So, how do you get from East End to the Arcachon Basin by train in a single day? Encouraged by my continued love of the French rail network – plus the threat of an air traffic control strike at Bordeaux – I decided to give it a whirl. If you wish to emanate this Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl style endeavour (see film for iconic details) it will require a taxi, a tube, a Eurostar, a metro, a high-speed train, a local train, followed by a bewildered walk to the hotel swearing at google maps.
Omar Sheriff will not be waiting for you at the end. Instead, there will be oyster beds, vast sandy beaches with wooden boardwalks, and a plate of the plumpest, sweetest moules you’ve ever had. Welcome to the French Atlantic coast. It’s chic, slightly shabby and, if you like the heady combination of salt and mimosa, smells like a perfumista’s dream.
This trip is not what I originally planned. I am not supposed to be on my own in Arcachon. I am supposed to be with lots of people at a writing retreat in Castillon. This has been cancelled due to an array of bad luck, causing most of the participants to drop out due to ill health and bereavement, but I am still staying for a couple of nights to see how I like the place. I learn later that Castillon is resolutely NOT Dordogne(shire), but in fact, Gironde. The 60% of people in the Dordogne that hail from the environs of Chelsea and Somerset are not popular in these parts, with their red jeans and smug pashminas.
The journey down is remarkably smooth until Bordeaux Saint Jean, where the local train is abruptly evacuated before we’ve left the station. The Olympic year is making the French even jumpier than usual about security and, after a stilted consultation with a fellow traveller, I learn it’s something to do with ‘le baggage’. Later someone is taken ill, and we stop on a desolate platform for nearly three quarters of an hour whilst a paramedic is called and most of the passengers get out to smoke and look nonchalant. I am so happy to be en France.
Arcachon is divided into the four seasons, with the oldest and grandest district being Ville D’Hiver, the main commercial hub Ville D’Ete, the biggest, surfiest beaches Ville de Printemps and the port area Ville D’Automne. So, there’s a bit of orienteering for you. You know I have no sense of direction.
The week ahead is looking unpredictable, so on the first morning I make the most of the brilliant sunshine and take the half hour boat trip to Cap Ferret which is like a Frenchified Nantucket. Not that I’ve ever been. Elegant boutiques, a light house, oyster shacks, tanned Ralph Lauren doppelgangers in deck shoes; it all adds to the overall vibe of Gallic privilege.
To get there you need to catch one of ferries from Jetée Thiers, buying your tickets at one of the beach huts or in advance online, so you can ensure more time over there to gorge on prawns. Bizarrely, the Arcachon Basin has the largest sand dune in Europe, and you can see the Dune of Pilat from one of the Cap Ferret beaches or from the boat. It’s like a distant North African mirage and if you’re into channelling Lawrence of Arabia, you can climb it. I did not.
Architecturally, this area is unique and many of the colourful houses, known as the Arcachonnaise, were built in the belle epoque style and are a visible homage to Arcachon’s 19th century boom time. After a lull in popularity, the town is now heavily frequented by well-heeled Parisians, so one thing you won’t find much of here is anyone speaking English. This is extremely pleasing. A respite from Brits moaning about sewage, immigrants and low traffic neighbourhoods is welcome, and the pleasant hum of a language I don’t understand is good for my decompression.
No Flâneuse Diaries would be complete without a dive into the food scene, and it is wonderful here. Expect to be nine parts seafood by the time you leave and for the only vitamin C to have passed your lips to be lettuce and freshly squeezed oranges. Despite the incredible fruit and vegetables available at the covered market on Places Des Marquises, it does not seem to translate onto restaurant plates, but just embrace the protein and take supplements.
My top two recommendations are Le Commerce in Summer Town for mussels (or anything – it’s all excellent) and Club Plage Pereire near Winter Town. The latter sits directly on the beach and for 22 euros you can ditch the cutlery and have eight outrageous langoustines, a homemade mayonnaise, and fries, whilst watching the windsurfers. The Brasserie des Marquises also became a favourite, not least of all for the Archachon spritz as an aperitif. Limoncello spritz? You’re so last year. This is my new favourite, and if you like the aromatic taste of pink grapefruit, this one’s for you.
By day five I am ludicrously relaxed and it’s time to swap the seaside for the vineyards. The last time I was anywhere near this part of France was twenty years ago, staying in the summer home of a theatrical agent whose idea of closing night party trick was diving into his swimming pool clutching two lit fireworks. He had a house boy who served drinks to the guests wearing a T-Shirt that said, ‘Do Not Feed or Tease the Straight People’ and took us out in a 1960s blue Thunderbird that Ewan McGregor had used for his wedding. It was a completely normal kind of weekend.
I’m always happy to find my people. Chez Castillon is a creative retreat run by Janie and Mickey, two British actors who thirteen years ago bought a run down ten-bedroom house and turned it into a place for writers and artists. Janie is also a novelist whose debut book could be described as Lovejoy meets Tales from the City with sequins. It’s about how the two worlds of a rural Suffolk annual drag queen competition and an ailing drag club in San Francisco collide. Anyone who can describe a character as ‘pure Ivy League from the neck up and pure unrestrained Liberace from the neck down’ is alright with me. They cannot be more welcoming or fun, and I will be returning.
I will need to as I still haven’t finished the first three chapters of my book…..