German Field Grey it's not
Lesley and I recently found ourselves, once more, in Arcachon, one of our favourite places. An invitation to overnight in a friends chalet nestling in the pines, overlooking the beach was too good an opportunity to miss. It also gave me another chance to take a closer look at a subject close to my heart, the remnants of Hitler's Atlantic wall, which still litter the beaches and sand dunes.
Albert Speer would not have approved of this latter day grafitti
The wall stretched from the Spanish border all the way up to Scandinavia taking in 800 miles of French coastline on the way. The parts that can still be observed around Arcachon are fascinating particularly because of their geographical setting. Lonely bays, sweeping sandy beaches and not too many people outside of August. Apparently there is no official organisation in France that will take responsibility for the salvage and upkeep of these monuments to German building and engineering, it's all a matter of national honour, so it's been left to small individual groups who are interested in safeguarding France's national heritage to pick up the mantle.
Some people come to the seaside to exercise their painting skills
Whilst we ourselves were investigating these concrete edifices jutting from the sand there did seem to be a lot of interest in them from joggers, swimmers and promenaders who were just ambling by. I think the passage of time has made the subject of Hitler and France's role in the Second World War more acceptable to the French and they are now able to detach themselves somewhat from the events of 70 years ago. In my opinion preservation should take place, a reminder of the past certainly and also now something that tourists would visit if a historic discovery trail could be created taking in the remaining bunkers, gun emplacements, blockhouses, radio masts etc, etc.
70 years ago a German 16 inch gun would have swung back and forth on this amazingly well preserved pivot point
Before heading back to Ribérac I could not resist stopping off at a local huitres cabin and sampling six of Arcachon Bay's best. Having spotted one of the few vendors that remained open at this time of year we were surprised to find ourselves beaten to the counter by the sudden arrival of a coach party. Within about 15 seconds the coach doors had opened and despatched a large party of Hong Kong Chinese, about 25 in all. To a constant whirring and clicking of cameras as the Chinese got busy photographing anything that moved (not the oysters mind you that remained stubbornly motionless in the bottom of their holding tanks awaiting selection) I sat down to the freshest oysters I have ever tasted. They were magical, I could taste the sea water in which just a few short hours before I had been swimming. There was something rather special about all this. The glass of chilled dry white Bordeaux only enhanced the experience. In 10 minutes flat the Chinese had polished off their plates and were piling back onto the coach, it looked like a tight itinerary. It wasn't long before we too joined them and hit the road in enough time to avoid the early evening congestion on Bordeaux's Rocade before turning for home.
Oysters and a chilled dry Bordeaux white, the perfect marriage
The Chinese arrive and get busy
Salt and wind make for beautiful muted colours
The oyster huts or chalets that dot the bay here remind me somewhat of the old fisherman's huts in Folkestone, the town in which I was born in the south east of England. Here the specialities are whelks and mussels, neither of which are my favourites, mainly because they always seemed to be full of sand. The oysters on the other hand, always seem fresh, clean and pure with a real taste of the sea.
The oyster beds make the backdrop for this redundant boat
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