, Biarritz is 5:20 from Paris and 2:00 from Bordeaux.

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* * *

The horizon shot upwards as my horse and I sank into the ground.  Suddenly, I was seeing the trees and sky of southern France from a different perspective. Like an elevator that had suddenly broken free of its cable, I had taken a quick trip down. Although still mounted, my feet were resting on the earth–and under the earth–muddy, swampy earth. My horse, Iadj, a plucky, pure white Arabian horse, in one easy, carefree step, had sunk up to his lovely shoulder into a bog.

“Get off, get off!” I heard my husband shout.

Stunned, I had remained frozen in place. I leaped off, pulling the reins over the horse’s head.

Now on solid ground, I could see my mount was half buried. I tried to clear the way in front of him with my hands, but I was only swirling around a thick, slimy stew. Not liquid enough to swim in, and too deep for the horse to touch bottom.

Iadj, the white Arabian, heaved forward, rising up a little.

“Yes,” I thought, he’ll grab solid ground!” But his effort just took him forward–farther from shore and even deeper. Fear gripped me–now his hind quarters were solidly entrenched. This reservoir was not a pond to quench my horse’s thirst; it appeared, rather, that it was to be his grave.

Dave and I were riding alone in a remote area in the huge stretch of parkland in the Languedoc-Rousillon region of France. Earlier in the day and yesterday we had exchanged greetings with people hiking the same trails we followed, often an older couple, usually French but sometimes English or German. They carried walking sticks and wore zip-off khakis. But today we hadn’t seen another person for hours. Up until the moment Iadj lifted his hoof off a solid bank to place it into a daylit nightmare, this solitude had been part of the pleasure of our explorations in the region.

Charly and Nicole from the Ferme Equestre, where we’d rented our horses for the week, had provided us with two well-mannered and willing mounts, a series of maps, and reservations at an assortment of inns, farms, and lodges. This was our third day of leaning forward over our horses’ withers as they carried us to mountain-top vistas and down again on steep rocky tracks. We hiked alongside our steeds when the trail was too difficult. Dark narrow paths through woodland opened up into sunny fields of cerulean flowers where we dismounted to open and then close behind us pasture gates. Footpaths along clear quiet streams led us to 17th-century mountainside villages where church bells rang over the steady beat of our horse’s hooves. On this day we had looked forward to tying our horses in the courtyard of the ruins of the 10th-century Castle of Puylaurens, where they would rest while we walked under still-standing stone archways to view the valley below through ancient windows built into a wall fused to a cliff.

Our biggest problem to date had been getting lost for almost two hours on our first day out. Being lost was something we’d done quite a bit the year before, when we took this trip for the first time. And although the trail was to deviate a bit this year, it hadn’t yet, and we had no real excuse for losing our way. Instead of concentrating on the trail, our attention was on the countryside, where cows grazed contentedly in clover covered pastures and dogs looked after recalcitrant sheep on steep hillsides. The forest pathways were green and cool, but also a bit confusing: getting lost then finding our way took time. We neglected to anticipate the concern yesterday evening’s host and hostess would have for us as sunset approached. Worried, they had called Charly, who then became worried himself because of course, we should not be lost—he knew we’d been here before and must know our way.

We should have known our way today also, but a small stream, not much more than a trickle, crossed the path ahead and Dave and I differed in our recollections. He did not remember crossing water here, so we pulled off the trail to discuss it. There was a sign that was perfect for tying the horse’s reins while we examined our map. The sign was next to a small pond. My horse, unbeknownst me, was expecting a drink, because he knew very well where the path went: it did cross the stream and that brook was one of the places the horses quenched their thirst while carrying tourists like ourselves over the mountain trail. So while Dave was tying his horse to the wooden sign, my horse was eyeing the pond. I dropped the reins on his neck and allowed him to mosey over for a drink. He lowered his head and took a few steps forward. One step too many took us right off the solid edge of land and into the mire. “Baignade Interdite” is what the sign said: NO SWIMMING”.

Now Charly would really have something to worry about. Calling his wife was the only sensible call we could make. Nicole spoke English fairly well, and she could call some kind of emergency crew. Would we have cell phone signal on this mountain top, will Nicole be home, and would she understand the English word for “bog”? I tried to remember the French word for “mud.” My mind raced as the horse thrashed in the muck. What should I do? What if Nicole doesn’t answer. Should I call someone else? Who? Years ago I’d seen on television a horse stuck in a bog. They pulled it out with an enormous crane. Would someone have a crane? Neither one of us knew the French equivalent of 911*.

I doubted if there was a road or village nearby, but if I reached someone, what would we say? “Vin rouge, s’il vous plaît?” My French is basic. How could I express this situation? “Uh, excuse me, but my horse is at this very moment drowning in a bog—can you send a winch or something?—Well, actually, no, I don’t have any idea where I am….lots trees, and oh, yeah—muddy water.” How does one say “drowning” in French? I wished desperately for someone to come by. Where were the trekkers? It seemed clear that this lovely Arabian horse, mine for a week, was in great danger.

My hand reached for the cell phone as Iadj surged forward again. I could see the horse gather his strength. He rose above the mire, moving forward several feet, but when he landed he was on his side, almost his back—his legs kicking in the air. He twisted and then he was back in the original vertical position. His hindquarters didn’t look right—it appeared as if his legs were twisted beneath the muck. All that struggling made me fear a broken leg. One hip looked bad, pushed up. I could only hope this leg was safe, but resting on higher ground, while the rest of him was deeper into the muck.

He now stayed still for what seemed a very long time, his head and neck stretched along the top of the surface. I’d never seen a horse in such an awkward position. His body was so deep in the ground that his chin was cradled by the earth. Was he resting again, or had he given up? Each advance had taken a great deal of energy. He was closer to the far shore now. Perhaps he could make it. Only six years old, he was very fit from traveling five or six hours a day on steep, challenging terrain. But this was taking a great deal out of him; he appeared spent.

His next effort took him closer to the far edge of the pool. And the leg that had seemed strangely poised must have been well positioned, not broken, giving him something to push off with. Now when he lurched forward again he almost reached the shore.

He rested again. If he could raise himself enough, he could touch the edge. But the side here was steep. I had the reins; I had to do something. I could guide him to the best spot. He was very close to the steep, rocky side. I had never seen a horse scramble up something so vertical. If I guided him to the left a bit, it seemed to be a more gradual climb. But was the ground firm or more swamp?

I guided him hesitantly towards the more gradual climb and he followed, but he, too, was uncertain. One forefoot reached forward, only to drop down into the morass. It would have to be the steep side.

Neither Dave nor I could imagine how much longer he could struggle before exhaustion took over, or his heart gave out. I moved the reins to the right, and I don’t know whether he took my cue or just saw for himself he wasn’t going to make it the other way, but he changed his course in mid-leap.

Suddenly, his front feet were touching the solid ground of the bank. Scrambling, a hind leg gained purchase. He was almost vertical now, his legs moving furiously; climbing, sliding—a leg would land, only to slip after dislodging a rock. For a few moments he seemed to be scrambling in the air and it didn’t seem possible he’d reach the top. I thought he would slide back into the quagmire, maybe this time forever. But providence was with me and this horse because suddenly he seemed to gain a strong foothold.

“He’s OK!” my husband shouted.

I wasn’t so certain. This horse had been thrashing about—he seemed twisted beneath the surface. I feared the vision of him rising from the soup of the bog with a dangling leg, broken, the end for this lovely horse who tried so hard, bursting out of one deadly dilemma only to meet another.

He stood. He took a step. He shook himself and mud flew everywhere, but he seemed to be alright.

Happy to be slapped with showering sludge, relief washed over me like a river. And it was going to take a fairly deep river to clean this horse. This pretty white horse was now completely brown. The small patch of white on the side of his head and neck that hadn’t been enveloped in the bog were now splashed with muck from when he had shaken his body.

I threw off his saddle and saddlebags—everything was coated with a thick layer of gritty loam. He shook again and the white patch where his saddle had been became less white. My clothing was splattered, my shoes squishy.

Now that Iadj was safe, I had a new goal—get him cleaned up before anyone saw him. This was cowardly and dishonest of me, and I must admit my husband did not agree with my duplicity, but the moment relief washed away fear a new emotion sprang forth in my breast: embarrassment.

I didn’t want to have to explain how I almost killed this horse to the people who were already puzzled about why we had gotten lost on a route we’d traveled before. They had provided us with maps and detailed instructions written in both French and English and numbers we could call on our cell phone. In addition, hopefully unbeknownst to them, we had a handheld GPS which we couldn’t figure out how to use. And now we had nearly drowned their horse right next to a “No Swimming” sign. I was mortified by my ineptitude, my adrenaline was still high. I now had a new mission: deceit.

I fashioned a halter from a lead rope and washed the bridle in the creek, the same creek that we were meant to cross and that Iadj was meant to drink from. I took off my grimy tell-tale shirt and replaced it with one in my saddle bag that had remained reasonably protected. I used the soiled shirt to carry water between the creek and the horse who rested quietly while my husband held him.

It took an hour and a half to get him close to clean. As brown rivulets flowed off, several bloody spots appeared on his legs. All minor cuts and scrapes—probably caused by his own flailing hooves during his struggle.

While I cleaned, other people finally appeared: it was an older couple wearing zip-off trousers. They raised their walking sticks in our direction. “Bonjour!” they called out in a German accent. “Bonjour!” I replied with bravado.

Clean and rested, we set off, and Iadj seemed happy to be traveling on solid ground again. I experienced my final bit of relief as we moved off into a steady trot, with none of the head bobbing that would indicate a limp and therefore an injury. We rode through thickly wooded trails until we reached a clearing from where we looked down upon the red roof tops of a town in the valley and then rode through an old stone village, grey except for the brilliant blue shutters framing each window.

In our desire to arrive on schedule to our evening’s abode and keep our adventure a secret, we made up lost time by skipping our last route direction; the climb to the castle. We took the road below, and the silhouette of Puylaurens, high on the hill above us, shadowed our path for a long while. We watched the sun descend behind its maze of old stone walls. The magic of an early evening in a beautiful place pulled us back to the pleasures of our vacation. My horse walked with a spring in his step and his white coat shone against the dark of the mountains beyond.

© 2012, Judy Kashoff.

Judy and Dave Kashoff have been traveling extensively around the world since 2008. Rather than wait for the proverbial golden years, they rented out their house in a suburb of Philadelphia, dropped their cats off with Dave’s mother, kissed their two grown children good-bye, and set off for what they thought would be a year of travels by boat, by bike, by horse, by foot, by kayak and by golly let’s just do it! Four years on they are still at it.

*Editor’s note: 911 actually does work from mobile phones in France. It’s immediately transferred to the European emergency number 112. The more common numbers in France, however, are 17 for the police and 18 for the fire department and for other accidents and emergencies such as the one told here.

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They passed in front of me as I left my building. They were walking at the time. I walk just behind them to the end of the street. At the corner they stopped, smiled at each other, recited the final lines of Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot”—Well, shall we go? / Yes, let’s go—and set off on their jog.

I took this picture just as they pushed off, the man two steps ahead of the woman.

They appeared to be 25 to 30 years old and looked well enough together to be a couple enjoying the weekend together, or perhaps a brother and sister. But no matter the relationship, what’s most surprising, particularly viewed with American eyes, is that they were together at all in these t-shirts.

I only saw the t-shirts from the back, as you do here. The man’s reads le monde a besoin de philosophes (the world needs philosophers) and woman’s reads oui à la vie (yes to life).

Oui à la vie/Yes to life (not to be confused with the British cancer support association of the same name) promotes itself as a traditional pro-life pro-family organization, while professing the world’s need for philosophers would appear more at home in the affirmative pro-choice camp.

If these were Americans, I would imagine the man as member of the graduate softball team at Vassar, and the woman on her way to a Santorum rally in Oklahoma. If they ever came to Paris they may have enough of a chemical or cultural connection to start flirting in the line to go up the Eiffel Tower, but I doubt they’d caucus long enough to wake up and go jogging together.

I don’t read into this any particularly virtuous tolerance on the part of Parisians. I’m simply struck that these two, in their somewhat opposing t-shirts, should look so happy to push off together after reciting the final lines of “En Attendant Godot” (“Waiting for Godot”).

Vladamir: Alors on y va? (Well, shall we go?)
Estragon: Allons-y. (Yes, let’s go)

But something held Vladamir and Estragon together, too, didn’t it?

I am reminded of another line of that play:
Voilà l’homme tout entier, s’en prenant à sa chaussure alors que c’est son pied le coupable.
“There’s man all over for you, blaming on his boots the faults of his feet.”

(c) 2012 Gary Lee Kraut

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