Episode 16 – Carcassonne and Hossegor: A Robin Hood fetish and staring into the gates of hell

Bonjour,

Well after leaving the somewhat tepid embrace of Nice (which felt like being hugged by a person with no arms) we made our way across France towards the beachside town of Hossegor. But before getting there we had to make a pit-stop in Carcassonne which I think enjoys a low level of infamy for being the setting for the movie “Robin Hood – Prince of Thieves”. Krys has always had what appears to be an unnatural obsession with this movie, with this obsession leaking into a perpetual admiration for Kevin Costner movies and Bryan Adams songs. I’m willing to support her obsession by watching The Bodyguard but if she thinks I’m dropping 15hrs watching Dances With Wolves she’s got another thing coming. As for Bryan Adams, I can actually tolerate a playlist populated with the Canadian Bob Dylan, as long as there is some Richard Marx thrown in for balance. Anyway, visiting the site where Robin Hood was filmed was going to be a lot easier than a detour past Sherwood Forest, wherever the hell that is.

But after Nice, most of the family was sick. So by the time we hit Carcassonne we were exhausted and day 1 was spent looking at the castle that we were meant to visit from the backyard of our accommodation, while thinking perhaps that “Carcassonne” meant “can’t be arsed” in French. Luckily we were staying in a house with plenty of toys for the kids and a trampoline in the backyard. So while mum and dad flicked through meaningless rubbish on our phones, the kids played with toys. And when the kids complained they were bored, they were sent out to the trampoline for an MMA death match to see which child was worthy of our love. Clearly the winner was Millie.

But by Day 2 no sickness was going to keep Krys away from sniffing the pavement where Kevin Costner may have perhaps once tripped over and landed on his perineum. So we took the 10min walk up the hill and had a look around. Once again it was an impressive fortified city (Europe seems to love these) but the romance of the architecture is lost somewhat by a main square selling hamburgers and chips while showing English soccer games. Or perhaps this was the actual strategy to ward off invasion? The city would be taken and as the invading hordes marched through the main square they’d see that what they had conquered came with poorly cooked chicken schnitzel and a smattering of Panasonic TV’s showing Foxsports? And on seeing the underwhelming nature of their conquest they’d withdraw? Anyway, I think I ruined the experience further for Krys by adapting everyday occurrences to fit with the Robin Hood theme song. She tolerated me announcing a toilet trip with “look into my eyes, and you will seem that I need to wee” but seemed to lose patience when I did something nice for her and followed it with “everything I do, is to try and r#ot you”.

But we can only search for locks of Kevin Costner hair for so long, so we had to find other things to do for our remaining day in Carcassonne. We had heard about a wildlife park that was just out of town, so we piled into our Euro people-mover and drove a few towns away to find a place that certainly tried to give a realistic wildlife experience. Basically you get given a map, and some vague instructions to not stop or have windows down if you see bears or lions. Then you are left to drive around the reserve in your own car. Again the difference between Australia and Europe was laid bare – in Australia every dangerous animal would be behind fences and glass, and the tour would no doubt be in some fortified vehicle with a designated guide. In Europe it’s a “feel free to drive yourself around, and if you lose a limb to an ambush by a wild bear it clearly says on the ticket there is no refund or claim for costs to remove blood from car upholstery”. It really was an incredible experience having a mix of animals appear out of nowhere, show an interest and approach us. Although for Krys it probably just felt like her old Friday nights at after work drinks. If only she kept her guard up when I lumbered out of the thickets of  Martin Place Bar all those years ago. Although thankfully for her I didn’t eat any of her limbs. Just her soul. Slowly……

There was one stage where the animal experience felt a bit too real and that was when it felt like we were about to be the unwitting victims of an animal mugging. A donkey had wandered out and stood right in front of the car and would not move regardless of yelling or the tooting of the car horn. It appeared as impervious to loud noises as I am to the sound of a child crying in the middle of the night (I swear I don’t hear it honey – I’d never just play dead in the hope you’d get up first – promise……). After laughing at the donkey we realised some other animals were starting to take an elevated interest in the 4 slabs of meat trapped in a stationary car. I assume they saw my arse and thought if they could get hold of it, it would probably feed the family all the way through winter. So it took some exceptionally unconventional and complex driving moves to extract ourselves from the donkey blockage. Thankfully these newfound driving skills didn’t go to waste, and are re-used whenever I have to endure the vehicular madness of after school pick-up. 

The blockade…..

And it’s time to go….

Then it was off to Hossegor on the West Coast of France for the surfing part of the holiday. The whole concept for this family adventure began as an idea of mine to relocate to a European surf town for 3 months with the girls, and Hossegor was the target as it is one of the best beach breaks in the world. I had mental images of me surfing all morning then coming home to the girls nibbling quietly on croissants and being greeted by a wife in a lacy nightie who throws her arms around me and whispers some French sweetness in my ear. So I guess you could more accurately call my mental images delusions? Especially considering when I come home from a surf at home the kids are normally arguing while munching on Weetbix and I’m greeted by a wife in tracksuit pants and a jumper who evades my attempt at a cuddle while saying “I hope you enjoyed your surf” which conveys sarcasm, frustration with the children, and a clear message of no chance of sexual relations all in one simple, seemingly innocuous sentence……

But Krys has a magical way of taking my somewhat self-centred ideals (ie a 3 month surfing trip to France), working out what would be best for us as a family, then using some incredible Jedi mind tricks to convince me that her family plan was actually my idea. So by the time the trip was booked, Hossegor had been trimmed from 3 months to 1 week, and there was definitely no frilly nightie in the luggage. In front of Krys I feel like that hypnotised bull in Crocodile Dundee. She points two fingers at me and I just comply.

But we finally made it to Hossegor, and I could feel a rush of excitement as we pulled into town. Finally I was almost back in the water for a surf for the first time in 3 months. We met our host and I practically ran down to see the ocean (well as fast as you can run dragging 3 suitcases, 2 bags and two children) and as I get my first look at this world famous beach break it is……… flat. There. Is. No. Surf. Our host then goes on to helpfully explain that the surf being flat this time of year is very unusual. With some salty tears starting to pool in my eyes we are led up to our beachfront apartment which is some consolation – it is in a wonderful location on the main esplanade with a view of the beach, and facing a little bar across the walkway. So we dropped our gear and made our way down to play on the sand.

But we found out that evening that the location of our little apartment did have a pretty significant drawback. The little bar across from us took on a life of its own come 11pm at night, and it raged like a hardcore niteclub until closing – which given the looseness of European after-dark culture was around 5am. It was quite obvious that lock-out laws or responsible service of alcohol restrictions haven’t made much of an inroad into coastal France just yet. So while I was happy for the revelers to be able to enter a niteclub after midnight and order drinks without having to endure the “how many drinks have you already had” rubbish (has anyone ever answered anything other than 2 or 3?) I wasn’t overly happy on a personal level with having to endure a thumping base and drunken French men trying to do their seductive best at 4am. The walk to the morning coffee also threw up some pretty interesting characters (as well as some interesting characters throwing up). And the best thing about the niteclub? It operated every night. So lucky for us we got to hear Drake’s new ‘In My Feelings’ song over, and over, and over and over and over. No Drake, Kiki doesn’t love you. So stop your shitty whining and shut up. No wonder people were jumping out of cars while listening to this Canadian melody.

Finally the surf did pick up a bit (well it got to all of 2 foot so was rideable but not worth travelling half way around the world and enduring a techno club for) and I got out for a few surfs. But even the surfs in Hossegor came with some issues. First it appears that a lot of the beach areas of Hossegor are clothing optional. So I did get to have one particularly interesting surf with a man who decided he’d combine what appeared to be his two favourite pastimes of nudity and surfing. I swear to god it looked like this guy had a rudder. He could have used his board as a stand up paddle board and used his appendage to power his way across the ocean. Given the water wasn’t overly warm his efforts were particularly noteworthy. Then after enduring an hour of this slightly off putting surf I decided it was time to paddle in, but had drifted a bit north with the current. So I climbed out of the water and began scanning the shoreline to try and find my towel. Instead what I locked eyes on incinerated my retinas and left permanent scarring on my mind – a naked, +70yr old lady lounging back, legs askew. It appeared to me to be a pose consistent with trying to even out the tan lines on her labia majora. Anyway, for me it was as if I had looked directly into the gates of hell. It will always remain an enduring and haunting memory of my time in Hossegor. You say “Hossegor” and I immediately see what resembles a hairy galactic black hole collapsing in on itself. 

THERE IS NO PHOTO OF THE NAKED OLD LADY TO INSERT HERE – BUT COME AND RESIDE IN MY NIGHTMARES FOR AN EVENING AND YOU WILL SEE IT CLEARLY.

After our final breakfast in Hossegor we tried to get a nice family photo before embarking on our trip to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls. Once again after trying for about 10mins and taking 50 pictures with kids in various poses of boredom and annoyance the kids were discarded, a decent photo taken, and we were on our way. While we were in Pamplona Krys managed to attract some romantic attention despite having two kids in tow when I stepped away for 5mins to get us drinks. That girl has still got it. But more on that later.

FOR

F#CK

SAKE

Au reviour.

Trent, Krystal, Emelia, Olivia and a heightened sense of inadequacy for Trent after surfing with a man and what looked like his pet anaconda