How to go feral in France…

The Hossegor run is the default first overseas surf mission for most of us Brits. It has many bonus points but the main one is: it’s cheap. Well. It’s just got about 10% more expensive thanks to the ongoing Brexit inspired currency fluctuations but hopefully that’ll improve soon.

Educational establishments are thinking about shutting up shop for the summer so here’s how to do it on a bare bones budget. As proven and road tested by many denizens of our damp islands over the years. Before we get into the meat of it we’ll assume you have the following: access to a car, boards, a sleeping bag, a camping cooker and some Euros.

CAR

Obviously choice of vehicle is important as is occupancy. Two people in a small car is okay. Three people in a mid-size and four can do a big estate if you are really close. A van is the real winner but not something you tend to have when you’re young and doing your first teenage Hossegor run.

Make sure your vehicle is legal, sort out AA/RAC cover for Europe for the duration of your trip. Trust us, we’ve had a car blow up in France with no cover and it is a mahoosive and very expensive ball-ache and you can’t just abandon it down there as you’ll still end up with a knock on the door and a big bill from the French rozzers … or maybe if you’re really lucky Interpol.

Check the current list of things the French authorities require: hi-vis vests, red triangles, spare bulbs, GB sticker, drink drive testers, etc. It’s bonkers but them’s the rules and if they pull you over they can demand to see any and all of the above. The French Gendarmes are notoriously no nonsense so no cheek. Plus side once you have these things they will live unused in the boot of your car for the rest of your life.

FERRY

Depends which bit of Blighty you’re coming from. The Dover end crossing is well cheap and quick but you’ve got a longer and way more expensive tolled drive from Calais. From Portsmouth is ideal, not as expensive as Plymouth and the ferries tend to be overnight and arrive at dawn for your drive down. The toll road from Normandy down was around €30 total we did it and is motorway nearly the whole way now. So check it out and compare prices for what works best for you. Of course the Santander ferry is the bomb but that tub is so expensive now even between four of you it’s crazy prices. Prices on the channel crossing range from under £100 to £400 depending on dates and route.

DRIVE

You can smash the Channel coast of France to Hoss’ in about eight or nine hours with a Maccas stop. An efficient motor is your friend here. Getting down there on one tank is totes doable in the right car. So you can get there and back for just over a £100. All French garages have awesome €1 espresso machines so the driver can keep buzzing his teats off the whole way.

SLEEPING

Now you can stay in campsites. But that’s not very feral and quite expensive. Being feral is all about maximising number of surf days for minimum cash. So paying for accom is out.

‘But where will I sleep?’ you cry. Easy pard. On the beach.

A decent sleeping bag and the top of the beach at the edge of the dunes makes a lovely bed. Just think of all the shooting stars you’ll see. Just be sure not to get ground up into mince by the beach-cleaning bulldozers.

‘But what if it flipping rains?’. Ah, Padawan. Very good question. This is why we brought the car. If wet sleep in the motor. Like we said earlier two people in a little car is fine. Fold down the front seats and you’re be snug as. We spent a week sleeping in a Ford Ka once and that was fine. Three in a mid range two get front seats one the back and in an estate just fight it out and sardine in. Or you can sleep under balconies/buildings. Staying in the beach car parks is no bother*. The police shouldn’t bother you and there’ll be plenty of dudes in vans to pal up with. Don’t sleep in bins. You’ll get squished.

*Some years they get eggy. So can always pitch up in the forest instead. But obvs no trash. No trace.

EATING

So this whole deal is about not splashing too much cash. Eating is expensive. The classic surf fuel for feral surfers is ramen noodles. Cheap as hell, quick to cook so you don’t waste too much camping gaz and they tasty. The other classic French treat is the 10 pack box of pain au chocolate. Get one of those bad boys after your dawn surf and it’ll last you all day. For the truly ninth dan feral experience go bin diving through the skips out the back of LeClerc at the end of the day and see what goodies you can find. Rule of thumb: if it looks okay and doesn’t stink you can probably eat it. But don’t tell them we sent you.

DRINKING

Piss is über expensive in France. In bars at least. Beer from the supermarket ain’t too bad but the most bang for your buck comes from wine. Hell it’s the Bordeaux region of France, famous, and rightly so, for its wines. So sample the plastic bottle wines and find a fruity, drinkable number. You’ll be pleasantly surprised at what you can score for less than two euros. You’ll also be winning as wine drinkers appear cultured and suave. Not a boorish beer idiot. That said the youth these days are too healthy to drink evil booze so I guess you can hang on to a super fruit smoothy or whatever it is you drink instead.

PARTYING

Obvs tricky when spending no money. Normal plan: get tanked on wine/cheap Lidl lager then head to the Centrale and hang out. This is where all the action is in Hoss’ of an eve. If you’ve got the green you can buy one beer and nurse it.

If you want to be truly feral then you can mine sweep but you need to be really careful that drinks have been abandoned properly; not temporarily as you might get a French fist in your teeth. Or roofied. The motherlode is hooking up with someone that’s got proper accom so you can shower and sleep in comfort.

HYGIENE

No campsite equals no showers and shitters. You just need to scope out what’s available. There’s beach showers in season and there’s some nice bogs by the market place in Hossegor and those pay jobs are always a last resort. If you open and close the door and stay in for the wash cycle you can have a dump and a hose down for the same price. One modern essential for feral trips is the ‘wet wipe’. Yes. Those things festival goers use. Wet wipes are a great way to stay relatively clean without showering and if you’re in the sea every day how crusty can you get?

SURFING

This is why you’re here right? Hossegor is just the focal point. The surf can be busy these so do some exploring. Check out north and south at low, mid and high tide. Knowing what banks are on is the key to maximising your surf time in Hoss’. There can be magical banks south of Capbreton and north of Seignosse with not a soul in sight. If you can borrow some binos from the ‘rents for the trip do.

As anywhere respect the locals, don’t drop in, snake or hog waves, in short stick to the rules of the road. It’s not like Britain where people will give you stink-eye at worst. French, and often Basque types, are more passionate than us Brits and are far quicker to speak with their fists if you cock up their surf. Bring a spare sled as snappage can and will happen. Wetty wise a 3mm is handy for dawnies, boardies and a maybe a neoprene vest is fine for the rest of the day.

So there you go. How to go feral in France. If you are really good you can do a month for a few hundred quid and get a zillion surfs under your belt in one of the best places in the world for waves. Too easy.

Words & Photos: Sharpy

Car Sleeping Blues

There was a time, back in the day, when sleeping in your car was the done thing.
We thought nothing of rocking a down the Welsh coast for a surf, having a good session, then getting out at sun down before heading in to town to get fish’n’chips and a few tinnies of whatever Spar had on spesh for the evening.

After the deep-fried, fat-injection we’d truck back to the beach, watch the last wisps of the sun go down over a few cold ones and talk story. As the dusk turned to night we’d still be there, talking crap, drinking, by now slightly tepid beer, and chewing over the day’s rides. At some point, generally when the beer was all gone and the regulation Austin Power’s style overly-long slash had been unleashed, we’d assume our positions.
Sleeping in a small car is not ideal. Especially when there are four of you, the car involved is a very compact, glorified shopping cart Peugeot and it’s just started raining.
Some people, like Tim Nunn, can sleep anywhere. Many times we’ve been stuck in some exotic ferry port or grime-laden airport and he’s literally just laid down on the concrete, face-down on a towel and been snoring within a few minutes. It’s an impressive super-power, which makes your surfing life so much easier. Batty is the same, towel, floor, snooze.
For those of us not blessed with slumbertastic skill, us regular Joes, it goes something like this: get into car (cursing under your breath if you’re the unlucky fecker that drove and hence has to put up with the steering wheel and pedals) get awkwardly comfortable, put on a thousand-yard stare, wish you were home in your nice comfy bed and wait.
If, like your correspondent, sleeping in a sitting upright position is all but impossible this wait goes on most of the night. Yep. Can’t sleep on planes, trains or automobiles.
So. You grit your teeth, curse, fidget and generally wonder if this surfing lark is really worth such discomfort; whilst wishing a plague of nose-dives, drop-ins and nasty board-up-the-rectum style accidents on the snoring happy-campers around you. The smug bastards. Cosy as baby field mice they are, wrapped in sleeping bags with damp towels for pillows, they’re all firmly asleep, they’re all snoring and each corpulent body is intermittently letting off the ghostly gaseous remains of the deep-fried muck that masquerades for English cuisine.
In your wired, half-awake state you’ll swear each little parp is preceded by the faintest of smirks, hard to tell in the half light, but even in sleep they mock you, your nostrils and your unwelcome awakeness.
The hours pass. The car windows become a smear of condensation. You wonder if the judge would be lenient when you appear before the bench on three charges of murder.
After all, with everyone else asleep it would be easy. There’s just cause, not only are they all taunting you, smugly resting their surf tired limbs, but the straps tying the boards down, or to be more precise, the strap over your head only, is dripping rain water on your head … Chinese water torture, Welsh style.
A plan forms, smother the buggers in their sleep with your wet, stinky towel, chuck the bodies in the fierce rip at Fresh, drive home several boards richer and dive straight into the heavenly confines of your shower then bed. The bodies would be long gone, off into the deep Atlantic, pecked to bits by fish, seagulls and, if the salty old sea-dog fisherman down the quay is to be believed, sharks. One way of reducing the crowd at least.
The rain stops, and in time the drip stops harassing you, the grey light of pre-dawn gives the world ghostly definition. Still awake, but in some kind of ultra-tired trance, everything seems peaceful. You reflect on the guffing, snoring, bodies around you, stifle a chuckle at the faces people make when they’re asleep and watch almost hypnotised by the gravity defying bead of dribble hanging from the side of your co-pilot’s mouth.
As dawn struggles into the world you can just start to make out lines, the swell has picked up from the evening before; the wind is faultlessly offshore. Sneaky thoughts of slipping out of the man-stench pit for a crafty early surf cross your mind. Could get the whole place to yourself, whilst Team Snuggles snore on, dreaming they’re JOB dropping into Backdoor.
The choice is thus: a warm, but uncomfortable, smelly, damp car, versus getting into an extremely wet, overly sandy, painfully cold and down right nasty wetsuit. A tough choice.
You decide to wait a bit, let some more light creep across the land and maybe get half an hours shut-eye. Now that it’s nearly light your body relents … fitful sleep takes over.
You wake with a start, simultaneously banging your head on the window and stubbing your toe into the pedals. Drool is plastered through your stubble; it’s a winning look. Your brain synapses try to get going but keep misfiring, you try to move and ‘Ow! Shit, what the?’ your neck is locked in a spasm, due to sleeping in such awkward manner. Great. What a way to start the day. No coffee and a screwed neck. At least it’s time for a surf, as you gingerly turn round it becomes apparent Team Fart Squad have nicked off for the early.
Setting a new world record for the amount of times one person can swear in five minutes you suit up, cursing your mates, the world, your neck and the seagulls. The first hit of pure, green Atlantic snaps you out of the frenzy. The first duckdive washes away the sleep grime and bad mood. Rhythmically stroking out to the peak you see one of your so-called mates take off and pull into a feisty little keg, he plunges an arm into the face, stalling, gives you a fruity little wave from the tube with the other hand. You reply with a swift, but cheery, single finger salute and keep paddling.
Once out back your mates are in good spirits, they slept for eight hours, why wouldn’t they be? They didn’t wake you because you looked so peaceful, and we know it’s hard for you to sleep in the car.
Next set, the first wave is yours, snapping to your feet the neck spasm arcs pain through your whole body. Surfing like someone that can’t move his or her neck you gingerly trim down the line. The wave starts to bowl and double up, it’s gonna shack, you try and bend to duck into the tube but can’t. The lip hits you square in the side of the head and you get worked.
When getting mowed by a healthy chunk of Atlantic there is time for reflection, as you bounce off the sandbar you forgive your mates, your neck frees up and you look forward to another day of waves and good times.
As you get older sleeping in your car seems a bit undignified. You feel you need, or deserve, a B&B, hell a boutique coastal hotel that are all the rage these days.
That is, of course, crap.
As you get older, you get wiser, you also get a bigger car. Or a van. Plenty of room to stretch out in the back…

Words & Photos Sharpy