It’s a sweet little town, Arcachon. Clinging to the long French Atlantic coast, adorned with Victorian villas and pretty flowerbeds, it reminds me oddly of Bournemouth. By which I mean: Bournemouth before it was ruined. As such, it’s the kind of place that usually calls for a return visit. I am sure for many French people it is a holiday regular – ‘ahh, shall we do Arcachon again? Mais oui, we can try that new oyster cabin.’ But right now I seriously wonder if anyone will want to return to Arcachon, ever.
The reasons are twofold. Firstly, the news is full of searing images: of people fleeing the wildfires on Cap Ferret, and being ferried, like wartime evacuees, across the bay to Arcachon after a summer of repeated heatwaves. Secondly, several weeks ago I personally experienced the worst of those heatwaves, in and around Arcachon, and it changed my mind about the emotional impact of climate change.
My torrid holiday from hell began in green, bucolic Aveyron, where I was on assignment. Everything was so pleasant and as the official trip came to an end I thought: why not extend the adventure? My calendar was empty, I already had a hired car and I was keen to explore a part of France I’ve never seen before – the French Atlantic coast between Brittany and Bayonne.
The only fly in the ointment was the weather forecast. When I turned to my sensible AI – NinaGPT – to construct a coastal itinerary, she kept saying ‘Are you sure you want to do this Sean, there is a heatwave coming’. I scolded her for being a nanny and laughingly reminded her I’m a travel veteran; I like hot sunny weather and I’ve been to several war zones. I set off.
Major mistake. One afternoon, parked by an Aldi west of Conques, I watched with grim amazement as the thermometer in my car registered the intensifying heat: 47C, 48C, 49C. I actually took photographs. It was surely not that hot in reality: car thermometers are unreliable, especially if you’re sitting on baked tarmac. Nonetheless it was indicative of the heat dome settling over France. It also reminded me of the last time I’d stared at a car thermometer in wary amazement. That was in the Fish River Canyon in southern Namibia. That time, my car told me it was 46C. I took a photograph then, as well.
By the time I reached sun-struck Moissac the heatwave was near its raging peak. I quickly learned the French for this phenomenon: canicule. I also learned the sobering truth that much of provincial France lacks air conditioning. Its buildings rely on shutters, thick walls and ventilation; defences which begin to fail above 35C. In the main square of Moissac I scurried to a shady but uncooled brasserie to bash out an article. The sweat dripped from my nose onto my laptop. Then I watched TV, as President Macron warned that the ‘hottest day in French history’ was approaching.
It came as I arrived in Arcachon. I’d booked an apartment, right on the beach, which looked suitably modern. I figured sea breezes plus air conditioning would see me through the worst. As I pulled up, around 6pm, it was a brutal, stifling 39C. There was no sea breeze. The sea in the bay looked sad and listless, repressed by a despotic sun. To top it all off, even here there was no air conditioning.
I hadn’t checked the small print. Stupidly I’d just assumed the flat would be properly kitted out, because it was so clearly brand new. Not only did it have no air conditioning, but it also had no fans and no through breeze. It was maybe 50C in the punishment block of the bedroom. My reservation was non-refundable but I kicked up such a fuss on Booking.com’s helpline – ‘I could die in there’ (I wasn’t joking) – they agreed to a refund. I used the money to find a grand hotel with climatisation. And then I hid.
Because that is all you can do when the thermometer soars over 40C. Hide. Shelter in place. It is like sitting out an air raid, or a hurricane, except it goes on for longer. Every time I did venture out, I got an instant pounding headache and I hurried back inside.
It was a truly horrible experience, and I write as someone who has been through severe heat. I’ve been in Luxor, Egypt when it hit 43C, I’ve been in Death Valley, Eastern California during similar. Somehow, they were more tolerable than Arcachon, France during the recent canicule. Perhaps because you expect great heat in deserts but not in the suburbs of Bordeaux; perhaps because the proximity of the sea added humidity.
French buildings rely on shutters, thick walls and ventilation; defences which begin to fail above 35C
I’ve had just one experience which compares to what happened in France, in the Danakil Depression, Ethiopia. I arrived at dusk in a village of mud huts, ready to climb the famous, lava-lake volcano of Erta Ale. There it was about 42C at 6pm – similar to southwest France, recently. But it’s not just the temperature that echoed: in both places I had the sensation of being trapped and tormented. Of suffering inescapably. And the mud huts had no air conditioning.
The obvious question arises. If these heatwaves continue, and worsen, what will they do to Europe, and European life? No one can be certain, but I remember my charming, capricious Auntie Lois, who spent her life shifting nervously around the world. At one point she fled Los Angeles after an earthquake. At the time I put it down to her highly-strung nature; an over-reaction. And yet I now think of her explanation, ‘The earthquake changed the way I felt about California. I felt like my home was turning on me, that the ground beneath me couldn’t be trusted.’
Perhaps Europe will be fine, we will briskly adapt – and install air conditioning everywhere. That’s what I used to believe. But now I am not sure. Maybe we will react like Lois, and we will lose trust in the skies. Perhaps millions will avoid southern Europe. Certainly, there are only so many times you can experience an earthquake before you think – that’s it, I’m out of here, and I’m not coming back. Especially not for summer holidays. As for my auntie Lois, she ended up living in Glasgow.
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