Hotel Indarra

There’s a viral clip doing the rounds from a resurfaced edition of the quiz show Would I Lie to You?, in which comedian Sara Pascoe confesses to booking a flight thinking she was going to one of the Costas in Spain but actually ended up in Costa Rica (she only realised when the on-board flight tracker said 14 hours). Reading the Instagram comments, the predictable wasp nest of vitriol that anyone could fumble their geography so spectacularly is interspersed with comical tales of similar missteps: Bucharest mixed up with Budapest, Guatemala for Guadalajara, Naples, Italy for Naples, Florida. Proving that it can happen to the best of us (to my A-level geography teachers, I’d just like to say: it’s not you, it’s me), this is how I ended up with an itinerary, two dinner reservations and a Google Map of tastemaker-sourced addresses for a French town that I’ve still never been to.

Things became even more geographically fluid when we arrived in Arbonne (not Bayonne!) and walked into a hotel so reminiscent of Byron Bay that the arrival chorus of 'bonjour' felt like a practical joke. Almost 10 years to the day since I waved goodbye to Australia, having drained the life out of a working-holiday visa, I did not expect to be transported back via a farming village in south-west France.

From a stack of boards in the lobby to prints of swell and ocean-themed art books, that surf motifs run throughout Hotel Indarra initially feels a little off-kilter given that it’s not beside the coast. But the stylistic and spiritual influence of Biarritz — the European surf capital that’s only a 20-minute drive away — infuses this beautifully renovated 1870s farmhouse like a salty sea breeze. The upscale town became wave-famous from the mid-1950s when a Californian film crew arrived to shoot an Ernest Hemingway adaptation with their surfboards in tow. As a result, the surf leash — the meaty strap that connects a board to a surfer’s knee or ankle — was a Biarritz invention to prevent boards from escaping and smashing against the merciless Basque cliffs.

Whether by design or coincidence, that Californian DNA pops out like freckles. The vibe is boutique, with most rooms styled as individual units in strips that run around the main building. All are garden-facing, and some have hammocks or a patio set that looks naked without a glass of something restorative on it.

The sunlight-flooded heart of the main building branches into arteries, where couples or groups hang out against artefact-adorned walls. There’s a game of backgammon in progress; two thirtysomething girlfriends catch up while stretching elastane-coated limbs; a small queue of Birkenstock wearers line up for a slab of complimentary afternoon cake. If you were trying to sell the concept of communal co-living, this is how AI would envisage the scene before someone used all the milk or broke the washing machine. Outside, a glass-walled yoga studio overlooks the heated 20-metre pool, steam gently drifting upwards like a ballet dancer’s relevé.

Our junior suite sits at the top of the main building; we plumped for one with a terrace because we’re graced by our dog’s presence, but mainly it’s a great choice for a pair of nosy introverts, providing a private viewing deck over the pool, gardens and people below. The decor oozes that bright, unburdened Byron-Bay-meets-California spirit: linen throws, bobbin-legged side tables, a terrazzo bathroom sink and playful curved blue tiling that gives you a nod of unseriousness.

I translate the light-hearted design as, 'Sure, go and get yourself a second slice of free cake'. The staff wouldn’t mind. I know this because I ended up jamming the self-service coffee machine (there’s always one, and I am that one) and was not only rescued just as I was contemplating wriggling my fingers into an electrical appliance, but rescued with a giggle and a fun afternoon chat. Everyone’s English is so impeccable that you immediately feel the need to re-subscribe to Duolingo.

For, essentially, a little village with many cows, the walking-distance food scene is excellent. We had arrived with no clue and no reservations, so the hotel team booked us into the local cider house, Cidrerie du Fronton, a giant hall with long communal tables that is as rowdy as a barn dance. There are only three dishes (omelette, cod or côte de boeuf, the latter not open to any cooking instruction) and the drink is limitless, self-served cider that you pour at great height from giant kegs. Entire families come along — ignore your northern European sensibilities when I say that everyone drinks the cider, young kids included, though you sense they’re more interested in the potentially messy pouring part than the stuff that makes their parents get loud and (even more) embarrassing.

The following night, we tried Lurrak, only a couple of doors up from the cider restaurant, but a completely different experience. The presentation of the food was exquisite, and our seasonal tasting menu featured the juiciest yet crispiest-skinned chicken I’ve ever contemplated asking for seconds of.

As we walked back on the high of being ridiculously and somewhat spontaneously well-fed, I thought about the urge to plan and micromanage our holidays these days. How we want the travel script to be written before we’ve even arrived. Yet sometimes a navigational typo isn’t an error, it’s a wave worth riding.