Will bailey photography: August 2009

Up until about a month ago, the summer was going just fine. June was blazing hot with the bonus of some good swells, and I'd been surfing and shooting photos all over the place. Sunshine, barbecues, parties, balmy evenings...what more could you ask for?

Then came July. In theory July should be the hottest month of the year...but this being Britain it turned out to be cloudy the entire time and wet. Very wet. There’s a town in the Himalayan foothills called Cherrapunji which has the highest annual rainfall in the world, but I think we surpassed their monthly average by about 900 inches. The optimistic hope that summer 2009 might be an all-time classic quickly disappeared down the drain with a pathetic gurgle. I began to feel a burning need to get out of the country lickety-split before I become a permanent fixture propping up the bar in my local.

For us Brit surfaholics the obvious destination for a quick getaway is France. I'm a big fan of the place in the autumn months but I normally write off July and August due to lack of swell, ridiculous crowds and high costs. However, faced with the prospect of enduring yet another horrendous British summer I decided it was time to make a run for it. With a decent swell heading towards southwest France, I collared Lloyd Cole and we made a plan to fly down and meet up with a load of British boyo's who were already down there revelling in the waves.

Forty-eight hours after booking our flights we were blasting down the autoroute from Bordeaux, heading for Hossegor. It didn’t matter that our hire car was about as powerful as Thom Yorke (with a whine to match), the main thing was that we’d left all the cloud and rain behind. Back in Wales we’d virtually been aquaplaning along the roads; here in France, midday mirages shimmered on the baking tarmac. I wound down the window when we got to the toll booth at Capbreton and inhaled the sweet smell of pine trees and scorched grass. Oh yes, this was proper summer weather.

After a quick surf, we found a campsite and checked in. I normally try to avoid camping – there's something about being constantly damp and using your clothes as a mattress for a week that doesn't really to appeal to me anymore. Plus I hate those Teutonic new age hippy types who who think it’s cool to play bongo drums at two in the morning. But July is peak season in France, apartments are expensive, and the pound is virtually worthless at the moment...so we were camping!

We whipped up our tents and discovered to our relief that our neighbours were not German bongo-playing dole bludgers but the Williams family from Swansea (among them 15-year-old David Williams who won the recent Rip Curl GromSearch at Porthcawl). What’s more, they had a massive barbecue on the go! Within minutes Lloyd and I were tucking into some very tasty chicken kebabs, and David was eagerly waxing up for the following morning’s photoshoot.

France is a brilliant place to spend the summer if the jetstream is shafting the British Isles like it did in July. While Blighty gets buffeted by unseasonable gales and rain, France basks in the sun and its Landes coast is pounded by classic summer swells.

A sizeable contingent of Britain’s top young rippers were down for the month, among them Jayce Robinson, Dane Hall, Lyndon Wake, Stu Campbell, Luis Eyre, Jack Whitefield, Toby Donachie, Rob Webster-Blythe and Billy Norways. The lads had been travelling around competing at ASP Pro Junior contests and chilling in France between events. You can understand why they choose to hang out in France – hollow waves, warm water, offshores most mornings, fun nights out, and enough distractions on the beach to warrant ten hours a day sunbathing. It goes without saying that French girls are not like the fake tanned, tracksuit-wearing chavs we get in Wales.

We were up before dawn the next day. It was a fresh, cool morning without a breath of wind. We headed straight to the bakery for coffee and croissants, then checked the surf. Our new pal Dave jumped in with me and Lloyd, and we met up with Matt Capel and Gabe Davies at the beach.

A punchy new swell was pounding La Graviere as expected, but it was still a bit dark and the tide was too low. We did the usual check-ten-spots-before-you-make-a-decision routine...and then went back to the first one. La Grav’ was looking a whole lot better by this time, and the first guy we saw on a wave was Jayce Robinson, who got an absolute smoker. We were straight out there.

As well as Jayce, young Brits Dane Hall and Rob Webster-Blythe were going for it in the grinding overhead barrels. But even in summertime the lip at La Grav’ comes down like a guillotine, and within five minutes both Jayce and Matt were back on the beach with snapped boards, cursing their luck. Gabe, on the other hand, was having a ball, picking off some absolute bombs and flashing victory signs at me as he sped through barrel after barrel. Lloyd was also getting some solid ones, happily throwing himself into the hollowest lefts coming through. Adopted grom Dave was charging too – for a 15-year-old lout from Swansea he gave it a good dig.

Incredibly we found ourselves virtually alone on our peak for a good two hours, a situation you’d never expect in Hossegor in the middle of July. I couldn't understand where all the other surfers were. I kept expecting to see a load of German wannabes come running down the sand and start floundering around on the inside. But there were no Germans, no Frenchies, just the four of us and a few naked wrinklies.

We later found out that the bulk of Hossegor’s surfing population been at another spot a few kilometres down the coast. Apparently there were 50 people on one peak and fights in the water. The locals there like to keep the place hush hush, and French photographer Alex Laurel returned to his car to find his tyres slashed. Charming. All in all I think we got lucky that first morning!

The next two days saw a drop in the swell so we spent our time surfing fun little beachies, bird watching and overdosing on pastries. The best place to kill some time in Hossegor is the Café de Paris, where you can spend hours just watching the world go by. It’s weird how a town centre crossroads and a bunch of people doing their shopping can hold your attention for a whole afternoon. Coffees turn into beers, and the next thing you know you’re waking up face down in the sand.

On subsequent days we hooked up with Luis Eyre and Stu Campbell for a couple of sessions. They were staying with the O’Neill European team in Hossegor, and driving around to the various Pro Junior contests at the weekends. Unfortunately, even with the power of FaceBook, we didn’t manage to rendezvous with them on the barrelling mornings. C’est la vie.

Lyndon Wake from Croyde was also down for a few weeks with his girlfriend Corrine, and the couple were loving the French summer lifestyle. I was well impressed by Lyndon’s surfing – he looked really sharp and was nailing some stylish turns. I’m sure some of the credit must go to Billabong Euro team coach Carwyn Williams, who’s done a lot of training with Lyndon over the last couple of years.

The days passed quickly in a blur of fun sessions and frenzied snacking. I don’t know about you but I could live the French cafe lifestyle until I collapsed with exhaustion...like French president Nicolas Sarcozy did just the other day, in fact! Baguettes, croissants, pain au chocolat, slices of pizza, croque monsieurs, huge cups of coffee, froth-topped glasses of 1664, bottles of vin rouge, shots of Pernod...it can’t be good for the arteries.

All too soon it was nearly time to leave, but another pulse of swell was due to hit on our last morning, so we still had one last roll of the dice. And thankfully our luck was in!

We got up at dawn to find glassy overhead barrels pounding La Graviere for the second time in a week. I was frothing. For a photog, getting in the water before the sun rises and knowing that you're about to score big time is about as exciting as it gets. Lloyd, Matt, Dave and Gabe were also fully amped and keen to re-enact the session we’d shared at the beginning of the week. Unfortunately my hopes of shooting the Under 21 crew came to nought as they’d all buggered off across the border to Sopelana for the next Pro Junior comp. Duh!

The session got off to a bad start when Gabe snapped his board on his very first wave. He was gutted and scampered off home to get a new board. Matt had more luck and began picking off some beauties. He's got his barrel-riding down to a tee, taking off super late and setting it up perfectly every time. Lloyd nabbed a few perfect ones too, getting really deep on a couple. He seemed a bit less gung-ho this session and waited patiently for the bombs; I think Gabe’s strategy of careful wave selection had rubbed off on him. Again there wasn't much of a crowd. Maybe that bank down the coast was firing again? Or maybe the French just don’t do dawnies? I dunno.

We hauled ourselves out of the water around 10am, feeling tired but satisfied. I was relieved to have got the shots I wanted, and the boys were stoked with the barrelfest they’d shared. We had no time to hang around talking crap though, as Lloyd and I only had two hours to get back to Bordeaux airport for our return flight. Luckily everything went smoothly for a change and we rocked up at the check-in with sandy feet and time to spare.

On the plane, while enjoying some well-deserved Stellas, we watched the clouds thickening and turning grey once again as we crossed The Channel. However, even the miserable outlook couldn't diminish the euphoria we felt from having completed a successful mission.