251. Another day, another euro..

30th January. I've mentioned before somewhere here that the French habitually abbreviate words and expressions. McDonalds becomes McDo (pronounced McDough), "l'actualité" (TV News) becomes "l'actu", ordinateur (computer) => ordi and Sécurité Sociale => Sécu are commonly heard examples. Through force of habit, I invariably say "Merci" when leaving a shop and this often triggers the reply, "Non, c'est moi qui vous remercie" (No, it's I who should thank you). The other day I received the abbreviated version of this.. I said "Merci" and the shopkeeper replied, "C'est moi..". If I hadn't heard the longer version before I'd've been wondering what this meant.

28th January. Next weekend sees the opening of the NatWest 6 Nations Rugby Tournament. Here's the fixture list. I've said it before but to me it's the highlight of the sporting calendar. Forget Wimbledon, the Indy 500, the Americas Cup, the UEFA Champions League, the Ryder Cup, the Superbowl, Strictly Come Dancing (!), whatever - all pale into insignificance compared to this.  

There's a recurring theme that runs through life down here - and it's one that's very welcome. 

When we used to make our greatly-anticipated trek to the Pays Basque every summer, we'd stay at the same little hotel/restaurant at Ascain, where we were treated like family. It wasn't long before I would regularly be offered a complimentary digestif - usually a generous glass of Marc d'Irouléguy (strong enough to fire a Buick into a low earth orbit) - with my after dinner coffee. Curiously, I never had any problem getting off to sleep there.

And, as we left on our last day, the owner would always tuck a bottle of wine under my arm  saying, "Think of us when you drink this.."  

The waitress at our favourite seafood restaurant in Socoa now offers us an apéro on the house each time we go there. 

Then I mentioned a few weeks/months ago about the lady in the wine shop in Bayonne who gave me a miniature of "Bastille", a new French single malt whisky (right), to try.. 

Then the other day when I'd been dispatched into town to pick up some boudins blancs from Montauzer, I found myself in line behind a young lady who, in between making her mind up in a long and complicated order, was being questioned by the assistant - as to where she was from etc etc. It turned out she was from mainland China, and she'd been working in Versailles for a year. She spoke French well too.. (oops, I thought!) While her order was being made up, my eyes ranged over all the mouthwatering products on display. Foie gras - mi-cuit (half-cooked) or sealed in jars, terrines, rillettes, all kinds of sausage including the truffled boudins blancs I was after.. either fresh or 4 in a vacuum pack. After the girl left, the assistant said to me that all kinds of nationalities came in the shop. Her ears pricked up during my response and then she was away again with "how long had I lived there?", plus a word or two of praise for my French (always welcome!). What gave away my nationality was me saying "OK" (instead of d'accord). Anyway, to cut to the chase, after buying the boudins, she asked me what I thought of jambon Ibaïama (right). I found out later that this was the ne plus ultra of Bayonne hams. When I admitted to not knowing what it was, she took a leg of ham to the slicing machine and ran me off a slice. This she wrapped up in silver paper and gave it to me. (It costs 56€ a kilo by the way!) They're a generous people down here.

27th January. "One of those things" Department! I woke up this morning thinking about the high-flown language used to attempt to describe the taste of wine. (Don't ask me why) We've all read those columns in newspapers where the journalist strings together a list of various carefully chosen oddities (a dusty drawer, pencil shavings, liquorice, woodsmoke, boat varnish etc etc) in trying to capture in print something so ephemeral and transient as the taste or a flavour (wrong word maybe) of a glass of wine.

The problem is that the printed word enters the brain through the eyes - whereas the taste is captured instantly via the tongue and the nose. It's then correlated with our mental taste memories*. Tasting can't be done in print. It can't. For example, take an everyday object such as a carrot and attempt to describe the essence of its taste - in words. Very quickly, you'll realise that you're wasting your time. All the writing in the world can't describe the taste of even a boiled potato. What chance then has the wine writer got in trying to describe the subtleties of a glass of wine? There's only one way - it has to be tasted. Form a queue please!

I once heard a memorable expression that someone used to describe a sublime taste - he said, "C'est comme un ange qui pisse sur la langue..". Probably not a good idea to use that one when the vicar's there.. A more polite expression was "That has the taste of not enough!".

* In my view, our memories work best for visual images and sounds - and less well for tastes.

We've just had the last of Monsieur Montauzer's justifiably famed truffled boudins blancs, (no other will do) accompanied by sauté'd apple slices.. For reasons that escape me, he only makes them over the festive period and that is rapidly drawing to a close. And bearing in mind what I've just written in the paragraph above, I won't attempt to describe the taste!   

26th January. Sighs of relief all around.. Nutty's having his stitches out this afternoon (slightly sooner than anticipated) and so we can all wave goodbye to the plastic conical collar he's been wearing for a week. I know it's been annoying him - and it's certainly been shredding our nerves as he's banged his way around the house. So, it's back to business as usual this afternoon. Phew! By the way, the rain is still with us. I escaped a soaking by a matter of minutes when I took him out this morning. And the e-bikes are still locked away in the garage!

The association I work with had a monthly committee meeting two days ago at Biriatou, situated right on the Spanish border. (The Comet Line was a WWII network set up to help shot-down Allied airmen to return to England.) As luck would have it, we had sun and blue skies for once - we soon forgot the grey skies and rain of the past month and it reminded us what a beautiful part of the world this is.

I arrived in good time as I wanted to re-visit the memorial site (right) we had inaugurated in April 2016 for two wartime evaders who, tragically, were drowned while attempting to cross from occupied France into Francoist Spain. They were part of a ten-strong group who arrived on the banks of the Bidassoa, in flood, at 1am during the night of 23/24 December 1943. They would have been hot and tired after their 4 hour hike over the Pyrenees and during an ill-advised attempt to cross the Bidassoa, two evaders were swept away in its fast-running cold waters.

There had been a memorial to one of the evaders - Count Antoine d'Ursel - at the riverside for many years. The photo (left) shows the memorial being installed on the steep river bank in 1960. However, in recent years, its foundation started to crumble, plus it was barely visible. In researching the history of that night in 1943, I became aware that no memorial had ever been provided for the other evader, 2nd Lt James F Burch, a USAAF B-17 pilot - and so we decided to rectify that. (Jim Burch was the only aviator to lose his life while in Comet's charge). It was decided to move the Count's memorial to a new site where it would be co-located with that for Jim Burch.

We selected a suitable location for the new combined memorial site and a team from the Town Hall at Biriatou cleared the ground and did all the hard work of moving the Count's memorial to it. As it weighed some 300kg, this was no mean feat.

I always find it to be a moving experience when I visit the site and it was no different on Wednesday. I'm always struck by the stillness, the tangible poignancy and the air of peace there. I had another committee member with me - a Basque - whose father had been a wartime Comet guide in the mountains, helping some 130-140 Allied aircrew to escape to freedom. He remarked on the atmosphere there too. It's a special place - and it's situated in the patch of green at the centre of this link. If you wish to experience the slightly precarious 4km drive back to Biriatou, turn right at the above link and follow your nose. This is a photo-montage I put together that tells the story:

22nd January. At this time of the year, with Burns Night (25th January) fast approaching, I find that my thoughts turn unbidden to visions of a hot steaming haggis (right).. served with tatties and neeps - and accompanied by a dram or two - never wine. One memorable Burns Night saw me drinking whisky before, during and after the meal - and, apart from me trying to take my trousers off over my head at bedtime, I suffered no lasting ill effects - my head was as clear as a bell the following day. (Realism check: I doubt that I could do that now - even if I wanted to!)

Madame shares my fondness for the haggis and so the other day I thought I'd see if I could find someone online willing to supply me with one. I found the very thing - until I asked what the postage here would be. The haggis itself would cost around £7-8 but the crippler was yet to come - they wanted £29 (and change) to post one from Scotland to here. If you haven't ever experienced a Burns Night, they are memorable occasions.. and having been to one, you'll be wanting to attend another. 

There's a classic chauvinistic French joke &bout the haggis:

A Frenchman, a lover of good food, was invited to a Burns supper by a Scottish family, and at the end  of the meal, the hostess - in search of compliments from a Frenchman – asked him what he thought of the "haggis".

The Frenchman, pushed to the limit, replied: "When I saw it arrive on the table, excuse me, but I thought it was sh1t (let's call a spade a spade).. But - once I had tasted it, my only regret was that it was not"..

And this from a nation that eats andouillette.. (if you're ever offered it, think about saying no.. unless you're feeling very brave.. and have no sense of smell)

While Nutty and I were at the vet's the other day, he sat himself on the scales there in the waiting room. He now weighs in at a healthy 14.2kg (31lbs) - and all of that is muscle and bone.. He's an enthusiastic eater but he doesn't restrict himself to the all-in-one biscuits that he devours twice a day. Oh no, he actively searches out food wherever he can. Out in the street, he becomes a canine vacuum cleaner - he's lightning-quick to spot discarded paper handkerchiefs (don't ask me how I remove them from his mouth - ugh!) while chewing gum is another favourite. The Christmas tree briefly attracted his attention but since that disappeared, he's discovered new avenues of pleasure! There's a wicker laundry basket upstairs and it appears he's found how to dislodge the lid.. as he was caught late in the act of destroying one of Madame's soutien-gorges the other day. The chairs in the dining room have some tie-on cushions and - yes, you've guessed it - these too were nibbled. Shoes cannot be left at ground level.. they have to be hidden. A Persian rug in the study had one of its corners "rounded off" by him. He's also discovered that, if he stands on his hind legs, he can reach the kitchen worktop.. Then there's the garden. Shrubs, flowers, pot plants et al have all been tried. All of this has taught us that we have to 'up our game' to try and stay one step ahead of him by removing all potential food sources from his reach. And so it goes..
    
To take (y)our minds off the wintry weather, here's a reminder of some of the delights to be found here in the Pays Basque..

"Ostalapia"

We've been to "Ostalapia" a few times - it's an uber-stylish restaurant with great food, and while we've always enjoyed ourselves there, my one reservation about it is that it's out in the middle of the countryside. Not "in the middle of nowhere" but perhaps closer to the middle of nowhere than you'd want to be. After your meal there, it's a case of jumping back into the car because that's it! There are no cafés nearby for a late night coffee or whatever. The plus side of its location is that it's off the well-trodden tourist trail.. Out of season, it's perfect - however, it attracts a very different clientele during the peak 2 months of the summer season. The first time we visited it was during one summer and I must admit that we were put off a little by the rows of flashy cars outside (mostly from Paris & Bordeaux) and by the sound inside of a roomful of exuberantly bronzed, blinged-up, perfumed and expensively attired beautiful people all talking (with no-one listening) at the same time. It all depends on what you prefer. Anyway, see if Julie (below) can change your mind:
Here's another of Julie's programmes on the Pays Basque.

21st January. Still waiting for a suitable break in the weather so we can take the e-bikes out without getting soaked. I was down at the beach yesterday with the dog and there was a mighty wind from the south-west blowing in. It was cold too.. (OK, not cold as in Nebraska - but nevertheless..!) The pooch is sporting one of those conical collars at the moment. He'd gone to the vets on Friday to have a small growth (nothing serious) removed from under an eye. The house is now echoing to the sounds of crash-bang-wallop as he negotiates his way past doors and furniture. It has to stay on till the end of the month while the stitches heal.   

Peter Mayle 1939-2018

19th January. Farewell, Peter Mayle. I was saddened to read of his demise in the news this morning. He famously "discovered" the Luberon and wrote very amusingly about his experiences there, and in doing so, I think he inspired many baby boomers to follow suit. It's no secret that some/many (delete as required) Brits have a love/hate relationship with France, born out of centuries of mutual distrust. Peter Mayle committed the ultimate sin for a Brit - he actually admitted to preferring life in his beloved Provence to that of his home country. For many Brits, this was unforgivable.. Yes, France is a nice place to visit for holidays but to live there?! Good Lord no.. How many times have you heard someone express the view that "France would be OK if it wasn't for the French.."*. As a result, his books often took a hammering from certain critics who, in my view, were greatly displeased by his having opened up and popularised "their" Provence with the middle classes - and worse.

* What they choose to forget is that France didn't spring up fully-formed from the primeval ooze - it grew into the country we all love today thanks to the tireless work of countless generations of Frenchmen and -women who went before us. You can't have one without the other - and I for one would hate to see France transformed into Bournemouth with sunshine.. From my experience of living here for 10 years, I simply don't recognise the tired old stereotypes of the grumpy restaurant owner or the surly waiter beloved of the English tabloids.    

If you're unfamiliar with his work, I would recommend that you read the opening chapter of his book, "Bon Appetit! Travels with knife, fork & corkscrew through France.". I think this brief encounter with France when he was a young man marked the beginning of his life-long love affair with France. I had a similar Damascene conversion when I had my first rare steak-frites at the age of 18 - I wrote about it here. He and I were of fairly adjacent generations and his observations of post-war English food are spot-on in my view. He was clearly a contented man.. as evidenced in this interview.

I once sat at an adjoining table in a restaurant to an English family on holiday here years ago. On examining her plate (in the manner of a forensic pathologist), one of the ladies exclaimed, "It's not quite what we're used to, is it?" I silently despaired. Isn't that one of the points of foreign travel? To experience and enjoy different sights and sounds, tastes and experiences? I'd better stop here before I say too much!☺  

RIP Peter and thank you.               

14th January. In case either of my global readership (you know who you are!) imagines that life down here is one merry round of lotus-eating, interspersed only with the quaffing of fine food and wine, all taking place under rustling palms in a sub-tropical climate, then watch this - this was Biarritz on New Year's Day:
     We're still seeing the tail end of these winter storms - I think we've only had a couple of dry days since Christmas.

galette des rois
à la frangipane 

couronne des rois

It's traditional at this time of the year here in France to eat either a galette des rois à la frangipane or a couronne des rois. (it's all explained here) At Pipérade Towers we'll be having both this afternoon as we've invited our next door neighbour over. She's well into her 90s and lives alone but she's very active. Madame had ordered a couple from a pâtisserie (right) in an arcade in the centre of town and I was 'volunteered' to pick them up. On arriving, I was surprised to see that, despite the pouring rain, there was a sizeable queue that stretched out of the shop onto the pavement (fortunately under cover). I think I was about 12th in line and I settled down for a long wait - but many people had put orders in and the gift-wrapped galettes were soon flying out of the door!    

11th January. This song by David McWilliams popped up on the radio today.. He appeared from nowhere - made this record (which was played to death on pirate radio Radio Caroline in 1967) and promptly disappeared again.

        

There was a banner headline over an article in today's left-leaning Guardian newspaper: "Number of Britons applying for French citizenship rises tenfold in three years". On the face of it, this "disclosure" would appear to imply that hordes of expat Brits in France are thus validating the newspaper's anti-Brexit stance. This is nonsense.

In googling the background to this "story", it was a simple matter to establish that this was - in the immortal words of the current US president - fake news. While I’ve not been able to find an accurate figure for the number of expat Brits resident in France in 2017, according to a French Wiki site there could be around 400,000 of us here. (although this seems a high figure to me) According to Le Figaro, some 3173 of them applied for French nationality in that same year. That’s only about 0.8% of them. Doesn’t seem quite so big now does it?! It's hardly a tsunami..

If the expat Brit population would be nearer 200,000 (a figure I’d be happier with), the number applying would still only represent 1.6% of us. In other words, the number of Brits applying for French nationality would rise from the statistically invisible to the infinitesmal. These are negligible percentages and hardly the basis for the Guardian's shock horror report.. Imagine the impact if the story was reversed.. 99% of all Brit expats in France have no intention of seeking French nationality? (Note to The Guardian: must try harder!)

9th January. I've been hors de combat these last few days due to a seasonal flu-like cold - which means I've been exploring every combination of sneezing, wheezing, coughing, blowing and spluttering known to mankind (bearing in mind that man pain is that much worse than any other kind!☺). It's kept me indoors more or less since the turn of the year - which was probably no bad thing as we've experienced some very wet and stormy weather recently. Closing the upstairs shutters during a wet and windy night had its moments!

2nd January. I'm only 3 years behind..! The making of "Happy" videos mushroomed on a global scale 3 years ago.. see here.

1st January 2018. Good morning to all.. I hope you're feeling fine after last night. First of all, whoever and wherever you are, Happy New Year from the Pays Basque. 

Here's something I found to kick the year off in style..  If it hasn't already, I think this will catch on with Generation X or Snowflake kids or whatever those of the millennial generation are called.. see what you think:

(Other versions here of Happy in Bayonne / Biarritz / Pays Basque / Anglet / BAB2*).
* BAB2 = a large commercial shopping centre here.

We're off to our favourite seaside restaurant for lunch.. for some fresh fish and some crisp white wine.. what more do you want? ☺

(Added later: our waitress told us that their last customer left at 8.30am on New Year's Day..!)

229. Up in the clouds

28th March. I came across this image (as you do) by happenstance.. I like to think of it as natural justice in action..

"Right, gentlemen, which one of you was clapping?"

I have little sympathy (as in absolutely zero) with anyone finding themselves in this position!

This afternoon we went to Salies-de-Béarn to see Art en Vrac - an art exhibition that was taking place in many different locations across the village. This has the look of a village that was designed to be painted by generations of artists:

Before talking about the art, it should be said that the village is undeniably picturesque and well worth a visit.. Totally different style of building compared to what we see in the Pays Basque.

To me, there was one stand-out artist -  NabARus (it's how she spells her name) - whose work was not only head and shoulders above any other work we saw today but also above anything we've seen for a very long time. The range of her work reflected an original eye, an astonishingly creative mind and a command of colour and technique. 

This (below) was a large portrait that caught my eye.. I found myself returning to it again and again.. Reduced to this size, it loses much impact but full size is a different story.

This is a painting I would have liked to own. (Edited to add: 5 years or so later, I contacted the artist and I'm now the proud owner of this work)

27th March. Europe's gypsies have an annual pilgrimage (in May) to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer in the Camargue in southern France to pay homage to their Saint - the Black Sara.. This video features that great gypsy guitarist (and violinist) Dorado Schmitt as he and his friends provide the musical accompaniment (I think I've posted this here before - but I make no apologies for doing so again).

First though, warm up with "Bossa Dorado"..

The video from the south of France is in 3 parts - the opening part where they play in a small chapel, then the outdoor ceremony (at 2:50) - and then the jam session round the table (at 3:35) after a good lunch!
Here's Ry Cooder and Manuel Galbán with their interpretation of an old 60s hit..

This was Easter morning at the beach at Anglet.. By the way, these aren't Antony Gormley figures made of cast iron on the beach - they're the real thing!

26th March. I believe "Across the Street and into the Grill" won 1st prize in a competition to write the best Hemingway parody. See what you think..! Some more: "Big Too-Hardened Liver".. "Across the suburbs and into the express lane"..

20th March. When I see these images of the old tramway that ran the 6 km from Bayonne to Biarritz via Anglet, it's hard to imagine that these structures actually existed. There are very few traces of them left today.

Here's a video about Biarritz I've been meaning to put here for a while..

15th March. I spent Sunday with a mixed group of walkers from both sides of the frontier in the Baztan valley* retracing a route used by evading Allied airmen during WWII as they made their way across the Pyrenees into Francoist Spain for onward passage to Gibraltar and then England. 

* we were fortunate to have Georgina Howard with us. In addition to running walking holidays in the area, she's a polyglot - speaking English, French, Spanish and Basque!

Several of the Spanish walkers had family ties with the Comet Line's wartime guides and it was clear that there was much common ground between us. Basque speakers from both parties were soon swapping notes. 

I've walked other routes like this several times before but this was one of the hardest I've experienced. It wasn't helped by the rain-soaked ground that caught some of us out (not me) with slips into water-filled boggy areas - I needed a soggy foot like the proverbial hole in the head. 

We dropped our cars at Amaiur-Maya then took 2 minibuses to the vicinity of the former safe house at Jauriko borda from where we'd start the walk proper. Jauriko borda was a 'safe' farm that lay just inside Spain and it had been used many times by airmen. They'd rest up here after their gruelling night hike that had threaded them through the numerous border patrols, guided by mountain guides in the service of the Comet Line. 

After an hour or two, we came upon a clear area on a hilltop to find a Spanish 4x4 there with a small team preparing an alfresco Spanish-style breakfast for us.. spicy sausages, ham and fresh bread, with cider and/or red wine! (breaking the habits of a lifetime, I stuck to water) This was followed by brioche and coffee.. This surprise meal really hit the spot and gave us the time to talk more with our Spanish Basque hosts.    

Refreshed and replete, we set off again and, for some of us (viz your correspondent), the pain kicked in.. However, loins were girded, teeth were gritted and aches and pains ignored as we traversed some of the most stunning scenery in this part of the world. Wild cattle and horses were in evidence and mountain oak clung on to the hills as we climbed higher and higher until we reached the snow line. Soon it was time to descend again which unfortunately turned out to be just as painful as climbing.. 

This farm Kanttoreneko Borda, that now appears derelict, was used as a 'safe' hiding place in Spain by Comet: 

Finally, after 13km, we arrived back at Amaiur-Maya, the picture postcard Basque village where we'd left our cars 6 hours previously. After changing our mud-splattered walking shoes, we entered a restored mill where the promise of a cold beer awaited us. We were served thin corn flour pancakes filled with cheese and bacon.. and, later, others with dark chocolate. (video here)

The whole was a totally beguiling experience and I'll be returning there with Madame before too long.  

I managed to catch the second half of the Scotland - France 6 Nations rugby (well done Scotland!) and then after a bowl of soup, I hit the hay at 8pm.. Instant oblivion.. zzzzz-zzz

223. Memorial for 2nd Lt James F Burch, USAAF

I've mentioned my interest in and involvement with a local association "Les amis du réseau Comète" ("The Friends of the Comet Line") in earlier posts here. The Comet Line was a network set up during WWII by Andrée De Jongh, a 24 year old Belgian woman, with the aim of enabling Allied aircrew who had been shot down in northern France and the Low Countries to be repatriated back to Britain from Gibraltar. This laudable aim was achieved via a thread of courageous volunteer helpers that stretched from Brussels, Paris, the Pays Basque and on into Francoist Spain. The history of Comète contains many individual stories of heroism, courage and adventure by innumerable brave souls - both civil and military. These shining examples of 'grace under pressure' were counterbalanced by many unspeakably brutal acts by an enemy whose savage deeds were a barbaric throwback to medieval times. Several books have been written on the subject and there are also many personal accounts available online. During the course of the annual commemorative weekend, "Les amis" retrace the old wartime routes over the Pyrenees. Before other inland routes were pioneered, the original route taken by the Comète guides and the evaders led from Ciboure (close to Saint-Jean-de-Luz) up into the mountains before descending to cross the Bidassoa, the river that marks the frontier between France and Spain. After crossing the river, the evaders would make their way to a safe farm where they would be fed before taking a well-deserved rest. During the course of reading the accounts of these crossings (one of which is Peter Eisner's excellent "The Freedom Line"), I became aware that two men were tragically drowned during their attempt to ford the wintry Bidassoa during the night of 23-24th December 1943.  2nd Lt James F Burch, USAAF (taken on 6 Oct 43, 4 days  before being shot down)  Count Antoine d'Ursel One was Count Antoine d'Ursel, a Belgian civilian who had formerly been the head of Comète in Belgium. The other was 2nd Lt James Frederick Burch, USAAF, a 27 year old co-pilot from Terrell, Texas, who had been shot down in his B-17F over Holland on 10th October 1943. Trying to ascertain the facts of this tragedy with any degree of reasonable certainty at this remove (70 years after the event), at a time when little or nothing was committed to paper (for obvious reasons), is made more than usually difficult by the circumstances of that night. 'After action' reports were written - but given the darkness, the language difficulties, that the river was in flood, the fact that the evaders came under fire from the Spanish side, the fear, the stress and the fatigue, it is not surprising that the accounts differ in the detail. Both the bodies were swept away and were recovered by the Germans but their final resting place remains unknown to this day..  Count d'Ursel's widow later caused a memorial (right) to her husband to be erected on the banks of the Bidassoa and, as an example of how we can sometimes be blind to the obvious, I didn't think to question initially why there was no memorial to Jim Burch. It was only after reading more into the events of that night that caused me to ask myself "Why no memorial to Jim?". The reality was that Jim's widow was told only that he'd disappeared while crossing from France into Spain. She had no names of those involved, no location - and worst of all, no body to bury. While those who survived the crossing were sworn to secrecy, one of the survivors (2nd Lt Lloyd Stanford, USAAF) did visit Jim's widow - Mrs Olga Burch - on his return to the US and told her what he knew. I put this short video together to shed some light on what happened that night - best viewed in full screen: We, in "Les Amis..", decided that even 70 years on, that Jim's sacrifice and his passing merited a memorial so that future generations may be prompted to ask who, what and why. Accordingly, we started a project to provide a memorial on the river bank to Jim Burch, the only aviator to lose his life while in Comète's hands. We found a stonemason who furnished us with a granite memorial stone, engraved a suitable inscription and set it up at the riverside. We launched an appeal for donations to finance this project.  On behalf of the committee of the "The Friends of the Comet network" - our heartfelt thanks to all those who donated so generously for this worthy cause.. I will post news of the project here as and when it happens. 31st May 3016. Edited to add: thanks to many generous donations we hit our target inside 2 months. We inaugurated the 2 memorials at a new location during a moving ceremony held on the banks of the Bidassoa on 16th April 2016..

165. 70th anniversary of the Comet Line in the Pays Basque

13th September 2011. This last weekend has flown by - it was the 70th Anniversary of the Comet Line - the noted WWII escape network founded not long after Dunkirk by Andrée De Jongh, a 24 year old Belgian girl. There are many links in the left hand column on this blog to Andrée De Jongh, the Comet Line, Florentino Goicoechea and the Villa Voisin if you'd like to know more about this most noble and inspirational of stories. This map shows the Comet's main operating locations in the Pays Basque.

This year saw the 70th anniversary of the first British escaper to make it safely through and back to the UK. The weekend started off with the laying of a wreath at the War Memorial at St Jean de Luz (left) by Andrée Dumont OBE, aka "Nadine" - a brave and charismatic wartime helper whose sprightly appearance belies her years, ably assisted here by Roger Stanton of ELMS.

Even though she'd spent 2 long years in prisons and concentration camps (including the infamous Mauthausen) when asked if she'd do it again, she replied firmly and without hesitation - yes. I introduced her to the three serving RAF officers present and she held her thumb and index finger out about an inch apart and said, "Comet.." She then extended her arm high above her head and said, "The RAF.." Unfailingly modest and humble to a fault, I have the utmost admiration for her and others like her who were prepared to give their all in that dark chapter of European history. Comet is the story of the best and the worst of humanity.

Allan Cowan 

We then adjourned to the nearby Town Hall of Saint-Jean-de-Luz (right) where we were warmly received by the deputy mayor. He welcomed us to the Pays Basque and Saint-Jean-de-Luz in a short speech before inviting us to share some cold rosé with him. As this was only my second "Comet" weekend, I took the opportunity to listen to as many people as I could. There were as many different stories in the room as there were those attending. For example, Allan Cowan (above left),  who crossed the mountains in the second group in October '41, was represented, as last year, by his charming daughter Marie while the Greaves family - a brother and 2 sisters - had travelled over from New York the day before. Their father had been arrested at Bidegain Berri farm with Dédée in January 1943.  Another was a reader* of this blog whose father had managed successfully to return to the UK. So many stories.
(* N - I have some photos for you - let me know your email address via the comments section - I won't publish it)

After the vin d'honneur we were free for lunch so I drove the three RAF participants out to Ascain, the best of all Basque villages in my opinion. Following a very pleasant relaxed lunch we then drove north to Bayonne to the cemetery where we met up with everyone else again at the Dassié family grave (left). In a short but moving ceremony we honoured the memory of his parents. Jean Dassié was just 7 years old when both his parents and 'Lulu', his elder sister, were taken away. He never saw his father again. His mother survived the end of the war by only 2 years as a result of the treatment she'd received at Ravensbruck. Thankfully, 'Lulu' survived and was present during the weekend. 

Villa Voisin, Anglet

From the cemetery it was but a short journey to the Villa Voisin, the legendary nerve centre of the Comet Line in the Pays Basque. The house had been occupied by the De Greef family - Belgian refugees from the German invasion - and they were to make an immense contribution to Comet activities in the south west. An untrained civilian, Elvire De Greef managed to outwit the professionals of the German RSHA (including the Sicherheitsdienst (SD) and the infamous Gestapo) throughout the war. Amazingly, they were never able to catch her. Today, the Villa Voisin is an anonymous grey house that offers up no clue as to the dangerous nature of its activities all those years ago. We stood outside this unlived-in house with its closed shutters and wondered at the daring and courage of those who had lived here during that dark period of European history.  

From the Villa Voisin, it was another short journey to the War Memorial at Anglet where more wreaths would be laid. This was in the full heat of the afternoon and the old soldiers were standing in the dappled shade of the platanes with their proud bleu-blanc-rouge standards leaning against the trunks. There were a few jutting-jawed ex-paras scattered among them - instantly recognisable, as paras are the world over. The scene brought to mind a painting by Monet.

The mayor of Anglet arrived to do the honours and soon the air was filled with those distinctive sounds of the French military - provided by a couple of rattling drums and a single trumpet. One by one, the civic dignitaries and those of Comète stepped up to leave their floral tributes.

A local Basque choir then sang the "Song of the Partisans" - a song, written in wartime, with a hard unequivocal message - one that leaves no doubt whatsoever as to the feelings of those who wrote it. No Vera Lynn warbling "White Cliffs of Dover" here - the "Song of the Partisans" remains a brutal and unequivocal reminder of the harsh realities of the Occupation. Here's President Sarkozy on the day of his inauguration paying homage to the Résistants - notably Guy Moquet (his letter here) - who fought and died for France, listening to a choir singing "The Song of the Partisans" and looking visibly moved. The English lyrics are underneath.

My friend, do you hear the dark flight of the crows over our plains?

My friend, do you hear the dulled cries of our countries in chains?

Oh, friends, do you hear, workers, farmers, in your ears alarm bells ringing?

Tonight all our tears will be turned to tongues of flame in our blood singing!

Climb up from the mine, out from hiding in the pines, all you comrades,

Take out from the hay all your guns, your munitions and your grenades;

Hey you, assassins, with your bullets and your knives, kill tonight!

Hey you, saboteurs, be careful with your burden, dynamite!

We are the ones who break the jail bars in two for our brothers,

hunger drives, hate pursues, misery binds us to one another.

There are countries where people sleep without a care and lie dreaming.

But here, do you see, we march on, we kill on, we die screaming.

But here, each one knows what he wants, what he does with his choice;

My friend, if you fall, from the shadows on the wall, another steps into your place.

Tomorrow, black blood shall dry out in the sunlight on the streets.

But sing, companions, freedom hears us in the night still so sweet.

My friend, do you hear the dark flight of the crows over our plains?

My friend, do you hear the dulled cries of our countries in chains?

After the "Marseillaise", we walked over to the nearby Anglet Town Hall where speeches from the Mayor and Jean Dassié were followed by another Vin d'Honneur after which we set off in a straggling convoy for the restaurant where we were to have dinner.

Saturday morning saw us meeting up at the cemetery at Ciboure where wreaths were laid at the graves of the great Basque guide Florentino Goicoechea and his friend, the widow Kattalin Aguirre, who housed so many evaders. Set into the hillside, the cemetery is in an idyllic setting overlooking the peaceful bay of Saint-Jean-de-Luz. While I had decided not to attempt the whole two day march this year as my knees are decidedly creaky, I thought I could manage the leg from Ciboure to Urrugne. So it was, after a breakfast in a beach café at Socoa, we all set off for Urrugne, our numbers swelled by several Basque walkers from Spain. We were also joined by 70 young officer cadets from the Royal Military Academy, Belgium and they soon raced off into the distance. They'd selected the inspirational Andrée De Jongh as their 'godmother' for their year. Those who weren't walking were provided with a coach to take them to the next rendezvous at Urrugne.

The route took us through a housing estate before launching off into a narrow track. It was soon clear to me that any thoughts I might have entertained that my knees would allow me to complete the entire 2 day walk were hopelessly wide of the mark. It was with some relief that we entered Urrugne - with the encouragement of the waiting 'Nadine' - and my decision had been made for me.

Ceremony at Urrugne

The Greaves family from New York are pictured (left) honouring the memorial in Urrugne to Frantxia Usandizaga and Juan Manuel Larburu. It was at Frantxia's farmhouse - named 'Bidegain Berri' - where their father was captured along with Dédée. Frantxia and Juan were never to return. The walkers continued on after the ceremony while I stayed behind feeling unhappy with this turn of events, ie, that I was unable to walk even to 'Bidegain Berri'. However, things brightened up considerably when we were invited into a room at the rear of the Tourist Office to find a long table laden with charcuterie, cheese, fruit and wine. Ah, decisions, decisions..!

Meanwhile the walkers were heading for the last stop before the mountains and that was the farm at 'Bidegain Berri'.. Here are the Greaves family again outside the farm where their father had been arrested in January 1943 - a real pilgrimage for them. The beauty of this weekend is that enables descendants of Comet evaders to walk in their fathers' footsteps and experience at first hand what they had gone through - albeit in a world at peace.  

 

'Bidegain Berri'

Now it was a case of bringing on the pain. The temperature was in the low 30s with nil wind and afterwards all the walkers mentioned the relentless heat on the mountain. It all sounded very similar to last year.

Les Trois Couronnes

Meanwhile, after an excellent lunch in good company, us non-walkers made our way by coach around to the disused station of San Miguel on the banks of the Bidassoa river that marks the frontier between France and Spain and waited for the first of the walkers to emerge from the trees on the opposite bank. Here's the indefatigable 'Nadine' (right) welcoming the walkers across the river with a large Belgian flag. The river was quite low and seemingly benign. However, in wartime, it would have been an entirely different proposition wading across this river at night, in its icy waters in winter with Franco-ist guards patrolling ready to open fire. There were no friendly Spanish Basques waiting with cold cider and grilled sardines as today - back then, it was a case of scrambling up the river bank and somehow plodding on to Sarobe farm another 4-5 hours distant.

The young Belgian Army contingent soon had their pup tents set up as they were staying the night in place while we returned to Saint-Jean-de-Luz on Saturday evening. 

Sunday morning at 7.30am (!) saw the walkers deposited back at the same place at San Miguel ready to resume the walk which started with a steady climb straight up.. We - the coach party - left a little later and caught up with the walkers at around 11am when they made a short refuelling stop for some drinks and oranges. Here are the walkers setting off afterwards on the last leg to Sarobe farm. 

Jean Dassié and 'Lulu'

Paco and 'Nadine'

And so, finally, to Sarobe farm. The exhausted and footsore wartime evaders must have been glad to arrive here after their long overnight march from the farm at Urrugne to Sarobe farm in Spain. Today? We received the same warm welcome from Paco and his extended family - and the same nourishing soup, delicious tortilla and robust Rioja red wine that the escapers would have been offered. Paco had been a youngster of 8-9 years old at the time of these great events. The Belgian contingent presented a small plaque which was unveiled by 'Nadine' to commemorate the 70th anniversary.

After Sarobe farm, we travelled to the Petritegi Cidrerie at Astigarraga (highly recommended!). I took the Greaves family into the cider warehouse where they tried filling their glasses from a jet of cider from one of these massive barrels that each contained 15,000 litres. We then sat at long heavy wooden tables and a tsunami of food soon followed - a spicy chorizo sausage, a cod omelette (delicious!), then more cod and then a côte de boeuf between two.. Bottles of Rioja appeared (and disappeared!) as if by magic.  

Towards the end of the meal, over the hubbub of conversation, I heard the odd few lines of song from somewhere and then suddenly a Basque choir launched into glorious song:

They captured the hearts of all with their songs, sung with an obvious passion and enjoyment. All too soon it was time to go and it was over for another year.

What is Andrée De Jongh's legacy to us? Surely, it can only be that her timeless values of leadership by example, courage and self-sacrifice can inspire people of different nationalities to transcend their differences and to unite in common cause. RIP Dédée.