Finally the day arrived and we assembled at Phil's house at the unearthly hour for a Sunday of 7 am. Phil drove to Stansted in his customary style and even with a breakfast stop at Reading we were still there in three and a quarter hours. My Grandad always insisted in getting to the station hours before the train departed but 4 hours early for a flight is going something. However, the time soon flew by and Ryanair delivered us to Biarritz 5 minutes early. Much to our relief the bikes appeared in the large luggage section and we had an amusing 15 minute walk pushing the bike boxes along a dual carriageway to get to the Campanille Hotel. With ground floor rooms we assembled our bikes outside and they all survived the trip well.
We remembered to cycle on the right hand side of the road just in time and descended into Biarritz town centre. The tide was nearly in and there were a fair sprinkling of surfers out strutting their stuff on the mighty Atlantic sea. After more photos than an average wedding, Phil led the charge into the sea for a paddle and Chris and I followed somewhat gingerly behind. Phil played the old school boy trick and managed to get me soaked as he told me to stand further back for the photo.
Biarritz is a grand seaside resort - Weston-super-Mare must have been like it in the 1950s and 60s. We found a good pizza restaurant, packed out with locals (always a good sign) and afterwards wended our way back to our hotel for an early night.
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