Basque-ing in it (Holiday 3/14)

Could it be? I think.. Yes. I've woken and my nose isn't blocked! Okay, this turned out to be a false dawn, but I'm definitely starting to feel better overall; and so after a disappointing hotel breakfast (the coffee especially, I just don't understand hotels putting on a single self-service machine, which leads to queues for vaguely coffee-flavoured water) we were on the the road again. This time for a stop only just on the Gallic side of the French-Spanish border, into the Basque country, in St. Jean de Luz.

We've been here before, popping in on our way to and (unplanned, it's a long story) from San Sebastian six years ago. It's a stop essentially for Mel to get some Basque linen tableware (and she tells me I've got to buy some espadrilles), which fortuitously fits in with our plan to drive just four-or-so hour days while on the continent, to make the most of our time here.

Before that, though, we detour to a promontory which is peppered with old fishing huts, nets held out on poles in front like a bowl, ready to scoop up unsuspecting sea life.

It's also here that a viewpoint promises sight of Fort Boyard, an ancient fortified defence, popularised in the UK in a gameshow (which I never actually watched) hosted, I think, by Leslie Grantham and Melinda Messenger.

It turns out the view was.... distant.

Turning back for the autoroute there were a few hours of thankfully uneventful driving. It got busy around Bordeaux, especially noticeable was an increase in British cars, but never to the point of gridlock, and once again the thermometer saw the temperature climb beyond the 20s.

After a little confusion over just which entrance was our hotel (turns out both....) we're checked in to the slightly-past-its-prime-but-still-comfy La Réserve. It's perched 10-15 minutes walk above St. Jean de Luz, at the edge of a residential area, our garden view taking in the new swimming pool which the chap on reception is very proud of.

With a quick turnaround we're heading down the hill towards the town, a panorama opening up as we do, the beach dotted with sun worshippers, the sea with swimmers, paddle boarders and surfers. We're aiming for the main pedestrianised area, primarily because Mel wants to find a linen shop we visited the last time around. This becomes a zig-zag down the street, looking at each shop with no joy; side streets visited empty handed; a café drink stop to pour over the map; and finally finding the shop halfway down the first street we'd wandered along.

And we bought nothing.

Well, from that shop at least. By this point we're actually laden with a couple of new tea towels, an adult apron, a kid's apron (for a present), a pair of espadrilles (discovering the lovely little shop, with fab older ladies running it, only has my size in around 6 different pairs), a wonderful woodblock picture of some mackerel from a resettled Breton artist, and some tins of sardines (also from Brittany!) for Mel's dad, with me picking up some tinned, spreadable crevettes and salmon (separate tins) as well.

It was while getting the tinned fish that there was an oddity. Asked if we'd visited before I said yes (though it was in a branch in Pont-Aven, not here), making conversation, but that it had been some time ago. She then mentioned that they had a loyalty scheme, and asked for my name. Politely I gave it, only to be stunned to find out I was indeed on their system. I don't know what my loyalty gets me, but I may find out in 5 to 6 years' time.

The walk back to deposit the booty gives time to build up an appetite, and rather than stay up at the hotel to eat, we want to head back into the hubbub (which isn't like us at all). Bodega Koko was just far enough from the centre not to be overwhelmed, but close enough to have plenty of atmosphere, and in the end people were being turned away.

Timed it to perfection.

It advertises itself as a gastropub, but doesn't really fit any British description of the term. That's not to detract, however, from two different 'oeufs cocottes', a wonderful cod dish, and (because I was feeling basic) a superb burger, that was more pulled beef than traditional patty.

The French bit of this trip has been short, but fab. My French has flowed immediately, and hitting Spain tomorrow, despite my attempts to start learning the language, is going to find me flustering frustratingly. Here I've been conversational and relaxed; tomorrow I'll be stilted.

But I'm sure it'll be worth it. I'm sure.