Jumat, 06 Juli 2012

Cap Ferret holidays: Sand dunes, cycle trails and scrummy seafood

Cap Ferret holidays: Sand dunes, cycle trails and scrummy seafood

By Michael Hanlon

PUBLISHED: 11:49 EST, 6 July 2012 | UPDATED: 11:49 EST, 6 July 2012


'We’re off to Cap Ferret...’ ‘Cap Ferrat...on the Med?’ ‘No, Ferret...like the animal â€" classy, old bicycles and shabby chic, Atlantic coast.’

‘Brrrrr.’ ‘Not at all,’ I told my friend. ‘Scented pines and sizzling mile upon mile of crunchy white sand. Sea warmer than you’d think.’

In fact, Cap Ferret may be my favourite place in France.

A view from the top of the Dune du Pilat looking towards Cap Ferret and its pine trees

Beautiful bay: A view from the top of the Dune du Pilat looking towards Cap Ferret and its pine trees

It is extraordinary. It’s a secret, for a start â€" though not from the French. But unlike Brittany, the Dordogne, Provence and the rest, no one from this side of the Channel seems to have heard of this wonderful place.

Cap Ferret is a small sandy peninsula that juts south from the Medoc 30 miles west of Bordeaux, part of the vast sea of sand dunes and pine trees that carpets the coast and hinterland of Aquitaine.

To the east is a lovely bay, Bassin d’Arcachon, all glittering blue water and antique yachts. To the west, a third of a mile across the peninsula is the beach, mile after mile of wave-lashed Cote Atlantique, surfers and skimboarders (the latest retro craze) splashing through some of the cleanest waters in Europe.

A few old Nazi fortifications (covered with graffiti) are tumbling into the Bay of Biscay; there is a  campaign to save them from the waves as they form part â€" albeit a rather unpopular one â€" of France’s heritage.

The lighthouse at Cap Ferret

Beacon of chic: Cap Ferret's lighthouse provides a panoramic view of the surrounding basin

We discovered this place a few years ago while cycling from Bordeaux to Biarritz, an epic ride alleviated by copious amounts of hearty fare and saddle-sore misery anaesthetised by the local wines which, being where we are, are notably good.

This time, three-year-old in tow, we decided to drive. It’s a fair old schlep â€" 600 miles or so from the Channel â€" but we were able to take all the buckets, spades and surfboards we needed, as well as little Zachary’s bicycle.

There aren’t many hotels or pensions, just a handful in Cap Ferret village itself. Most people hire a chalet or house â€" there are hundreds dotted in among the dunes.

Do a bit of online searching and you can find an affordable, decent-sized house. There is a great deal to do here, and it’s one of the most child (and adult) friendly places in Europe. Cycle for a start.

A small oyster shack

Lazy days: There's nothing quite like enjoying a glass of wine and a plate full of seafood

Those pine-scented forests (planted on Napoleon III’s orders) are laced with miles of pistes-cyclables, many of them converted tank tracks created by the German occupation.

We hired a couple of bikes from one of the dozen or so rental outfits and Zac was able to pedal along beside us, even on public roads.

French drivers may be often mad or drunk, but even the most gibbering lunatics espouse a courtesy to cyclists that’s unheard of back in Britain.

For bright lights and sin there is the pulsating Babylon (I’m kidding) of Arcachon, a 30-minute ferry ride across the bay â€" you can also get boats to the mysterious swampy islands that dot the bassin, as well as to the spectacular Dune du Pyla, Europe’s mightiest mountain of sand a few miles down the coast on the ‘mainland’.

On the bassin side of the cape, the tepid, languid water is safe and at low tide you get pools and shellfish and oyster beds for the little ones to explore.

The Dune du Pilat

Mountain of sand: The Dune du Pilat is the largest of its kind in Europe

We found several oddities lurking in the shallows: an ugly, rather pathetic stalk-eyed fish-thing that  looked like it had washed up from another planet, and an even more hideous sea-slug that is probably a local delicacy; go to the eastern beach at low tide and you will see dozens of French people poking through the sand with sticks and nets, looking for their lunch.

Ah, lunch. Like many people, I have in my mind’s eye a fantasy image of the Perfect French Restaurant. Instead you get the usual magret de-bloody-canard, steak and frites and fish soup.

And fine though all this is (and don’t get me wrong, random French food is usually several orders of magnitude better than the disgraceful slop served in 95 per cent of restaurants in this country) one  longs for something different after a while.

Chez Hortense â€" right on the southern tip of the cape â€" is one of those rare dreams that come true.

In an old chalet, the inter ior looks like it has not been changed since the Third Republic â€" and the menu is equally timeless.

Arcachon

Bright lights: For a slice of night life, take a hop over the bay to Arcachon

A bucket of mussels yanked from the sea a couple of hundred yards away that very morning and cooked with bacon and so much garlic I can taste it still, followed by (for me) a kraken-sized whole wild sea-bass cooked especially well.

My wife Elena’s fresh tuna came in two huge slabs that (almost) had us calling for a doggy-bag, and our friends Jenny and Richard shared a tranche of turbot fillet so fresh I could swear it tried to escape.

One evening, I went for a run through the woods and dunes. After a couple of miles I got agreeably lost and found myself trying to find a path back to the coast through some dense shrubbery.

Finally, I came to an open lawn and a little track down to the beach. And then I heard a shout. A large, shambolic Frenchman was asking me what the hell I was doing on his land. 

I ‘désolé-d’ my way out of the situation and all was fine. He looked like Gerard Depardieu and for a moment I wondered if he actually was Gerard Depardieu. But he wasn’t â€" he was merely the owner of the choicest piece of real estate on the west coast of France, a huge, ancient villa with its own beach and forest.

I wondered what would have happened to me if I had done this in, say, Martha’s Vineyard or, indeed, Cap Ferrat. Shot, arrested or both, probably. Like the past, Cap Ferret really is a foreign place; even the rich do things differently there.

Travel Facts

A four-bedroom villa sleeping eight on Cap Ferret starts from £777 per week, reference: 631676a (www.homeaway.co.uk). Return tickets on Eurotunnel start from £120 return per car (08443 35 35 35, eurotunnel.com). For more information, visit the Gironde Tourist Office (www.tourisme-gironde.fr).

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