WORDS AND IMAGES: Bart van den Hout
We all know the inspiring surf trip stories from the magazines. The heroic adventure which starts when something goes terribly wrong. The coming of age chronicles of young surfers confronted with waves previously out of their league. Or the spiritual tales of finding one-self while submerging into cultures unknown.
This is not such a story.
This is a short and modest ode to the 99% of surf trips so to say. The regular surf-eat-sleep-repeat version we all know even better. The glad to get a few days off to hit the road trip. A holiday where Sunday to Friday all kind of looked the same and the waves weren’t bad but could have been better.
A few weeks ago we skipped the Easter eggs and went on a road trip to Bretagne, France. After a nine hour ride we arrived at our log cabin. Our headquarters for the week turned out to be located at an idyllic spot near a clear watered stream, slightly more Spartan then expected.
After showing some courtesy to the locals in the line-up we were literally greeted with a well meant “welcome to Bretagne” followed up by some chit-chat between waves.
Next to this hospitality we would experience a building swell, offshore winds, glassy longboard peelers and plunging shore breaks, the occasional “search”, cold Kronenbourgs, laughing & snoring, precarious Finisterre weather and a bit unprepared bouldering expedition.
There were no epic experiences, no waves of a lifetime or spiritual revelations. It was just a perfect surf trip.