Today we went to Plage Bonaparte which, like Palus beach, is only a
fifteen minute drive from Chez Cezarine. Access to the sands is gained
by walking through a tunnel in the rock and then down a precipitous
concrete slope. A plaque on the rock bears testimony to the courageous
escape of allied troops by means of this tunnel when the France was
occupied during the second world war. However, in their day the
concrete path had not been constructed and their route was over the
hundred feet high cliff.
Once we had claimed our stake on the beach we decided to venture forth
into the sea where tsunami-like breakers were rolling in. The
experience was not one for the timorous. It was almost impossible to
take in breath between the waves which were high enough to engulf those
wading or swimming in the water.
Even without the accompaniment of Carl Orff's famously theatrical
cantata, I found myself compelled to slip into Old Spice mode
commandeering the polystyrene surfboard from Isabel and launching
myself headlong into the first twelve feet-high wave that came my way.
Evidence of the force of the water was provided when the surfboard,
which admittedly was only designed for children, snapped in two like
matchwood and was rendered useless. To console Isabel, Nigel,
optimistically, claimed that it could be rebuilt (Steve Austen-style
perhaps?); I was doubtful and thought that it should be committed to
the deep with full naval honours.
Anyway, Nigel's attention was soon diverted when it became apparent
that Henri was nowhere to be seen in the water. Complete with enough
accoutrement to make Jacques Cousteau envious - goggles, ear plugs,
flippers and latex swimming cap - he had in fact been diving under the
waves but with the force of the incoming tide he had drifted down the
coast a good fifty yards or more. Making a rescue attempt, Nigel strode
through the waves in Henri's direction where, coincidentally, there was
also a bevy of topless babes frolicking in the spume. Infuriatingly,
without my glasses on I was prevented serious assessment of the
aesthetics so I had to leave Nigel to it and returned to our pitch on
the beach. With or without the help of the madamoiselles Nige managed
to retrieve Henri from the deep.
Having dried off and settled down I took in the surroundings.
Immediately to our right I observed two blokes who, curiously I
thought, were building sandcastles something I have always regarded as
an activity for kids and possibly parents with their kids. As I looked
on, it became clear that they took their sandcastle building very
seriously indeed. For not content with a couple of plastic spades and a
paper union jack flag, they had brought with them steel shovels, a
pick-axe, garden rakes, large black plastic buckets and possibly hidden
from sight a cement mixer.