Ondine Cohane scours the French countryside for gnarly waves and tasty oysters

In a tight circle in the southwest of France lie the world's best Bordeaux, exquisite medieval abbeys, and Basque hill towns, all packed between the imposing peaks of the Pyrenees and the surf-friendly swells of the Atlantic. For centuries, these roads and towns were a stopping point for the devout en route to the shrine at Santiago de Compostela. I had come as a pilgrim too, but of a pleasure-seeking kind. The best oysters I've ever had come courtesy of Bernard Delis, who every weekend in winter makes a five-hour trip from Arcachon up to a Paris wine bar with his mollusks. One especially cold February day, Bernard came and sat with my husband and me, spinning tales of his hometown and the oyster beds his family have harvested for nine generations. I wanted to discover the oysters' birthplace. Just as the pilgrims before me took as their symbol the scallop—still visible in stone carvings on the churches along the route—I would be following the oyster shell.

Day One, 115 Miles: Bordeaux to St-Justin via St-Émilion
Just outside Bordeaux, the Audi A3 is already showing its considerable merits. The navigation system's route-finding is virtually flawless—and a source of entertainment: Even though the voice commands are in English, a second speaker interjects place names with a ridiculous French inflection. (Apparently, the default English computer's French pronunciation wasn't up to snuff.) On highways, the French are quite civilized (speed limits are strictly adhered to, since gendarmes are known to impound speeding cars) and patient with the lumbering trucks en route to Spain. But once they get on country roads, the French turn daredevil. Mercedeses, BMWs, and Audis push toward higher speeds, and I am cut off a number of times. Rather than being met with apologetic looks when I honk, I receive withering French glares. It doesn't ruin the atmosphere of the surroundings though—lines of fat vines, little hamlets, and shuttered châteaux with names I recognize from beloved wine labels. St-Émilion is the most picturesque town in the region, perched on a ridge overlooking the vineyards. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, it's a tourist magnet with a plethora of wine shops and tasting rooms, pretty hotels, macaroon shops, and country restaurants with outdoor tables.

After a late lunch, we head south on the D122, and I notice that there are arrows along the road warning people to stay in their lane. We deduce that this must be for the wine-loving Brits, who need to be reminded which side of the road to drive on after a few tastings. But we find few cars on these country lanes, whose landscapes turn from grapes to golden rolled hay bales and fields of fading sunflowers.

The A3 is Audi's attempt at expanding its luxury brand into a broader market, offering a hatchback with considerable comfort, power, and style. At home in Italy, we drive the 4WD version of this vehicle, and it feels like the old workhorse counterpart to this car. We make a stop in Bazas to see its beautiful cathedral, then continue on to the cheese capital of Roquefort. From there, we take a detour east on the D626 into Pays d'Armagnac, the heart of the area's brandy production. The patchwork of wheat fields and sun-dappled orchards appears to be abandoned by the tourism machine: I see a sign for the "Notre Dame of cyclists" and wonder how many champions have made the trek to the tiny church.