TRAVELLING teaches you to expect the unexpected. When you travel for an extended period of time, this becomes a sort of sixth sense. You aren’t surprised when you discover that the hostel you had booked into is actually closed down. It doesn’t bother you one little bit when you find that the seat you booked on the ferry is actually a crowded spot on the floor of the lower most deck. These experiences count for little more than a funny story to write in your journal or recount to a fellow traveller over a beer.
But when you stop travelling and step back into the routine of everyday life, you reacquaint yourself with a certain level of expectation. You expect that regardless of location, you’ll be able to source some transport. You expect that if the weather forecast is for clear skies and mid range temperatures, you’ll get clear skies and mid range temperatures. Your routine robs you of your traveller’s edge.
And it was without my traveller’s edge that I arrogantly left the planning of my long weekend in France till the last minute. Heading to the south-west French town of Hossegor for the Quiksilver Pro France ASP surfing event, aside from having our flights booked in and out of Biarritz, we didn’t have much organised. We figured transport to and from an international surfing event would be simple enough and having briefly glanced at a map we assumed that finding somewhere to camp shouldn’t be too arduous. Just before flying out of Stansted Airport on the Friday morning, I thought I should probably book into one of the campsites on the off chance they didn’t take arrivals after a certain time.
Campsite #1
“Sorry sir, we are full because of the surfing contest.”
“No, but we only have a small tent.”
“I understand that sir but we have no room because of the surfing contest.”
Shit.
Campsite #2
“Sorry sir, we are close at the end of summer.”
“But aren’t you open when the surf contest is on?”
“No sir, we close at the end of summer.”
Double Shit.
Campsite #3
“Yes we have space for tents.”
“Great, can I please make a booking?”
“You don’t need to worry about making a booking, we have plenty of space.” (The reason for this would become apparent later).
With accommodation sorted, we caught a bus from Biarritz and arrived in Hossegor. The contest had been called off because of poor conditions but we figured we would set up our tent and see what the town had to offer at night. Getting off the bus and looking around it became obvious that we had no idea where we were. No biggie, let’s just ask one of the locals the best way to get to our campsite.
“Excuse me sir, how do I get to Les Deux Etangs campsite.”
“Les Deux Etangs?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, that’s very far away, you can’t walk there from here.”
“Is there a bus?”
“No.”
Shit.
Thankfully a very friendly gentleman (Hitchhike #1) then gave us the first of what would turn out to be many lifts we would receive over the coming weekend. Infinitely grateful to this complete stranger, we quickly realised why our campsite didn’t require a booking… it was in the middle of a bloody national park. And after the woman at reception explained that taxis were very expensive and she didn’t think any bus came out this far, it was clear that no one in their right mind would camp there without their own transport. So we set up camp and after getting a lift into town (Hitchhike #2) for some food we turned around and trudged the 10 or so kilometers back to the campsite. While the poor accommodation had been entirely my fault, the fact that we would be sleeping fully dressed for warmth due to inadequate bedding was definitely on my girlfriends head.
So waking the next morning, tired, grumpy and cold, we had shown some foresight and arranged for a taxi to pick us up to take us to the beach nice and early so we would get a full day of watching the contest. 30 Euros later and the contest was again called off due to less than ideal conditions.
Shit.
Never the less we spent the day enjoying being on a beach and exploring the French cuisine and culture of Hossegor. It was only around lunch time that we realised we had only booked into the campsite for one night. After a quick phone call we organised to stay an extra night, but we would have to go back to pay before 6pm. So we started walking. And walking. And walking. Two hours later and standing in the middle of nowhere, our saviour arrived with his big blue van (Hitchhike #3) and dropped us off back at our campsite. We paid for the extra night and started heading back into town, the return journey made quicker by some fellow campers giving us a lift (Hitchhike #4).
While the surfing may have been cancelled, the Saturday night party had not. Enjoying the music, the crowds and the atmosphere we expected from an international event, our accommodation and transport troubles were forgotten… briefly. With the party winding down we decided to call it a night, well we would’ve called it a night, if we had known how we were going to get back to our campsite. Some frantic running around, a few tears and another kindly local (Hitchhike #5) and we were back to our tent, rattled but overall ok.
Knowing that we needed to catch the early bus to get back into Biarritz in time for our flight, we were up before the sun. Tent all packed, we headed to the road. No sooner had we started the trek to town than a car pulled over and surprisingly enough, the driver got out and asked us for directions. By this stage we had walked the streets of Hossegor more than the local cats so we actually knew the place the driver was looking for. Appreciative of our assistance he offered us a lift (Hitchhike #6). Unfortunately he smelt like he spent the night swimming in a pool of the finest French brandy and before I knew it, I was behind the wheel of the friendly Frenchman’s hatchback.
Leaving our new French friend to sleep off the night before in the passenger seat of his own car down a side street, we headed to the bus stop. As we sat down, surprised at being the only ones waiting for the first bus of the day, I summoned my high school French and attempted to translate the bus timetable. I knew that ‘Sunday’ in French was Dimanche… Shit!
So it turns out there are no buses in France on Dimanche. But then it came round the corner like a glorious gift from above, a bus, and it stopped!
“Is this bus going to Biarritz?”
“No.”
Shit.
Thankfully the bus driver decided she would take us to the next town (Hitchhike #7) and drop us off at a car rental place. Unfortunately we would have to put down a deposit of 730 Euros in order to rent the car. So we started walking, all the while aware that our flight departure time was drawing ever nearer. With a makeshift sign and our combined hopes and dreams we continued on down the road. Then our Kia driving guardian angels (Hitchhike #8) appeared. With generosity beyond comprehension they drove us the remaining 65km or so to Biarritz, with time to spare before our flight.
And so arriving back in London having spent little to no time actually watching surfing and far too much time with our thumbs out asking people for lifts, our French getaway was best classified as an experience. But on the bright side, I had at least slightly restored my traveller’s edge.
Warning: Hitchhiking can be risky and dangerous and you do so at your own risk
