....AND YOU THOUGHT IT WAS A WEBSITE!!

A nice bit of interesting Rugby journalism (not from an Australian source, obviously)
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RUGBY HEAVEN IS A BAR IN BIARRITZ IN A STORM

Source:Telegraph.co.uk 28th January, 2009

Rugby Heaven may be an Australian website but in reality it was being marooned in Biarritz on Saturday. Rugby-man being forced to spend the day in a French rugby enclave with all creature-comforts to hand, but no immediate danger other than the savage damage being inflicted on your wallet. C'est magnifique.



By Brendan Gallagher

Last Updated: 6:14PM GMT 27 Jan 2009

Any port in a storm: A cafe in Biarritz provides a safe haven during the storm Photo: GETTY IMAGES

It started at 3am when, as predicted, the 100mph winds hit the coast as if some distant Field Marshal had flicked a switch and ordered to artillery to commence bombardment. It contained unabated until 1pm when there was a slight lull and our hotel, high on the cliffs by the famous Biarritz lighthouse, took the full brunt of the 'le tempest'; indeed it seemed to act as a magnet to everything the famously angry Bay of Biscay could throw our way.

The day dawned and our hotel manager hurriedly locked the grand hotel door to prevent the foolhardy or plain curious wandering out. Breakfast was served in the crowded corridors � the usual dining area was slap bang under a glass ceiling the size of a basketball court and you could see random tree branches, scaffolding planks and dustbins being hurled at the reinforced glass, making a noise that gave our unknowing generation just a taste of what the blitz must be like.

The really ferocious gusts you could hear like an express train heading your way; indeed you could track their progress and predict their arrival to within a matter of seconds as they smashed into the masonry with the force of a small bomb.

Yet all was relatively calm inside. The French enjoy a spot of bad weather and, not unlike the Brits, extremes bring out the best in them: it appeals to their romantic and dramatic natures. This Red Alert had been widely predicted and provisions had been laid in.

After le petit d�jeuner life stood still for the stranded. What to do? Bizarrely, I decided now was exactly the right time to sit down and attack a task I had been putting off for over a month; namely, working out my Tour de France route this year and trying to plan the booking of 25 separate hotel rooms to coincide with key finishes, interesting starts or occasionally both. A thankless task that has much in common with that Rubic's Cube back in the 70s. Neither has ever been completed satisfactorily. Not by me anyway.

I made a diligent start, however, and became lost in a world of 100 degree heat, small Provencial villages and towering Alpine peaks. It was soon lunchtime and the manager agreed those who must � mainly Brits � could poke their heads outside and feel the full force of nature. Along with Neil Squires of the Express and Chris Foy of the Daily Mail we made it to the lighthouse, although the latter has to hang on to a lamppost at one stage to avoid being blown into the Atlantic.

At the lighthouse an extraordinary sight greeted us. Mountainous 40-foot waves approaching the shore with a regimental menace while the rest of the sea beneath them, as far as eye could see, was pure white, like an Antarctic snowfield.

Emboldened, we headed for the apparently deserted town below. The match were scheduled to cover, Munster at Montauban, had been postponed, the police were ordering us not travel anywhere and it was Heineken Cup Saturday. There had to be a cosy bar serving all kinds of delights with the Heineken Cup on in the background. Indeed there was. This was Rugby Heaven.

The Red Cafe came highly recommended but was standing room only, mobbed with Gloucester diehards hanging on after the match against Biarritz, as was the Newquay bar just down the road. Eventually we opted for Cafe, Cafe; so good they named it twice, where with a glass or two of the region's finest we watched Stade Francais beat a spirited Ulster in tranquil Paris and Sale overcome Clermont.

We wandered down to the old port, a full-on storm still blowing but it was kids' stuff compared with the tempest earlier. Three bodysurfers, easily mistaken for seals in their black wetsuits, were enjoying themselves in the white mush that lapped one secluded bay while huge waves still crashed over the intricate quays that had been designed to repulse storms such as this. The wise had lifted their boats out the day before.

Next stop the horribly named Le Royalty caf� although it proved a delight despite the Gloucester stag weekend going on in the bar next door. Here we watched Treviso against Perpignan � I reckon you could count the Brits who have watched that game on the fingers of one hand � and we were rewarded with one of the most startling and best tries of the season by Perpignan's right wing.

And finally, reluctant to leave our refuge, we settled down to watch France's Handball World Championship match against Sweden. That isn't a misprint by the way. We were mocking to start with � the wine was begin to talk � but gradually we began to appreciate and, yes, enjoy the incredible athleticism and skill of those on show. So much so that we vowed to make a block booking when the 2012 Olympic tickets go on sale.

The end of the 'perfect storm' was nigh but happily the wind was still strong enough to blow us up the steep hill to our hotel. Apparently these brutes arrive regular as clockwork every 10 years, so I've already made my reservations for January 2019.