It’s a sweet little town, Arcachon. Clinging to the long French Atlantic coast, adorned with Victorian villas and pretty flowerbeds, it reminds me oddly of Bournemouth. By which I mean: Bournemouth before it was ruined. As such, it’s the kind of place that usually calls for a return visit. I am sure for many French people it is a holiday regular – ‘ahh, shall we do Arcachon again? Mais oui, we can try that new oyster cabin.’ But right now I seriously wonder if anyone will want to return to Arcachon, ever.
The reasons are twofold. Firstly, the news is full of searing images: of people fleeing the wildfires on Cap Ferret, and being ferried, like wartime evacuees, across the bay to Arcachon after a summer of repeated heatwaves. Secondly, several weeks ago I personally experienced the worst of those heatwaves, in and around Arcachon, and it changed my mind about the emotional impact of climate change.
My torrid holiday from hell began in green, bucolic Aveyron, where I was on assignment. Everything was so pleasant and as the official trip came to an end I thought: why not extend the adventure? My calendar was empty, I already had a hired car and I was keen to explore a part of France I’ve never seen before – the French Atlantic coast between Brittany and Bayonne.
