be the dawn and dusk
of a world in constant flux –
embrace becoming!
                        Haiku
I said my goodbyes to Landes almost as soon as I set off this morning, and though only a dotted line on the map, a new département makes it feel like I’m making progress.
I’ve been riding parallel with the D218, though for most of it, the cycle path runs well away from the traffic so the ride is leisurely and peaceful. I’m heading due north between the sea and the Étang de Cazaux, one of the largest freshwater lakes in this part of France, fifty-five square kilometres in area, straddling the border between the Landes and the Gironde. The tarmac of the path is new – no bulging tree roots or water holes to look out for – and there are even white lines, like a mini-road. Before I know it, the short 20K hop brings me to the gates of my campsite, close to the dune.
This is a big tourist area and the majority of the sites have expensive wooden cabins to rent in advance, but very few pitches for the lone traveller with a tent. I’ve got used to checking in to meet that very Gallic shrug with the pursed lips indicating I don’t conform, but this time, I’ve chosen right. The majority of my fellow campers are like me, on bikes, motorcycles, or in overloaded suburban cars, with tents of all shapes and sizes, together with an atmosphere of heady anarchy. One reason, I’m sure, apart from the sheer joy of being on holiday, is that through the spindly pine trees the Yelloh! Village Panorama du Pyla campsite borders both the sea and the dune.
It’s just two o’clock in the afternoon so many of the campers – mostly French to judge by the number plates on the cars and vans – are still finishing their lunches inside or outside their tents. The rough track to and from the beach is mine to enjoy bar a few children playing with pinecones or riding bikes around and around in circles. As I stroll, I have a sense of satisfaction; I’m here, I’m coping, and I’m even making progress in my quest to explore new lands and find my way home again. I may not be a hero, but I am becoming the outsider I set out to be, with a quieter mind, less connected and yet more present to the immediate world around me. This is why I made this trip, for moments like this, when I can hardly remember my former self, a carer, a father, a middle aged man with questions about himself and his place in the world. I just am.
With the promise of the cool ocean, I find my place on the longest beach I’ve ever seen, arcing south to the horizon in an endless sweep of sand and trees, whilst to the north, the great dune looks like the smooth back of a sleeping giant, featureless and immense. Today the Atlantic breakers, normally so impressive on this coast are sleeping. Only lazy swells are visible on the horizon where the water’s surface has the gentle rhythm of a slow dance. Wavelets reluctantly expire on the beach to seep into the wet sand leaving thin lines of foam.
I put my things in a pile and head for the sea. I’m ginger treading the hot sand above the waterline and I can feel the burn on the soles of my feet. My moon steps leave no print until I reach the cool flat of the sea-washed sand. The first cool rush of a shallow wave rises up my shins and almost to my knees with the torque of an ocean three thousand kilometres wide, stretching all the way from Newfoundland to where I am wading deeper into French waters. When it reaches my waist, I dive, and the salt-cold soup boils around my ears and nose. I reach out with both arms, pulling against the water, eyes closed, blind and weightless, until I come up for air and roll onto my back to wallow like an upturned turtle. I blink away the seawater and squint up at the washed out sky, white in the glare of the sun. Now I can feel the swell, lifting and lowering me in slow motion,