Dressing for the Quiksilver/Roxy Pro France can be tricky. Not in the fashion sense, but just because the late September climate is something of the Continental. You need warm gear for the morning/evening shift but around lunch if the sun pokes out, or even if it doesn't, it can get warm. And thus a man is faced with the conundrum of being cold in shorts early but just right later. Or being just right leaving the house in the dewy, mist morn, but getting a sweat on from elevenses.

I elected for a brush cotton shirt in navy. It provided warmth early, but even better, later when not needed for warmth, served as subterfuge as I wrapped it around my face like TE Lawrence of Arabia. I successfully avoided several people whom, rather than didn't want to talk to, just couldn't be arsed. You know what I'm talking about.

They ran some of men's and all the rest of the women's at the spot called 'Guardians'. Which as well as being 'Goalkeeper' in French is also the newspaper of choice of champagne socialist liberal media elite of Great Britain. The Guardian loses £2million/week. That's more than Surf Europe.

Tyler Wright won the women's and won well. The best news of all is that Courtney Conlogue made the final, which is totally awesome.

Because of her heartwarming injury comeback narrative, you ask? Sure, kinda.

But also because one of her sponsors, Swatch, wanted me to write a press release about it. And the Swiss pay the big bucks, thanks very much. I did that before I did this, obviously. You guys are getting Swatch's sloppy seconds.

Without meaning to sound like a total dick, I had a 'meeting' scheduled at the event today. That's why I went. I got there during the women's semis. The surf was totally pumping, like really, really good. Up and down low folk were getting crazy long pits. It was all too much, I messaged my meeting saying 'something's come up', promising to return in two hours. I jogged to my car, to go surf. I drove to the spot, which is a wee bit out of the way.

I'll spare you the details but anyway, it was good. Really, really good. But more crowded than one is accustomed to. There is no real car park, it's a park and walk. And while only a short walk, some folk still chance it by driving along the walking path. Woooopsy.

Anyhows, a man some thirty paces behind me, on the walk back out, was cross. He'd not had a very good session. He was not happy about the crowd. He was not happy about anything at all, it would appear. At one stage, a car, a car with Spanish number plates was parked beside the path. Someone had written 'AQUI NON' in the windshield dirt. I marched on, listening to the muted yet pleasant afternoon birdsong when an almighty thud punctuated the avian chorus.

I stopped and turned around to see the angry man hammering the bonnet of the Spanish plated car with a massive fallen tree brach. He was laying in to with the kind ferocity that seemed at odds with the tranquility and verdure of our surrounds. It was not like when Basil Fawlty hit his Mini for not starting. Nothing like it. Physical comedy it was not. It turned out that the car was the rental of none other than Dane Reynolds, Earth's other best surfer (you may recall I referred to John John as that in the last post).

I sure hope Dane ticked the full liability waiver box and coughed the extra 14 euros/day. Because while our angry man did very little of note in the surf, he caused some serious fucking damage to the bonnet of that VW.

Just as I arrived back at Guardians the event got called off. I'd missed the entire final...

But!

I'd had an email from Swatch!