After days of driving, door‑kicking, and medieval sightseeing, we decided we deserved something simple. Something calm. Something with a swimming pool.

So we headed to Urt — pronounced not like you’ve just stubbed your toe, but “Oort” (rhyming loosely with “short”) . A small, peaceful village a cycle ride from Bayonne, perfect for a relaxing stopover.

Or so we thought...

A Campsite With a Pool

The plan was beautiful in its simplicity, park up, relax, cycle into Bayonne, whilst enjoying the Basque countryside along with floating around in the pool like happy sun‑kissed otters.

Urt is a charming little place on the banks of the Adour River, known for its Basque culture, fishing, and general “life moves slowly here” sort of energy. Exactly what we needed.

But then France decided to turn the thermostat to 36 degrees.

The Heatwave Arrives

Campervan or Mobile Oven?

There are many wonderful things about campervans. But in a heatwave, they transform into mobile metal ovens with all the thermal mercy of a pizza stone.

Inside the van, the temperature climbed steadily, 30°C, 34°C, 36°C, is this how lasagne feels?

Every surface radiated heat. The cupboards were hot. The seats were hot. Even the air was hot — like breathing through a hairdryer.

We tried opening windows. We tried closing windows. We tried pretending it wasn’t that hot. But it was that hot.

At one point, I’m fairly sure the van whispered, “Just give up.”

The Half‑Ride to Bayonne

Despite the heat, we bravely attempted the cycle ride into Bayonne. We made it… well halfway.

By that point our water bottles were empty, our energy had evaporated and the sun was doing its best impression of a nuclear reactor. We looked at each other, looked at the road ahead, and silently agreed that Bayonne could wait.

We turned around and pedalled back (okay with our ebike throttles on) at the speed of two people who had absolutely no intention of dying in a ditch for the sake of sightseeing.

The Pool: Our New Home Address

Back at the campsite, we did the only sensible thing, we moved into the swimming pool.

Not literally, but close.

We spent so much time in the water that other guests probably assumed we were part of the filtration system.

The pool became our refuge, our sanctuary and our temporary climate‑controlled habitat. Every time we got out, the heat slapped us in the face like an angry baguette.

So we got back in.

The Great Escape Plan

By the second evening, we realised something important, we were not built for 36‑degree heat inside a metal box. So we made a plan — a bold, strategic, heat‑stroke‑preventing plan.

"Move to a site with air‑conditioned cabins".

A place where the walls don’t conduct heat like a frying pan. A place where sleep is possible. A place where you don’t wake up feeling like a microwaved potato.

The decision was unanimous!