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.

164. September in the Pays Basque

2nd September 2011. Four years ago to the day, we were unwinding in the gîte after the long trek down to the Pays Basque in our rented van. It felt strange to be actually realising our dream of moving here - something we'd long dreamed of doing. Can't believe it was four years ago.. the time has just gone like whooosh.. Can't believe it..

September is probably the best time of the year to visit this beautiful corner of France.. The main summer tourist invasion has come and gone and the storms of August are usually followed by a couple of months of settled weather - often in the mid 20s - which is just nigh on perfect weather for sightseeing.

I found this photo the other day of La Rhune in the mist. It's an image that captivated us from the very beginning.

Thought for the day: "If you see a French driver using his indicators on a roundabout, you're looking at someone who is wondering why his windscreen wipers aren't working.."

3rd September 2011. Four years ago today I was returning the rented van back to England. I remember leaving the gîte at 7am and setting off northwards and, after a long 1400km (870 miles) drive, I arrived back at our village to the west of Malvern at 11pm. To be honest, I wasn't tired - and being alone I could concentrate on the driving, stopping only when essential. Not something I want to make a habit of though.

14 km on a very wet morning down on the river - (Running total: 957km). It rained from start to finish but it was warm rain and it kept us cool.. (said he - desperately trying to think of the positives!) and I returned home at the end of it like a drowned rat.

4th September 2011. The sun has just risen above the buildings opposite and everything is bathed in a warm yellow light. It looks like we're all set for a good day. Our friends from Nantes arrived yesterday and this morning we'll take them to the Musée Basque here in Bayonne and then this afternoon we'll go for a bumble around Lac Mouriscot (left) at Biarritz. It always surprises me how few people we meet walking around the lake - even at the height of the season - but I'm not complaining.

There are some very desirable properties that front onto the lake here - tucked discreetly into the trees.

Yesterday the boulevards around Bayonne echoed to the musical howl of multiple Ferraris as the local Ferrari owners club staged their annual open day at the Place de Basques. A small crowd was salivating over the display of around a dozen of Maranello's finest - all but one in the famous Ferrari blood red. Even stationary, they exuded speed, menace and yes, money.. lots of it.

6th September 2011. We went to Pasajes San Juan (map here) in Spain this morning.. It lies just to the east of San Sebastian and it has one of the best natural harbours I've seen. 

Pasajes San Juan

What was an old fishing village has been transformed into a modern port but the old village is still extremely quaint and charming. We found a fish restaurant (Casa Camara) which opened for lunch at the Spanish time of 1.30pm.. & people were still coming in for lunch at 3pm. Madame had merlu (hake) à la plancha and I had langostinos in garlic butter (gambas à l'ail) with a bottle of Portuguese Vinho Verde which was very refreshing. My langostinos were about the size of a baby's arm!

The dining room looked out on the narrow channel that led to the open sea.

Live lobster were kept in this cage which was raised up from the sea underneath the dining room so they were kept fresh.

Definitely somewhere to try again.. More photos here. Seafood heaven.

A number of small boats act as ferries between the two banks. (Apologies in advance for the music/noise) The restaurant we tried is featured at 1:37..

Tight fit!

 

163. Comment Faire La Bise pour les Nuls

22nd August 2011. Just the other day it struck me that I've been remiss in neglecting to write about the subject of today's post. As the saying has it, I'd been ignoring the "elephant in the room". I'm referring of course to the widespread social practice in France of kissing family, friends and acquaintances. Growing up in England, I was aware that us Rosbifs (and other Anglo Saxons) were considered cold and reserved by our more excitable and more tactile Latin neighbours.

Cold and reserved..? Us..? Never! OK, in the 50s, 60s and 70s, we didn't go in for much in the way of Public Displays of Affection (known in social code as PDA) - such as kissing, hugging or even handshaking - we just said hello and got on with it. Madame once asked me when my father stopped kissing me. I'm not sure exactly when that would have been but I think it would probably have been around when I was 10 or thereabouts - but I never had the sense as a child that I was being deprived of affection in any way - it's just that affection there was expressed in different ways. Nowadays, the pendulum has swung the other way and we've all become visibly far more demonstrative. I think the switch to more overt displays of affection started sometime in the 80s.

Mitterand and Kohl on their first date..

The rot started to set in with this completely ridiculous picture of two grown men holding hands.. who also just happened to be the French president and the West German chancellor. Someone should have told them..

No tongues please

People suddenly started kissing each other. Women kissed men. Men kissed women. Women kissed women. However, men sensibly drew the line at kissing each other, apart from in Eastern Europe where we had to accustom ourselves - often during mealtimes - to the sight of Leonid Brezhnev and Erich Honecker (above) getting down and dirty. I always used to shout at the TV, "Erich! He won't write - they're all the same..!"

It became a ritual for the TV news to show excited schoolchildren (mainly girls I have to say!) hugging each other and squealing with delight at the results of their summer exams. Politicians weren't slow in getting in on the act either. The sight of politicians hugging each other with the obligatory single or double pat on the back quickly became the norm and is now a familiar staple of the news. Clinton has much to answer for!

In France, it's usual to faire la bise with friends and acquaintances. This kissing is purely meant as a social ice-breaker - and nothing else should be understood or implied from it. In my experence it works very well. At the rowing club for example, the first few minutes are taken up with multiple bisous for the nenettes and handshakes for the mecs. The process does seem to unite us all in some kind of subliminal way. By the way, it's not good form to faire la bise whilst wearing ordinary specs or sunglasses - they should be removed prior to swooping in - otherwise you run the risk of getting tangled up in earrings or the kissee's specs. There's a lot to be said for being approached by an attractive woman presenting herself expecting to be kissed (there I go again!). I think many Brits find this awkward - possibly due to their traditional non-tactile background - and they find it hard to distinguish between social kissing and kissing of a more intimate nature.

Physical contact is something we just weren't used to. For example, I once worked in an multinational organisation overseas with a dozen or so different nationalities (European and N American). One of my bosses was Italian and one day while walking down a long corridor there he linked arms with me..! I wasn't ready for that one (not sure if I'm ready now!) And it was all I could when talking to the southern Europeans not to noticeably flinch if they put a friendly hand on my forearm to emphasise a point. I think I have relaxed more now though with this aspect of life. This reluctance to engage in physical contact (of a social kind) in England would often manifest itself in the way some women there would present themselves for a bise - they would turn their face away almost to the point where their chins would be over their shoulder thus closing the door firmly to any attempt at a cheap freebie! I suspect that this was as a result of too many male Brits overstepping the mark perhaps and taking advantage..  

Kissing for Dummies

So, what's the approved method? Here's my guide: Comment Faire La Bise pour les Nuls (How to kiss for Dummies). It goes without saying that if you are going to enter someone's personal space for a bise then you should be clean, stubble-free and fresh mouthed. Next, either lean forward for a hands-free encounter or place your hands lightly on her upper arms making it clear which side you intend to deliver the first bise on. Now zoom in for a bise on their left cheek first and before swapping sides to finish with a flourish on their right cheek. The actual impact area should be well away from the kissee's mouth.

The bise can be delivered with either no mouth-to-cheek contact (rarely seen here) or with the very side of the mouth - but never a full-on drain unblocker..! At no point do I ever utter a low moan of pleasure (although I might think it..!) (joke!) or worse, much worse, an air kiss accompanied by a "Mwaah!" This - the absolute naffest of audible accompaniments - personally makes me want to heave and is to be avoided at all costs. It became quite prevalent in England in latter years as we slowly adopted some of our European neighbours' conventions - or our version thereof! I'm told that in England men will sometimes get their targeting solution wrong and end up with a 'accidental' lip-to-lip contact. Any self-respecting gentleman would avoid a cheap attempt at a freebie like this at all costs.. unless it was really worth it! ☺ and even then never!

The next question is how many.. In England, the single peck on the cheek is probably the most common version and is the safest. Two is enough to get your card marked as a lounge lizard.. I've never experienced more than two bises in England. 

Cross the Channel, however, and it's a different story - the absolute minimum is two. I think many would be insulted if a single bise was all that was on offer. While two seems to be the acceptable number here in the south west, I know that in Paris that four - yes, you heard, four - is the going rate! Taking your leave from a dinner party at the end of the evening can and does take some time. 

As an example of British (Scottish) reticence when it comes to physical contact, here's a clip from only a couple of years ago of President Barack Obama and the then Prime Minister Gordon Brown entering 10 Downing Street.

    

You have to ask yourself - why couldn't Brown just shake the policeman's hand in the same relaxed manner as Obama did? How uptight can you be..? As Madame once observed about someone: "If you put 3 olives between the cheeks of his a**, you'd get a litre of oil..!" (One of her classics!)

Another of those songs that I've always liked. It popped up the other day on the radio and I made a mental note to try and remember to download it..
27th August 2011. Nice outing this morning in a mixed VIII - did 14km (including an unforecast drenching). Running total 943km).

28th August 2011. Made a dirty dart across the border into Spain this morning to top up with some vital supplies (Ricard, whisky, sangria and diesel). Diesel in Spain is presently 1.22€/litre - which works out at £1.08/litre or $6.68/US gallon. Now, I don't want to hear a squeak from any Americans please!

30th August 2011. Time to finish up this post with some great old tracks from Dire Straits and a couple from Pink Floyd.. The first one from Dire Straits has a real Cajun feel to it: