Global Sport Stories

Ah the South of France, but I’m not talking about Monaco and Nice. I’m talking about the wavey nook connecting France’s linear west coast to Spain’s “Costa del verde”, supposedly THE place in Europe to chase some swell.

And having completed a first weeks road trip, travelling from Dover across northern France, that was exactly this week’s plan. 

Despite the entire 3,400 mile westerly coast of France supposedly boasting waves for all ages, our first taste of Atlantic waves came down south, in Gascony. Specifically, Biarritz. 

I don’t know whether it’s because it’s technically in the “South” of France or whether connotations of the word “Ritz” present glitz and glamour, but something about a surf town in South-West France named Biarritz just oozed class. 

And this was true for every sense of the place… besides, tragically, the waves.

In actual fact, positioning ourselves just outside the town of Biarritz to the North, I was eager to see what all the fuss was about. An eyeball surf report allowed my excitement to rise. These were the first waves we’d seen in a long time, and as those out in the lineup took it in turns to glide across the horizon, I was soon on the hunt for a hire shop.

If you’ve ever looked at a map of France, the coastline we had travelled too genuinely looks like it was drawn with a ruler. And stood looking up the shores of Anglet, the sandy beaches only broken up by bouldering breakwaters, confirmed its linearity. 

My haste led me to ask numerous surf schools whether they rented out hard boards, in my best broken French. This, ironically, was when the tide turned. Upon conversation with a weathered Frenchman, he proclaimed there only to be an hours surf left in the day before the tide was too high – and only one working break for that matter.

This last spot standing turned out to be facing a coastal front wall, littered with jagged rocks. No cushty beach break for me today! Looking down at the bubbling high tide, I ummed and anhhed about sending the session. 

This was definitely above my skill level. With both precise entry and exit points and maximum control needed on the wave, unless I wanted to end up a sorry mess in the rocks, the smart move would be to save my silver and head out first thing tomorrow.

Fast forward ten minutes though and there I was paddling out quickly realising the brutality Biarritz could bring. After all, I’d come here to surf right?

What followed is what must’ve been the shortest session of my surf career to date, consisting of fighting for my life amongst the mine field of rollers responsible for rising the tide. It was relentless. Never had I struggled as much to simply stay sat on my board. Aside from one wave, upon which I caught with ferocious velocity before predictably nose diving and being held under, I spent the rest of the session gingerly paddling about before then planning my return to shore.  

This required a lot of focus and consideration. One had to leave the breaks by paddling in left, whilst timing it inbetween some fairly steep waves crashing on the slither of beach that was left. This slither by the way, was packed with French holiday goers, who seemed to be eagerly awaiting nooby surfers getting washed up on to shore. 

Arriving back on land with my dignity JUST about in tact, the bar couldn’t have been set any lower. This meant sessions over the next few days joyfully, proved a little more fruitful. Still not as clean as I’d have liked but my pop up was working again and finally my feet and the board started meeting each other once more. 

Although not the waves we’d have hoped for, Biarritz proved to be a nice spot, where in my experience the city out shone the sea. What I must add to this however, is just how nice it was to be in the water again in boardies and a rash vest – that is a feeling I’ll never take for granted.