Touquet: Is this really Paris-by-the-Sea?

Touquet: Thirty Kilometres west of Calais

Is this really Paris-by-the-sea?

Article posted 11th August by Englebert Norris

I arrived at the Calais depot with half a day to spare. I asked Jacques, the security guard, where the locals went for an afternoon out and he suggested that I visit Touquet, a small coastal town thirty kilometres west of Calais. I’d never heard of the place but he was insistent. He told me that Touquet is the most elegant resort in northern France and the playground of rich Parisians. Curiosity got the better of me and so we collected his girlfriend, Marie-Claude, and set off for the resort known as Paris-by-the-sea.

During the journey, Marie-Claude told Jacques that she’d rather drive on to Deauville, claiming that it was always cloudy in Le Touquet and that the town was full of stuck-up snobs and English people. Not that she had anything against the English, it’s just that a lot of them had bought second homes in and around Touquet which meant that locals like her couldn’t get on the property ladder.

Touquet is surrounded by scores of private estates with huge villas set in spacious sandy pine forests. Apparently the entire area was once part of a hunting ground but whole swathes of land were purchased by English developers who created country retreats for the likes of Noel Coward and his set. The architectural design of these villas was revolutionary in its day and some still look rather unusual such as a timber-framed construction without any windows and a hut shaped like a toilet roll.

Jacques asked if I would like to go on the town's official tour of 19^th and 20^th century architecture but Marie-Claude wasn't at all interested. In the absence of any alternative suggestions, we drove across the River Canche, reaching the rolling sand dunes of the famous Le Touquet beach just as the sky clouded over. Although there weren’t many people around, the entire western area of the beach was covered in umbrellas, deckchairs and canvass windbreaks forcing us onto the eastern side next to the open air swimming pool and some rather hideous concrete bathing huts where the ground was somewhat stonier.

© Galina Barskaya - FOTOLIA

Marie-Claude was clearly annoyed and it didn’t help matters when Jacques suggested that we take on some of the locals in a game of beach volleyball. It was all going exceedingly well until I put money on the result and ended up winning 50 euros. At that point a smartly dressed middle-aged man demanded to know whether we were members of any of the beach clubs. It seems that all the sporting activities on the beach are organised by local clubs such as the Hippocampes, Caddie Sport, OJEM or La Joie de vivre and unless you’re wearing a club shirt you will almost certainly arouse suspicion.

The man whose name was Monsieur Houberreizst turned out to be a dentist from Lille who spent every weekend during the summer at his second home near the sea front. He told me that the local clubs were currently putting the finishing touches to the floats which they had constructed during the summer and which they would parade through the town during the Fête de fleurs at the end of August. He pointed out that most of the kids on the beach were wearing club shirts and asked in perfect English whether I was enjoying my visit to Le Touquet. I explained that we’d only just arrived and asked whether he knew somewhere we might eat. Monsieur Houbberreizst told me that Touquet has no decent restaurants. In fact the nearest place where he thought I might get a decent meal was Wimereux, 15 kilometres to the east.

“Listen my friend,” he continued, draping his arm over my shoulder “it’s quicker to catch, fillet and grill a fish than to find someone to cook you a meal in Touquet”.

I found this hard to believe, but Monsieur Houbberreizst explained that Touquet doesn’t really encourage tourists. People are very clannish, visit each others villas and have soirees in their landscaped gardens and around their swimming pools. In fact Touquet is a nice, quiet town where most people know each other and kids can play in safety.

When I enquired about the hotels, bars and the casino, Monsieur Houbberreizst told me that Touquet has its own racing course, several superb golf courses, three polo pitches and many stables. He also explained that one had to be a member to participate in most of these activities. He was sure that I would have enjoyed the “Enduro”, a spectacular quad race which takes place in February of each year along the beach and over the sand dunes and thought that it was a great pity I had come at the wrong time of the year.

“Well what else is there to do?” I asked.

“Why not try Deauville?” Monsieur Houbberreizst suggested, squeezing my arm in a firm but friendly sort of way.

We stayed on the beach for another hour but it was starting to get surprisingly chilly for an August evening so we searched for somewhere to get a drink and finished up at a Cuban bar just off the sea front. I was surprised by the pictures of Che Guevara and Fidel Castro since Touquet wasn't the sort of place where you night expect to find Marxist revolutionaries but Jacques thought that the local kids needed some anti-establishment heroes, particularly with authoritarian middle-aged men stalking the beaches. I told Jacques that if he was referring to Monsieur Houbberreizst he had entirely misunderstood a polite and dignified gentleman, but Marie-Claude told me not to be so patronising.

Having heard that there was fashionable nightclub in the rue de St. Jean, we later decided to pay it a visit. Unfortunately the bouncer, who hailed from Dover, refused to let us in because we weren’t members.

“You see!” Marie-Claude scowled, pointing in my direction. “Touquet is full of snobs and Englishmen. We should have given it a miss and gone to Deauville instead!"