Some trips you plan for months. This one came together in a single evening: a group of gentlemen, a stack of longboards, and the old Defender pointed at the Atlantic. Biarritz first, then down the coast into the Spanish Basque Country, chasing swell and whatever else the road offered.
The formula was simple, and we stuck to it religiously. Surf. Coffee. Wine. Surf again. Repeat until the ferry home.
Biarritz First
Biarritz has been doing elegant seaside since before any of us were born, and it shows. Old villas above the water, faded grandeur on every corner, and a surf culture that somehow makes wetsuits look like formalwear. It suits the Mr. Monroe sensibility perfectly: a town where you can come out of the ocean at nine and be sitting somewhere with white tablecloths by one.
We surfed the mornings, when the light was soft and the crowds were still asleep. Some waves were ridden with genuine style. Others were ridden briefly. The ocean keeps honest records and we won't be disputing them.
Down the Coast
From Biarritz the road bends south and the country changes its accent. The Defender rattled us over the border into the Spanish Basque Country, boards on the roof, sand in places sand shouldn't be, everyone arguing gently about which beach to check first.
That's the great luxury of a surf trip in a Defender: you're never committed to anything. If the waves are flat, you drive ten minutes and they usually aren't. If they're flat everywhere, well, that's what the long lunches are for. The Basque coast takes its food as seriously as its swell, and we did our best to honour both. Txakoli in the afternoons, pintxos standing up at crowded bars, and the kind of grilled fish that ruins you for grilled fish anywhere else.
The Ritual
Every session ended the same way. Boards leaned against a railing above the water, salt drying on our skin, small cups passed around while we watched the next set roll in and told increasingly generous versions of the waves we'd just caught.
There's something about coffee after cold water that no café on land can replicate. You've earned it twice: once in the paddle out, once in the walk back up the cliff. One of us stayed in the lineup so long one evening that his cup was handed to him in the shallows, which we believe may be a first for the brand.
The Takeaway
The Basque Country gave us salt, simplicity, and the best kind of tired.
No schedule survived past breakfast. No conversation was more urgent than the tide chart. And no group of gentlemen has ever looked less gentlemanly than ours at the end of a three-hour session, which is, we suspect, exactly the point of going.
Surf. Coffee. Wine. Surf again. We recommend the formula without reservation.
The journal continues. Where to next is currently the subject of a heated group chat.
Longboards and Loafers: A Gentlemen's Surf Trip Through the Basque Country
Some trips you plan for months. This one came together in a single evening: a group of gentlemen, a stack of longboards, and the old Defender pointed at the Atlantic. Biarritz first, then down the coast into the Spanish Basque Country, chasing swell and whatever else the road offered.
The formula was simple, and we stuck to it religiously. Surf. Coffee. Wine. Surf again. Repeat until the ferry home.
Biarritz First
Biarritz has been doing elegant seaside since before any of us were born, and it shows. Old villas above the water, faded grandeur on every corner, and a surf culture that somehow makes wetsuits look like formalwear. It suits the Mr. Monroe sensibility perfectly: a town where you can come out of the ocean at nine and be sitting somewhere with white tablecloths by one.
We surfed the mornings, when the light was soft and the crowds were still asleep. Some waves were ridden with genuine style. Others were ridden briefly. The ocean keeps honest records and we won't be disputing them.
Down the Coast
From Biarritz the road bends south and the country changes its accent. The Defender rattled us over the border into the Spanish Basque Country, boards on the roof, sand in places sand shouldn't be, everyone arguing gently about which beach to check first.
That's the great luxury of a surf trip in a Defender: you're never committed to anything. If the waves are flat, you drive ten minutes and they usually aren't. If they're flat everywhere, well, that's what the long lunches are for. The Basque coast takes its food as seriously as its swell, and we did our best to honour both. Txakoli in the afternoons, pintxos standing up at crowded bars, and the kind of grilled fish that ruins you for grilled fish anywhere else.
The Ritual
Every session ended the same way. Boards leaned against a railing above the water, salt drying on our skin, small cups passed around while we watched the next set roll in and told increasingly generous versions of the waves we'd just caught.
There's something about coffee after cold water that no café on land can replicate. You've earned it twice: once in the paddle out, once in the walk back up the cliff. One of us stayed in the lineup so long one evening that his cup was handed to him in the shallows, which we believe may be a first for the brand.
The Takeaway
The Basque Country gave us salt, simplicity, and the best kind of tired.
No schedule survived past breakfast. No conversation was more urgent than the tide chart. And no group of gentlemen has ever looked less gentlemanly than ours at the end of a three-hour session, which is, we suspect, exactly the point of going.
Surf. Coffee. Wine. Surf again. We recommend the formula without reservation.
The journal continues. Where to next is currently the subject of a heated group chat.