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I’m off this afternoon to the banks of the Nive, near Saint Martin d’Arrossa, in the French Basque Country.
I have friends there whose house borders the river. As is my habit, I’ll be wearing my beautiful toreador costume, an exact replica of the one Luis Mariano wore when he performed at the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris in 1959, and which brings me good luck when I fish in the Basque country. The locals are often astonished to see me dressed like this in the middle of the river, but I don’t pay any attention to their quips. I like to dress up for fishing, because that’s who I am, and I fish better that way.
After fishing, I’ll eat some nice Cambo sausages cooked gently with Espelette chillie. Chillies have always had this delicious effect on me, making me jump up and down on tables and sing out loud beautiful songs from the region: “Bidassoa” or “Agur Agur” for example, sometimes my repertoire goes beyond the borders of the region and I sing “La belle de Cadix”, which is always a great success.
On one occasion, dressed in my operetta costume and fishing the Nive de Baïgorri, I even let out Tarzan’s famous cry when I caught a magnificent 45 cm fario trout, which echoed from valley to valley.
The next morning, I read in the press that Franska the bear, no doubt panicking for some unknown reason, had been crushed on the expressway not far from Pau.

So I arrived at the no kill beat at Saint Martin d’Arrossa, downstream from St Jean Pied de Port (my mouth is watering).
There were plenty of bathers and whole families were soaking in the middle of a huge flat. On the shore, three girls were sunbathing nude, but they weren’t very pretty. On the other hand, watching them rub suntan lotion on their chests was delicious, and well worth the hour’s drive that took me along the route. Three young children, aged around 14 to 12, hadn’t missed a thing.

Later, as I stood in the middle of the water like a heron, I tried to cast my fly under the trees on the opposite bank where I’d spotted a gobbler. The three boys swam like crocodiles down the river to get a closer look at the naked girls. Their technique got them between the trout and me, which had the effect of stalling it.         I pointed out that they weren’t very discreet in their Sioux approach and that the girls had noticed their cinema and were covering up. Their response was to splash me while swimming with their legs… then once they were on the bank and I was glowering at them, they took the opportunity to throw a few stones into the water, which must have traumatized the fish around them.

Annoyed, I decided to leave the course and go further upstream, on the “kill”.        The river was now in a gorge, bounded by a road bridge and further on a railroad bridge. A beautiful riffle awaited me. At nightfall, as I made my way up a steep slope in the bushes, I remembered my fishing trip: twelve fish, all Farios, including a magnificent 43 cm! The others were between 30 and 35.
I thanked the three rascals for getting me out of the no-kill municipal bathing area and into less crowded, more welcoming waters.
I returned to Arcangues, smoking a wonderful Partagas cigar.

 

Art by Flechemuller