The Easy Bit

Most of yesterday was spent driving, with James and Andy alternating behind the wheel. The most exciting detail to report is James’s inability to control the cruise control – he always ends up honking the horn, to the chagrin of the nearby French drivers. Arriving at our first hotel, some (Alisa) expressed concern that we were in fact staying in a storage unit. Our hotel was enchanting in its juxtaposing bubble gum pink paint and grape vines doing their best to hide this abominable colour. The pool – the only one on this trip – was a busy social hangout for leathery French tourists. Our best bet was to go into town – La Rochelle.
Against the backdrops of the weathered, but immaculate, train station, the still operating lighthouse (right in the middle of town), and an ominous fortress, tourists and locals alike cycled on the La Rochelle version of the Boris bike (called Yelo! – they were yellow, yes) and the new square extended smoothly to the turquoise sea water of the marina. We were all pretty hungry, so Alisa’s attempts to take photos left her far behind the rest and she constantly had to catch up, albeit allowing for the distractions of the street vendors and the aromas emanating from the innumerable restaurants hugging the marina.
We eventually settled on an assuming tavern, where we were treated to a delicious plate of cured meats and cheeses and oysters. The French really do enjoy the tradition of taking their meals over the whole evening and it was entertaining watching the boys squirm in their seats for the upcoming courses. We never made it to dessert because the clouds that have been hanging over the town finally raptured and James and Mick, unfortunate enough to be sitting under the gap in the awning, were treated to some unwelcome weather. The distance between the car and the restaurant wasn’t that great, but in the five minutes that it took us to cover it – leaping over puddles (but mostly landing in them) – we were soaked to the bone.
The next day we set out for Irun, a Spanish town 10 kilometres away from the starting point – Hendaye. This was a massively boring drive. If you dozed off for two hours, you would wake up to identical scenery – sparse forest, interspersed with rolling vineyards. Irun’s sole purpose appears to be a source of cheap petrol for the border-hopping French. Everyone here smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish and smells the mixture of the two. The culinary delights were also a bit of a let down. A mixed tapas plate (de casa) was not a variety of cured meats and cheeses, as one would expect, but a bunch of leftovers on bread. The stale eggroll was the piece de la resistance of the mixed platter. But the paella was quite tasty. So was the 11% proof undiluted sangria.