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.