Today, we we whizzed back down  to the coast, past Marseille to Cassis, a fishing port on the Riviera. Nothing had prepared us for the drama of the setting, with sheer cliffs of limestone and a red coloured sedimentary rock which slightly reminded me of the grand canyon. Cassis itself is a beguilingly pretty town with pastel coloured houses clustered round le Grand Plage and harbour.    We soon found a campsite, Les Cigales, at the top of the town with views to the sea. The walk down the steep hill to the town was a cinch – the walk back up a wee bit more challenging! I noticed that the clientele of this campsite was different from the usual – there were far more young people, and far more campers. We thought it had a nice relaxed vibe without too many signs forbidding us from doing this and that. No loo seats and the showers were a bit dodgy but there was soap in the bathroom. Hoorah!

We walked down to take a look at the harbour and were struck by how upmarket the shops and restaurants were. My guidebook described it as an unspoiled fishing port but there were clearly signs that we were on the Riviera. A quick glance in the estate agent window confirmed that prices were soaring. Shame.  I wouldn’t have minded a bolthole in Cassis, nothing too fancy; just a bit of land, sea views and a pool!

After a quick look round the shops, and at the town beach,  ‘Le Grand Plage’ we walked round to le Bestouan, a pebbly beach away from the the main town.  It was cloudy so I didn’t much fancy a swim but there was a café right on the beach, so we had to pop in for a drink. The waiters got their kicks out of mimicking the French accents of poor unsuspecting English tourists and we were not their only victims. There were tantalising signs to ‘Les Calanques’ that I was keen to follow but it was getting late and we needed to buy food so we resolved to explore further the next day.

Up at the campsite, a young man with red hair introduced himself as Paul from Cork and asked us to keep an eye on his bike while he went for a shower. He was staying on the pitch next to ours. He said he’d flown into Nice and was intending to cycle to Barcelona and go home from there. On day one, he lost the key to his bike lock and had to smash it off so he was doomed to stay with his bike at all times. While he was in the shower, I took a peek at his set up. He had no tent, just a hammock slung between two trees. Talk about travelling light! When he came back, I asked him to join us for supper. He politely refused but it was obvious he was living off biscuits and he soon gave in and joined us. It made a pleasant change to have some company, even if it meant I had to give up my seat and sit on the step of the van. David and Paul had plenty to talk about as it turned out he was a junior doctor in an emergency department in Cork. He said he does a couple of these ‘mini adventures’ a year, and was planning to take a year off to travel round Europe as soon as he qualifies.

I did feel a touch sorry for Irish Paul in his hammock as I rolled out my double bed that night but I was full of admiration for his adventurous spirit.