Immersion in Basque country
(April 2016, Hendaye, France)
Part I
I’m on a quest to find the world’s oldest
fishermen, catch some fish, and eat some good food.
France has caves with evidence of prehistoric human
habitation that dates back tens of thousands of years. Most of those caves have
drawings of mammals, such as deer, bison and horses, but in the caves of Basque
country, scientists found drawings of fish, presumably caught by prehistoric
anglers.
Voila!
French Basque country also has numerous rivers
flowing out of the Pyrenees into the Atlantic. These waters are home to
large wild trout, Atlantic salmon and shad. The region even hosts the
annual World Salmon Fishing Championships.
C’est si bon!
Finally, Basque Country was praised recently in the
New York Times for its excellent cuisine. It has more Michelin-starred
restaurants per capita than any other place in the world.
C’est magnifique!
Our destination is Hendaye, the southernmost town
on France’s Atlantic coast, from which, one can look across the River Bidassoa
and see Spain. In 20 minutes we can be in San Sebastian. This is the
heart of Basque Country.
Dottie and I, and our Sonoma friends, Fred and Pam
Gilberd, will be fully immersed in this small coastal village, where we are
compelled to speak French.
We are staying in an apartment adjacent to the home
of a retired French professor. Every day we have breakfast with her, followed
by several hours of formal French lessons, followed by hands-on French cooking
classes, followed by afternoon field trips to learn about the local culture and
practice our French.
In the beginning, our conversations will be quite
simple, like one might use with a four-year-old.
Sink or swim, we’re here for a month. Let’s hope we
can graduate from kindergarten and start talking to first-graders.
Our host also has friend who is a local fishing
guide on the rivers that flow out of the rugged mountains that rise
dramatically behind us.
Fortunately, I speak trout, and so does he.
Part II
Here we are in Hendaye, the most southwesterly
town in France. Last night, we drove from our apartment overlooking the Bay of
Biscay, across the river Bidaossa to the old
Basque city of Hondarribia, a few miles
south of us. It was a lovely evening for our host, Jacquelin Duperrin, a
retired professor, to show us around. We walked through a sixth-century castle
built for King Carlos V, now fully restored as one of many government Paradores
(hotels) in Spain.
In the town center, a dozen or more tapas bars served
hundreds of locals gathered in the plaza to socialize, eat, drink, and enjoy
live music. Many couples brought their children. It was like a big neighborhood
party. The tapas were fantastic.
A very important football (soccer) match
between Barcelona and Real Madrid was displayed on large TV screens inside and
out.
While immersed in learning more French, Dottie
and I and our friends, Fred and Pam Gilberd, had crossed the river to where
everybody was speaking Spanish and many of the stores had names in the Basque
language. Suddenly my mind was a tossed word-salad mixing four languages.
Talk about culture shock. It was simultaneously stimulating and challenging.
Jacquie is not only a great teacher, she is
also a wonderful guide, chef and a truly kind and generous host.
We've learned some things about French cooking;
mostly how to eat it, and we actually got a lesson in how to make galettes and
crepes.
Right now there's a race between the growth of
my French vocabulary and my waistline.
This is Basque Country and Basques have fought
long and hard to keep it that way. After centuries, during which Basques
were persecuted for maintaining their culture and independence, it seems
respect and acceptance by the governments of France and Spain has been
achieved.
Perhaps most noted by visitors like us is the
food. Today we went to the open-air market and spent a half-hour tasting and
buying several Basques cheeses. We also got a couple of Basque cakes. So
much to learn, so much to eat.
The Basques were perhaps the earliest
commercial fishermen in history. They started with whales in the fifth
and sixth centuries. Later they built better boats and became the world's
greatest sailors, traveling distances to the far northern banks of
Newfoundland and Labrador to catch cod and
bring them back to be salted, dried and sold all over Europe.
I'm more interested in what they are catching
in the rivers of their own Pyrenees and hope to make that connection soon.
There is a lot of history here too, including
the fact that Hendaye was the place in 1940 where two brutal dictators met.
Spain's Gen. Francisco Franco met Adolph Hitler hoping that the nasty Nazi
would accept Spain into his Axis. Hitler thought Franco was an
untrustworthy clown and chose to keep him at arm's length. Franco was lucky.
When Germany lost, Franco claimed it was he who declined to join the Nazis and
he
continued his brutal fascist control over Spain
for another 30 years.
Today the border between France and Spain is
wide open and the area is home to three cultures, including the Basques,
although they would prefer this area to be an independent Basque state. Still,
they all three apparently co-exist in relative harmony.
And contrary to the doom and gloom impression
one may get from American television news, the folks here in France and Spain
seem to be doing just fine.
Part III
Our teacher and host, Jacquelin Duperrin,
took us on a very Basque/French Sunday morning drive to the small
village of Urrugne, located a few Kilometers from our place here in Hendaye,
France.
As we drove along winding country roads in the
foothills of the Pyrenees, we had to stop and make way for a large
"peloton" of cyclists riding by.
The narrow road took us to the center of the
village where an old stone church was by far the largest structure. Next to the
church was a bar decorated with memorabilia related to pelota, the most popular
sport in Basque Country. We went through a small door at the back of the bar,
then up a narrow staircase to a platform above a covered "fronton"
(pelota court) in which there was a doubles match being played.
Later we would watch a different match in a
bigger court between teams from Spain and France. The action was fast and
intense.
We attended part of a mass at the old church,
which was followed by Basque folk-dancing in the outdoor courtyard next to the
church. A caller accompanied by a live band cued each move. It was sort
of like line-dancing except it was in a circle.
Pam stepped in without hesitation, mastering
the steps quickly even though all the calls were in Basque.
While the entire region is Basque, our village
and those just north of us, St. Jean de Luz, Biaritz and Bayonne; and just
south of us, San Sebastián, are all summer beach resorts for thousands of
vacationers and surfers.
It is definitely not summer here yet, and the
weather is constantly changing from some sun to lots of rain, then back.
So far, the local rivers are too high for fishing.
We got a window of fair weather yesterday after
the folk dancing and went for a walk on the beautiful beach that runs for
several kilometers. A dozen or so surfers in wetsuits were catching smallish
waves and other locals, bundled up in jackets like us, were trying to get a few
semi-warm rays of sunlight on whatever skin left uncovered.
I watched a couple of guys with long
surf-casting rods as they eyed their lines for signs of a bite. Nothing.
We're spending several hours each day with our
wonderfully patient professor trying to learn French. Fred and Pam are the
stars. Dottie and me? Not so much.
Sunday morning before our drive, Jacquie was
telling us, in French, about the best pelota players in the region and referred
to them as "Les meilleurs champions." I thought I heard
"champignons," French for mushrooms, which meant we were going to a
special farm where they grow these prize champignons. Imagine my surprise when
we ended up at a pelota court.
C'est la vie. Every day is an adventure and a
few more words become familiar enough that we dare use them around town.
When I speak to store clerks here, and a puzzled look comes over their
faces, I tell them my well-practiced explanation, that I am trying to learn to
speak French. They appear to understand and give me a sympathetic response,
politely correcting my grammar. I just hope I don't order a salad with
champions on it.
Part IV
The Nive River, swollen by daily rain storms,
rolled and tumbled along our route to St.-Jean-Pied-Port as we took a two-day
break from our French immersion classes to test our newly formed linguistic
wings.
The Nive is home to trout and possibly Atlantic
salmon. But on this day it appeared to be too high and fast to fish. I
did see a small private trout hatchery that raises trout for restaurants along
side one of many tributaries that feed the main stem.
Two guys were fishing with spinning gear in the
creek next to the hatchery, but neither had caught anything. There was also a
campground nearby with a sign that read "Trout Camp," giving me a
clue that at least sometimes anglers catch trout here.
The Nive flows through St.-Jean-Pied-de-Port,
an ancient and charming walled-village that sits at the foot of a pass that has
been used since before the Romans to cross the rugged Pyrenees between France
and Spain.
It was also a main stopping point for early
pilgrims following an 1800-kilometer route from the French village of Vezelay
to Santiago de Compestela, where St. James was supposedly buried.
Today this little village is a bustling tourist
spot and the main starting point for people from all over the world who want to
begin their 500-mile walk along the path of Saint Jacques de Compestela.
Our Sonoma friend and neighbor, Hank Martinson,
made the pilgrimage several years ago and has written a wonderful book about
his experience, which I hope he will have published one day.
There is also an interesting movie starring Martin
Sheen entitled "The Walk," that was filmed here.
We visited the office where all hikers register
to begin their journey and were told that the main route over the pass was
still blocked by winter snow. Pilgrims were being directed to an alternative trail
that kept them below the snow line.
Our companions, Fred and Pam Gilberd, wanted to
walk part of the path. Dottie and I settled for a stroll down the cobblestone
street (technically part of the pilgrim trail) for a block or two until we
found a cozy cafe where we waited for them and enjoyed croissants and coffee.
The path up from the village gets steep after a
kilometer or so and it was raining. We didn't have to wait long for Fred and
Pam to return.
St. Jean Pied De Port is a lovely place in
which to spend a day and has many fine places to shop and to dine.
We stayed in a small auberge down the road in
the tiny hilltop village of Biddaray where we were the only guests, Across the
courtyard was an old stone church. The window of our room opened onto. a
brilliant green pasture in which sheep, some with newborn lambs, grazed
peacefully. The rugged peaks of the Pyrenees, shrouded in mist and cotton-puff
clouds rose dramatically behind them.
All along the road there were small farms
offering cheese made from sheep's milk - delicious.
We also stopped at a Basque espadrille shoe
factory where Dottie and Pam each found the perfect pair.
It rained off and on both days but that didn't
stop us from stopping to explore several small villages along our way.
Still, I couldn't help noticing that the Neve River kept rising. Not a
good sign for my fishing plans.
Part V
Almost every morning here in
Hendaye, we have breakfast with our host and teacher, Jacquie Duperrin. The
conversation over fresh-baked croissants and bread is all in French. Jacquie
patiently corrects our grammar and helps us find the words we can't remember.
Dottie and I differ in our
approach. While she proceeds cautiously to find the correct words, I babble in
a mish-mash of French, Spanish, plus assorted English words delivered with a
French accent.
Jacquie looks puzzled when I do
this, like I do when she speaks French to me at normal speed. But, after three
weeks here, it is clear that French fluency for me is out of the question. So I
babble on.
Breakfast is great, but then we
have a real French class for two hours.
We work on tenses and
conjugation: I eat, you eat, etc., I ate, you ate; we're going to eat, I will
eat. There are beaucoup tenses for each of hundreds of verbs, 80 percent
of which are regular with rules that you can memorize. But the irregular verbs
– "Zut alors!"
Il est l'heure de dejeuner?
(Lunch time?)
Fortunately, Jacquie rewards our
meager progress with afternoon excursions, one of which was across the border
and up a rugged canyon carved by the Bidasoa River. There, in the tiny,
rustic village of Echalar, alongside a very "trout-friendly-looking"
tributary of the river, is "The Bar Basque," that serves an
incredible Basque-style steak dinner, including wine,, for about $15 per
person.
The restaurant decor is genuinely
rustic, so much so that you expect the three musketeers to burst through the
door at any moment and cross swords with some nasty enforcers of the Spanish
Inquisition.
Instead, we shared the dining
room with a gang of Spanish bikers with the name "Los Tronchos"
emblazoned across the backs of their vests.
They turned out to be polite and
amiable fellow diners, enjoying every bit as much as we did the huge plates of
salad, fries and enormous steaks placed in heaping platters before us.
One night we drove to Eglise
Saint Jean Babtise in Saint Jean De Luz, the site of the marriage of French
King Louis XIV to the Spanish "Infanta," Maria Theresa, in 1660. The
Russian Army Red Star Chorus, in full uniform, delivered an impressive program
of Russian songs standing on the alter in full view of the many gilded figures
of saints watching from their perches next to the church's tall stained glass
windows. On another night at the church we were blown away by two amazing
Basque chorale groups.
From singing Basques to
motorcycle gangs in rustic Basque inns to communists singing in Catholic
cathedrals, our cross-cultural adventures continued.
And,
I finally got to fish.
Part VI
I finally went
fishing – French style.
April is a rainy
month in Basque Country. I spent the
better part of our month-long stay watching the rivers rise.
Finally, in our third
week here, Antoine Sanchez, the neighbor of our host, Jacquie, said we should
try anyway. Antoine, who was born in
Spain, has spent most of his life on the French side of the border and is an
avid fly-fisher. He is a great guy and
loves to talk about fishing. He doesn’t speak English, so we communicated with
a blend of French and Spanish.
From the start, I
could tell that our day of fishing would be more about the journey, than actual
time streamed.
He picked me up at 9
a.m. on a Friday. Our route took us on winding country roads east into the
Pyrenees. Along the way, we passed
Espelette, famous for its artful use of little red chili peppers called
“piments.” Antoine insisted on a drive around the village center to show me the
sites.
Eventually, we met up
with his fishing buddy, Jacques Bogieu, at a grocery store parking lot about
halfway to our destination. After they
had a lengthy discussion as to the best place to find fish, we continued our
drive for a little while longer until we got to the small village of Osses,
where we stopped at the local boulangerie for some fresh baguettes.
We reached
Saint-Jean-Pied-De-Port a little before noon where I was able to purchase a
fishing permit at a local sport shop.
Antoine and Jacques spent a some time discussing fishing spots with the
proprietor before we headed toward our destination, which was up a narrow
canyon along a tributary of the Neve River.
A few miles
further, we pulled into the parking lot
of a large wholesale nursery. Antoine wanted to shop for some tomatoes and
squash for his garden.
The road narrowed and
wound along the creek and through steep, green, hillside pastures filled with
grazing sheep. Finally, we reached a wide spot in the road near a sheep
rancher’s barn and pulled to a stop.
“At last,” I thought,
“We’re going do some fishing.”
“Mais, non. Il est
temps pour le déjeuner.” (Lunch time).
Antoine and Jacques
had brought a veritable feast, complete with tablecloth, wine glasses and
utensils. We leaned on some logs, draped with the tablecloth, and, while
watching sheep graze across the road, we enjoyed quiche, paté, cheese, fruit,
fresh bread, and dessert, plus lots of good French wine and a special
home-crafted “vin noir,” made by Antoine.
Three or four glasses
of wine and an hour and a half later, lunch was done and I was ready for a
nap. But then, it was actually time to
fish.
By the time I put my
waders on and assembled my rod, it was mid afternoon .
We walked through a
sheep pasture, then a corral where two donkeys took a great interest in what we
were doing, and finally got to a very small and extremely brushy creek, with
tree branches and berry vines very close along both banks and overhead.
The water was clear
however, and a short sidearm cast got my fly onto the water in a likely looking
riffle. There was nothing rising and no
fish rose to my offering.
For the next couple
of hours we waded, bushwhacked and fished between branches and snags. None of us hooked or even saw a fish. I tried every fly I had; so did Antoine and
Jacques. We stopped fishing around 5
p.m.
Back at the car, over
beers, cheese, fruit and bread, Jacques taught me a new French expression –
“Retrant bredouille.” (Coming home empty-handed). The fish, it seems, were
still on “les vacances.”
Empty-handed or not,
it was a very enjoyable day with my new French fishing buddies.
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