Male Bonding is Expensive
And so the journey begins.... it doesn't take much, just two possibly three years of intricate planning and you too could be nearly ready for a surf trip to the wettest south west corner of French France.Being the 'Dark Lord of all I behold', getting my own and Mrs Dark Lords' shit together to go camping under soggy canvas for 3 weeks, is not that hard a task...square peg, square hole
However if you take shelter under the all encompassing protective umbrella erected by a certain S. Squirrel, getting ones shit together becomes a quite different and altogether mind altering experience...thirteen pregnant buffalos, small square hole.
And so to junction 33, for a rendezvous (French that is) and an impromptu piss stop for all the little squirrels. Ten minutes later we hit the road, Mrs Dark Lord was driving and I was navigating/ following Squirrel, nineteen piss stops later and we were passing Newport and my bladder was well and truly empty.
It wasn't long before all the road signs looked a bit funny and all the locals swore at us. Luckily the ferry left at eleven o clock and France was only nine hours away!
At this point I will take the time to warn you all - Always book a cabin on the ferry. Why?, book a medieval torture device called a reclining bloody seat and find out...
France, 6am and sunny. Surfing Squirrel takes point while we take up the bleary eyed rear. 21 piss stops, 8 hours, one very straight road and only one wrong turn later we arrive in the town planners paradise that is 'La Rochelle'. This town has a one way system that Ken Livingstone can only have wet dreams about. Fifteen circuits of the town square later and we parked up outside our hotel.
Two very warm and drunken nights later, Mr & Mrs Dark lord armed with a new and very dangerous Micheline map take the lead and head south in search of some quality waves and wine, not necessarily in that order, with the Squirrel family in our wake.
Never go clockwise around the Bordeux bypass.
And so it was to be that Bia - bloody - rritz was only a long way away...
However, it came to pass that we would reach the promised land on the highway to hell and surf like our lives depended on it. Biarritz is cool as. The camp was only a squirrel's drive from the beach so we managed to get quite a few dawnies in.
Mrs squirrel and Mrs dark lord did a very fine job of pacifying the little un's while we were away surfing (drinking local beer/wine) and always managed to have breakfast ready upon their masters return.
There is a wave south of Bidart, a wave that compares to no other. Guethary, so good they named it once! This wave, when viewed from the relative safety of the beach break looked about a two foot Coney dribble and was not that inviting, however...
It took us three days, hard paddling with the occasional rest stop just to get to it, (whoever decided that putting a reef break half a mile out to sea was a good idea does not surf). About a third of the way into our journey is was slowly becoming apparent that the wave we sought was not two foot Coney piss, no, no, no, it was a respectable 10-12ft wedge which broke for 200 yards back along the reef.
I smiled a lot and Squirrel smiled a lot, so much so I thought he had a flip top head. Much whooping and a hollering then ensued inter-spaced with the occasional very long ride, straight into the impact zone. Squirrel found to his delight, what a lone red sock goes through in a spin cycle. Oh, we did laugh at that later. So if you go to the south, go to Guethary.
Did I mention Biarritz is cool as, and I got one of their rugby tops?
Did I mention that it continually pissed down for 14 days solid in Biarritz?
Two weeks and £2000 later we depart the sunny south for the sunnier north of the Loire Valley. Never let the surfing squirrel navigate! I think we went via Poland but we eventually reached the Poully-sur-loire wine fayre/hells angel reunion. After checking in to our reasonably priced hotel we proceeded to the river where alchohol was being exchange for sheckles.
We had lots of sheckles, wich we gave to the locals and they gave us the grape juice. WE WERE SMASHED...
Squirrel was so pissed he wasn't allowed out. And I was so pissed I terrorised a chapter of Hells Angels. Anyhoo we all made it home o.k. and the squirrel pinched some dudes cheese.
These are all my own views man and I am not in anyway responsible for your views or making any of this totally believable saga up, honest its all true, all of it, ask the Squirrel if you don't, go on ask him!
If you enjoyed this highly entertaining and completely true account, please send me your money.
Dark Lord, aged 36 & 3/4 - December 2004