Holiday Notebook

Sharing a plate of oysters with a three-year-old: where could this be but France, where children are brought up not to be faddish. The fads are for adults. It’s a relief to be away from Cambridge, where summer is bad for the soul. I find myself getting constantly annoyed: with suicidal cyclists, psychopathic taxi drivers, imbecilic pedestrians and double-decker buses allowed to hurtle through narrow streets belching diesel fumes. And hundreds of thousands of tourists trooping gormlessly up and down King’s Parade with not much to do. Here in Biarritz, the streets are calm, the traffic is regulated and people do not shout at each other in the street — a regular occurrence in Cambridge (and, mea culpa, one of the shouters is sometimes me). Biarritz is a town that lives by tourism and adapts to it. Cambridge has tourism dumped on it, and it fails to cope. Biarritz shows signs of having someone in charge. Whereas Cambridge is full of egos, has no sense of community, and its habitual summer state is one of nerve-jangling chaos. On the other hand, one doesn’t experience the sudden shock of seeing a squad of paratroopers in combat gear threading their way between the children with beach balls and the old ladies walking their chihuahuas.

In Biarritz I can indulge a vice: fromage de tête. Beside the covered market — itself a temple of gastronomy — is a traiteur whose profusion of beautiful and delicious treats outshines a dozen restaurants. Fromage de tête is one of the least glamorous, but has helped to win its maker the title ‘meilleur ouvrier de France’, which is conferred on outstanding craftsmen. This is still a country where you learn how to do things properly and with pride. It’s often said to be a dying tradition, but here, as the queue shows, it thrives.