Tour report included in Club Newsletter 1971.

South West France

What with the many and varied responses to cries of "ou est mon baggage?", "ou est mon fiddle?", and, "ou est le openeur ?" en route, we finally found ourselves confronted with climbing over, under or through the total exiled complement of the Portuguese nation; oranges, chickens, wine-flasks and all at Dax station. They were hell bent on not being budged from their migratory intent southwards on the eighteen hours of jam-packed, garlic laden, hot and sweaty excitement to Lisbon. We fought tooth and nail to get out and after what seemed ages landed at the feet of Pierre Albaladejo, ,Jean-Claude Eernard our host, Jean-Pierre and M.le President, Robert Sowerby, who whisked us, with the help of a tear-away coach driver, to the hotel Cheval Blanc. After lightning quick "cat-ick and scrape" session we were "enticed" to the Bala Club, where Pierre Albaladejo very kindly (?) proceeded to revive us, physically, psychologically and otherwise with Ricard "au gratuit". We found ourselves back at the Cheval Blanc for what was the forerunner of Jean-Claude's excellent meals, not to mention a mean old drop of "vin plonk" for which we soon developed a liking, (aye, Dave??)

Back at the Bala Club again, and onto the Bar Basque, where Graham, determined to drink himself taller than Frances' Bastiat, got a dose of stiff neck, aching calves and a combination of madness, frustration and gout for his efforts, and even had that gargantuan gentleman repeating quizzically, in parrot fashion, "Mai Gaud, you are beeg??? How you say???"

The next we knew was having to stand aside and give right of way to a touring two-some "doing Dax" on a moped made for one to the accompaniment of the dawn chorus which, by that time, sounded like the "Dax Quack" on hoof or wing or both.

We saw one another next day, I hear, through what is reminiscent of London's yellow smog, but I am assured is a condition known locally and elsewhere as Pistas (or is it Pastis?) We were on a "warming up pitch" behind the main stand at Stade de Dax, watching the crowd watching thirty or so supremely sculptured, conditioned and sun-tanned specialists in scarlet attire, carrying out devastatingly fast and brilliantly executed moves while we thought we had better put the wind up them by loitering as hard as was physically possible. Ever tried putting the wind up forwards who look and scowl like Quasimodo and backs with one half looking like Nuneyer and the other like Sacha Distel? Someone then called us in but we were diverted from the dressing room and pushed out through a dark tunnel onto a large area of brilliant green which only had one set of posts - our's - and stretched further than the eye, or both, could see. Even the widely trekked Fred, our woodsman from Horsenden Hill, would have had difficulty finding his way out of our twenty-five!

Amidst singing(?) and other noises emitted from the main stand, a whistle was blown, a ball came hurtling at us quickly followed by pounding of Adidas, and a wave of scarlet, made all the more fluorescent through the yellow mist (or was it sunlight?). Those big, fast "hommes" from the other pitch just devoured the area of green sward quicker than it took Cochrane and Byers to hiccup a duet in the stand. There were more figures in red than were gathered at the Waterloo event. One prayed for a miracle, a Messiah, and he came, disguised as a Welsh referee and he was known to the gathering as "Monsieur Griff". It was he, it is said, who did blow his whistle and bring about half-time. A sharp, jolting sensation in the manifold - the lemon, in confrontation with the Ricard, by now, well on its way in the opposite direction. The voice of Mike, our skipper, throbbing in our ears and vibrating our bodies. That whistle again, second wind (?) and the raids became less frequent. "Les hommes grand rouge" became less "grand" and more "petit" and even mortal - Vive le Citroen! Vive le choeur de Ealing dans le stade".

On to the dinner in the evening after a very good game indeed, of quails (known to some as "Sparras des Galway'), wine, beef, wine, wine, and wine, etc. M. le President gave us a lesson in public relations followed by a demonstration of "how to make friends and influence people", wielding carnation between teeth and achieving maximum efficiency!! Robin Gamage actually sang and delivered a fine rendering of an old German "volks-aria" ~ Wee Ronnies' "Danse de chic gymnastique sur le table" brought somewhat more than le maison down. The grande finale was somewhat later in the evening (or was it morning?) when Dave Young gave us a very touching and heart-tugging rendering of his original "Lamentation de Beret Rouge", delivering the first verse "a la horizontale et sur le terne", and the second, "sur le capot de Citroen" which he changed for a newer model before the next verse.

Sunday saw us in Air-Sur-Adour and after an exciting game, refereed by a gentleman in nattily cut tropical clerical gear, we got champagne poured into us, followed by a truly magnificent reception, and dinner laid on by the Club. As the stuff went down so everyone got fed up with the height of the floor and decided to get higher. At one point there was no one on the floor ( I'?m relying on information supplied since my own eye-sight wasn't up to standard at the time). Then, onto a dance where Derry's answer to Elvis Presley had the crowd at his fingertip's shouting "encore! encore!". Well done, Stuart, you were magnificent. So much so that it took over seventy bottles of champagne to replace the tears of joy and pride shed by us all, "Blue Suede Shoes" never sounded sweeter - bravo, Stuart, what a performance - it rounded off our night if it didn't make it any smoother!!

Back at the Cheval Blanc (standing since 1610) claims were heard that a ghost in "Y-fronts" was seen riding a moped over the bridge during the early hours. The champagne must have had some effect on us or the ghost too, maybe? Seventy bottles between approximately twenty-seven of us is surely a worthwhile contribution in Centenary Year!

Monday - Tartas! Weather beautiful, temperature seventy-eight degrees and a hard ground with a packed stand. Crowds of spectators to watch us "warming-up" (French! ) reminiscent of the viewing of the bulls before they meet their fate before the crowd. Music blaring, we line up in front of the stand and we are presented with a bag of miniatures (sic) each and introduced to the crowd, to whom we step forward and bow (or was it curtsey?) for the benefit of the television cameras. Kick-off by Boniface.

An enjoyable and exciting game, followed by more stuff, as reward for nearly dying of dehydration and running ourselves into the ground, a meal consisting of Tartas Blue Trout and pate foi de gras (plates of the stuff!!) in all, another memorable evening, marred only by the fact that we had to get everyone back to Dax station for the train to Paris.

There was so much to this tour to be remembered, The welcome and warmth of the hospitality extended to us was unforgettable and never more sincere. To those who made it possible, I'm sure you would wish me to express on behalf of everybody, our deepest thanks to Jean-Claude Bernard, mine host de Hotel Cheval Blanc, Monique and children for making our stay so enjoyable. Jean-Claude, votre "Quacks de Dax" c'est magnificent! So much for so little in terms of danger-money, etc. , . etc. To Pierre Albaladejo for helping arrange things for us and to our own "man in Dax" Jean-Pierre, who did not spare himself to ensure that we had an enjoyable tour. He was the proverbial blue-bottle, shooting around, ferrying and harrying, losing his voice and his pants for his efforts into the bargain, You must come over here soon, and try this bottle we have in the Clubhouse.

To Peter Sargeant, our Springbok via Leverkusen - try it again"" To Mike Parle who left the "ould country" to come with us and Roger Curtis, now in Wolverhampton - don't leave it too long, and keep in touch. We will re-live this tour, with memories of the various highlights like Fiddler Tom's escapade with the locals, Mike McMahon's witty ditty f'rancaise not to mention toothless Tim "never mind the quality" Arnold?'s cabaret, and of course, "Le Quax de Dax!" You can never hope to write it all down, but you can recall over a pint - ALLEZ DAX!!

Will Sinnott

Tour Video