Our next destination was St Tropez, a beach resort synonymous with Bardot, the sixties, the rich and the famous, but what would it be like off season? Would all the beautiful people have gone back to Paris, New York and Rome or would the Autumn sunshine keep them hanging on…?

One advantage of the off season was the lack of traffic and we decided to stick to the coast road. Good decision. We wound through pretty villages, the steep hills to our left lush with tamarisk, olives and eucalyptus, whilst to our right we caught glimpses of hidden beaches and beyond them the sparkling sea. From time to time we would encounter clusters of lycra clad cyclists, and even the odd group of hunters replete in dayglo jackets with dogs and shotguns. In the village of Rayol we stopped to look at the view and accidentally found ourselves in the Domaine du Rayol,  a beautiful garden which runs right down to the sea. I gather it was first established by a Parisian banker returning to his home town in 1910 and has been extended from there.

As we came closer to St Tropez, we started checking for campsites and realised that we weren’t going to be able to get very close. So instead we decided to head to Camping Les Cigalons, just beyond St-Maxime, which looks across the bay towards St Tropez. The nice thing about Les Cigalons was that it was just across the road from a public beach. In this part of France, a lot of the beaches are privately run and you have to pay to use them so a public beach was a good find.

The pitches were rather cosy and we found ourselves sandwiched between a Dutch caravan and an English Motorhome. The English had really spread out, with what looked like a full three piece suite out front.  They also had a dog, two electric bicycles and were towing a small car, so we felt a bit squeezed out.  And also, they didn’t smile. The Dutch, by contrast,  came and shook hands and told me they were heading to Spain for the Winter. They also said they liked our van!

The campsite owner was very laid back. He asked us to find our own pitch and didn’t bother asking how long we planned to stay. He had a round table and chairs set up outside his office where he received a steady stream of visitors. His social life started at 11 am with a glass of beer and graduated at 12 to wine and a long lazy lunch. The afternoon was taken up with Petanque, and perhaps a glass or two of Pernod.  I wondered if he was making up for lost time, having spent all July and August working his socks off. Or perhaps it was just how he rolled.

The first thing we did after setting up was go down to the beach. It was only a narrow strip, but the sea was really sheltered and warm.  I was soon swimming out to sea, in my element. I noticed there were a lot of yachts. I found out later that it was almost time for  ‘Les Voiles de St Tropez’, a big event in the yachting calendar which sees ordinary yachts racing side by side with so-called ‘Maxi’ yachts. These Maxi yachts are monstrous with big black sails and when one appeared round a headland, it gave me quite a shock.

Because I had a script to write, we ended up spending five days at Les Cigalons. I would work all day at the table in the van until about 4 pm and then hit the beach for a swim.  David was still keen to go to St Tropez. There was a bus stop just outside the site but the buses were impossible to predict – the timetable on the bus stop was hidden behind scratched plastic and we couldn’t read what it said. He walked into St-Maxine to try and hire a motorbike, but despite combing the town, he couldn’t find a hire place.

The following evening, we walked into St-Maxine, three or four kilometres walking by the side of the coast road. The road was fast and noisy but the sunset was beautiful as it set over the sea and was succeeded by an almost full moon. Perhaps I’ve been spoilt by all the beautiful places we’ve seen, but St-Maxine didn’t grab me. There  was a strip of overpriced ‘white tablecloth’ restaurants on the promenade, one with a live trad. Jazz band. We gave them a miss and opted for a pizza and a glass of wine in a ‘red and white tablecloth’ bistro set on a pretty square.

On our last evening, we walked the other way up the beach, away from St-Maxime, and came across a jetty with boats going every hour to St Tropez. The ticket office was shut, but we came back the next morning, excited to catch the boat.  However, on arrival, the ticket office lady informed us that the previous day had been our last chance as the boat service was now closed for the season.

So, despite our best efforts,  we never got to St Tropez.

 

 

The drive from Cassis to Hyeres was spectacular. An hour of twisting, turning road clung to the edge of the cliff, with incredible views of Cassis and Les Calanques. David kept stopping the van to take photos as every corner revealed another more stunning vista. He wasn’t alone. There were cyclists and motorbikes and car drivers, all doing the same thing.

Arriving at a campsite just outside Hyeres, which was billed as an elegant, once fashionable beach resort in our guidebook, we found it had a very different feel from Cassis. When we asked if there were any spaces, the woman behind the desk just laughed, ‘Take your pick’.

There were only a handful of customers in the whole place. The shop was closed and so was the café. The site was due to close in a few days. We weren’t overly impressed with the place, but resolved to stay put, as we both had some work to catch up on and (for once)  WiFi was free with a good connection.

Hyeres itself was out of reach on foot but we walked to the marina. There were numerous chandleries and the marina was full to bursting, with a good many impressive yachts. Hyeres, we discovered, is a major centre for yachting, with a long association with the America’s Cup.

 

Having resolved to explore Les Calanques further, we headed down to the Grand Plage to hire kayaks. Unfortunately they had none free until 3 pm. So we booked for 3 pm and decided to lounge about until then.  First stop one of the chic shops to track down a new bikini as my last one was showing signs of wear and tear. This one was having an end of season sale – everything 30 euros! – so I resolved to splash out. I found one I liked and took it up to pay. Only as she rang it up, I realised everything was 30 euros –  each! So 30 euros for the bottom – and 30 euros for the top. I gritted my teeth and said nothing. So I paid 60 euros. My all time most expensive bikini. Was it worth it? No! I do love it but it is just a plain black bikini, and honestly no better than the one I purchased in Primark for a fiver. But serves me right for buying a bikini in a coastal resort in the South of France.

 

On with the day. It was a beautiful sunny day and I was in my element, stretched out on the gritty sand of the Grand Plage. David, however, was restless – he’s not a lounge lizard like me – and he was soon off, exploring the nooks and crannies of the town. I was charged with watching the bags. He would return every now and then, bearing the spoils of his search. So soon he was back with two glasses of the wine of Cassis, which we enjoyed with our usual picnic of bread and cheese. After lunch, he was off again, and before I had had time for 40 winks, he was back with ice creams, pink grapefruit for him and mandarin for me. Delicious! Apparently the pink grapefruit was poor. Aww.

The wind was getting up and the sea was choppy. Not ideal for our kayak trip but hey ho, we were booked. We went up to the hire place, just across the beach, and were briefed. We had our two man kayak for 3 hours, in which time an animated Frenchman recommended, nay, instructed us to head for Les Calanques, sticking as close as we could to the rocks due to the rough weather, and being careful to keep to the right. There were two inlets, and he confided that we had to paddle like the wind to the far inlet if we wanted to avoid losing the light. And the far inlet was definitely the one he recommended, but he warned us that it wasn’t a kayak for the faint hearted. It would take us an hour to get there, and an hour to get back. The entire trip was a distance of 8 kilometres.

So off we went.

And it was hard. Soooo hard. It got off to a tricky start with a sharp launch off the beach, during which a big wave swamped the boat, soaking the dress which I wore over my bikini. Possibly not the best choice of outfit, as it was soon floating around my legs like a wet blanket.

I kid you not, I have never paddled so hard in my life. There was no let up. As soon as one of us tried to rest, the kayak started to go backwards. My fingers were turning numb. The waves were enormous. Every now and then one of us would jam our finger between the paddle and the kayak. Just trying to paddle in sync was a challenge.  I was vaguely aware of people fishing off the limestone rocks, the odd man standing with his hands on his hips, starkers. But only very vaguely.

And then it got harder (the paddling!) As we came nearer to Les Calanques, we had to move around a headland, past a big rock and away from the coast. We were approaching the first of the two inlets, the one that we didn’t want to go in. The current grew stronger and in addition, boats were zooming up and down, cutting across our path and leaving us rocking in their wake. I felt as if I was in a reality TV show. Help, I’m a lazy beach loving tourist, get me out of here.

Finally, finally, we were entering the further of the two inlets. And it was still hard. But it was stunning. The limestone cliffs rapidly narrowing. The boats dropping away. The beach was in sight at very end of the narrow inlet. Unfortunately, it was in shadow. However, to the right, there was a rocky landing place scattered with a few intrepid adventurers which was still in the sun. With great difficulty, we managed to moor the kayak, lashing it to a jutting rock, and climbed on land.

We had made it! David was whooping with excitement, firing off photos like they were going out of fashion. I staggered about, taking in the stunning landscape, feeling cold, my legs trembling beneath me.

A few short minutes later, the sun was gone, and we were off again, almost losing a paddle as we amateurishly boarded the kayak. Half way out of the inlet, I realised I had left my sunglasses on the rocks. Ah well. No way I was going back.

The journey back was a relative joy with the wind pushing us in the right direction. But now we were racing a low sea fog, which was threatening to engulf us.

We beat it, and made the shore, a good 15 minutes early.

I’m not sure how we made it up the hill to the campsite, still in our wet things. And then after a hot shower, back down to the town in time for sunset, to eat Moules Frites.

We shall sleep well tonight!

Walking round to Plage de Bestouan, we had noticed a sign to ‘Les Calanques’. A brief look at a map showed this to be a series of inlets. Since it was a rather cloudy day, we set out wearing walking boots. However, within minutes the weather turned hot and sunny and I began to wish I was in sandals with my swimming costume in the bag. After a long steep climb through the suburbs of Cassis, we started to head down dirt tracks with glimpses of sea to our left. We ducked down a small path and popped out on limestone rocks with a handful of nudists taking the sun. Clearly the lack of swimwear was only a problem if I wanted it to be. I resolved to forgo the nudey swim (despite Dave offering to hold my towel), keen to press on to ‘Les Calanques’.

 

Soon we saw another hot and tired looking couple infront of us, clearly pursuing the same goal. And soon signs to ‘Les Calanques’ started to appear. But then we were surprised to see a sign saying ‘Privee’ and a big beach resort type place with tennis courts and a very smart restaurant. We pushed past this, trying to look more confident than we felt, and were rewarded with our first view of Presq’ile, the long limestone headland which is a dedicated nature reserve. We saw a couple of small boys bouncing up and down excitedly in wetsuits to the right of us and decided  to go and investigate. We were stunned to find that they were standing on the edge of a steep limestone cliff which went plunging down into a steep ravine. This, we deduced, was ‘Les Calanques’ – which I now know means ‘the coves’.

 

This first ravine was amazing, with sheer limestone cliffs which look like the remains of a massive quarry. The ravine was like a mini fjord, perhaps half a mile deep and narrowing to a tiny beach. Between the opening and the beach were hundreds of boats, a kayak school, and the remains of an old limestone works of Roman origins which closed in the 1980’s. There were also signs of second world war naval defences. And of course there were several small boys in wetsuits jumping off the rocks into the sea.

By now we were both hot and tired so we retired to the other side of the Presq’ile for a picnic on the limestone flats and – since the sea was quite rough – contented ourselves with dipping our feet in the sea.

We resolved to spend another day in Cassis, exploring Les Calanques by sea.

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.

Arles was next in our sights. There are so many reasons to visit this beautiful city. My main interest was its association with Van Gogh, who spent one of his most productive years here. He set up a studio with the intention of working alongside other artists. He invited Gauguin to work alongside him, which worked for a bit, but artistic differences became too much. The townspeople got up a petition to have Van Gogh moved on, after which he cut off his ear and gave it to a local prostitute. And was then committed to a mental hospital.

Since then, a whole tourist industry has grown up around his work, including the Foundation of Vincent Van Gogh. Sadly, the Foundation was closed when we got there, so our Van Gogh tour was sadly curtailed. However, we did see the hospital where Van Gogh was committed after he cut off his ear: the courtyard looks exactly the same as it did when he painted it in 1889.

The town itself was an inspiration in many other ways. First impressions were a little tricky as we were diverted due to a traffic incident and ended up having to park in a super expensive spot. However, as soon as we started to wander up the steep, shady streets, we realised we were somewhere special. The medieval and roman antecedents of this hill town were everywhere to see. What surprised us was the extent of the roman remains which litter the town. We happened acorss  a full sized amphitheatre AND a theatre, both very well preserved. I felt very lucky to be here off season as it was clear that this was a super popular tourist town which would be rammed in summer. For the first time in our trip, we saw guided groups of American and Japanese tourists who were clearly “doing” roman remains or “doing” art history. As a place to visit, it was a joy, with narrow, car free streets giving way to open squares.  It was fun to dive down small passageways and see where we’d pop out. Putting aside the monuments and tourist hot spots, there were bits of ancient graffiti, ancient arches and city walls everywhere.

There was also a contemporary buzz about the place, with the ‘Rencontres d’Arles’ taking place. This is a photographic exhibition which has happened every summer since 1970, exhibiting contemporary photographs and creative works on various heritage sights around the city. We were happening across interesting images in every nook and cranny.

After the Montpellier mess up, we were pleased to find a campsite within walking distance of the town.  Once we were settled, we walked in again to enjoy a sunset drink within spitting distance of the amphitheatre. Then we went on to ‘Oscar’s café’ with jazz playing and an exhibition about African body art on the walls. The reclaimed furniture was mismatched and the food dishes were individual: a salad of local, freshly picked tomatoes and chevre; red mullet fillets with a potato and pear accompaniment. Another facet of fascinating Arles.

 

Avignon, Aix en Provence, Arles…there were so many choices of places to go…where should we go next? Or, given that the weather was beautifully sunny, should we skip the tourist sights and head to the coast?

In the end we settled on a visit to the Pont du Gard,one of Frances most popular tourist destinations. A roman aqueduct. One of the best preserved in the world. It crosses the Gardon River near the town of Vers-Pont-du-Gard and is a UNESCO world heritage sight. You’ve probably seen it. The image has graced many a postcode and table mat.

Approaching the sight, a massive car park and a steep entrance fee. So far so predictable David was keen, I was less sure.

And then we caught our first glimpse of the aqueduct, towering over the river. Not one, not two but three tiers.

It was worth it.

I hope David’s photos do justice to the experience. But there’s no substitute for the experience. If you get a chance to see it, do.

 

Our next destination was Montpellier, just a few miles further along the coast from Sete. The plan was to head in, scope the place, and then find a campsite as close to the centre as possible. We were keen to spend an evening in the city, which has a reputation for its nightlife, especially its live music, but not keen to bring the campervan with us. Once we have a camp set up, it’s not that easy to drive off.

After some trouble parking (all the main car parks were underground, with not enough head room for the van) we found a space on a tree lined avenue by the Rhone, facing what looked like university halls of residence.  Montpellier is famous for its University.. With no map, we took pot luck on which direction to head and happened across a tram line. Soon we were on board the tram, heading for the Place de Comedie, the central square known as L’Oeuf (the egg) because of its oval shape. First impressions were favourable: bold new designer builds mingle with lush parks, fountains and elegant squares, all on a grand scale. There were lots of young people milling about which made  a refreshing change from the retirement crew we’ve been rubbing shoulders with on the campsites. We wandered through the centre past the Opera house and the Musee Fabre, the fine arts museum, which had an interesting sounding exhibition, ‘Francis Bacon – Bruce Nauman, face a face’. Perhaps we’d have a chance to go in later.  Happening across a market, we bought some ripe plums and I eyed up a pair of knock-off Birkenstocks to replace the sandals which broke yesterday.  “Seulement dix euros, madame.” Sold!

Returning to the van, we picnicked on a bench by the river, watching some boys casting their lines on the far bank.  David, who never travels without a fishing rod, was keen to give it a try himself but Id rather watch paint dry and it was time to find a campsite. The weather was hotting up. As we drove out of Montpellier, we comforted ourselves with the fact that we’d be back soon. But could we find a campsite? No. Our usual approach is to search for campsites on the satnav but nothing came up, and we didn’t pass anything, either. Finally, David managed to locate one at Perols, right at the end of the tramline, so we headed out there, only to find it closed. We pushed on towards the coast, our dreams of a night on the town in Montpellier starting to recede.

 

And then suddenly we spotted a flamingo. And did a double take – what?? I didn’t realise there were wild flamingos in France. And yet here they were.  Looking about, I realised we had strayed into unexpected terrain, a flat landscape of lagoons, marshes and salt flats known as the ‘Petit Camargue’. There was not just one, but hundreds of flamingos, standing on one leg, or curving their long necks to drink. When they take flight, they seem to defy gravity. Incredible, beautiful, comical birds. And that colour! There were also white egrets and grey herons. But it was the pink flamingos that made such a striking impression.

Not long after that we hit the sea and found a beach resort called Palavas-les-Flots with a campsite. Shades of Valras Plage made my heart sink –  and yet there was something special about the location with the beach on one side of us and a lake full of flamingos on the other.  We gave up on Montpellier, swapping it for the usual round of campsite activities – table tennis, swimming pool, beach.

At sunset, we wandered along the windswept prom with low expectations for the evening ahead. We were heading for some underwhelming restaurants clustered round a Marina. Then suddenly we spotted a canal between us and the marina – how would we get across? – at which point, we looked up to see some people whizzing past us overhead – there was a cable car! Soon we were flying across the canal, our legs dangling high above the water.

Dinner on the Marina was nothing special, but the view of the sunset was spectacular and the outside tables were buzzing – until the sun went down, and everyone disappeared into the warmth.  Soon we were the only diners left outside.

After the meal, we found the cable car closed and resigned ourselves to taking the long way round, down the canal and across a bridge. On the other side of the bridge, we happened across ‘the lighthouse of the mediterranean’, a tall tower with a panoramic view of the town and the sea. We had to pay 2 euros to take the lift to the top and the cost of a drink was astronomical, but the views were worth it.  We were the only customers.

 

I got up and dressed – but as soon as I started walking, my sandal broke. Disaster!  I’ve been living in sandals. Time to hit the shops.

Both of us were somewhat saddle sore today so we vetoed the bikes and pulled on our walking boots for the 8 or 9 miles into Sete. The straight line of the cycle path seemed somewhat dull on foot, but we noticed certain things which had passed us by: the starlings lined up on the telegraph wires across the road, then suddenly taking flight and “murmurating” before diving in to the bamboo plants, perhaps to escape the wind, which was very strong today.

Once in Sete, we stopped to buy lunch at a boulangerie – a leek tart for me and a sort of anchovy and tomato topped bread for David – you wouldn’t find that in Greggs!  Then we set out to explore the town a little more, venturing into the central area around the station.  Things were a lot quieter now that the weekend was over and the wind made it difficult to walk in a straight line, so we dived into a junk shop. It was an interesting shop with an eclectic blend of vintage and antiques including a good collection of Velos Solex, which I know Mervyn, my father in law, would have enjoyed –  but the prices were crazy so we didn’t stay too long. We debated walking back to the campsite but by now our legs were screaming in protest so we decided to get a bus but had just missed one. It was a couple of hours until the next bus. We opted to stay in town and wait. We found the shopping street and I had a look for sandals, but French fashion shops only seem to sell little strappy sandals which wouldn’t stand up to the kind of punishment I put them through. No sandals for me today.

Despite the wind, the sun was out, so we found a bar by the canal with tables facing the sun to wait out the remaining hour until the bus came. What a hardship. When the bus came, the fare was 1 euro 30 to anywhere you like. Cycle paths, public toilets, bus services – it is striking how much the French invest in their public services. Ho, hum.

Today, we hired bicycles. I’ve never been very good on a bicycle, and neither has David, but when in France….

Hiring the bikes was a bit of a hassle: the huge campsite is always understaffed, and the front desk is chaotic. The first bike they gave me had a puncture but we sorted that out and at about midday, we were off, with instructions to return the bikes by 7 pm. It’s an eight mile ride to Sete, which sounded quite far to me, but infact it took less than an hour. We flew along the two lane cycle track which runs the length of the beach, stopping for a coffee half way at a beach bar.

Arriving in Sete, we headed for the strip of harbourside fish restaurants which had caught our eye the day before. La Mauvaise Reputation drew us in with its memorable name and pretty harbourside tables. It was sunny but there was a fair old wind gusting through and one of the restaurant umbrellas blew over, almost braining one of the customers and smashing several glasses, at which point the waiter decided to put down the umbrellas. So we spent a couple of hours in full sun enjoying a leisurely restaurant lunch, lingering over it in the way that the French do. We went for the regional specialities. Tapenade and some kind of prawn Bouillabasse-type dish for me, and an Octopush salad and  ‘Marmite de Pecheur’ (a similar dish to mine but served with a side dish of dry toast and aioli) for David.   And a carafe of Rose, thank you very much. After which we decided we’d better stay off the bikes for a while. So we pushed them around town, admiring the traditional rowing boats plying up and down the river.

David was keen to strike up the hill to Mont St Clair and take a look at the enormous houses with big walled gardens which we’d seen in estate agent windows. Like a fool, I agreed. Cue an hour of pushing our bikes up some of the steepest inclines I’ve ever seen. David seemed to think it was all quite fun and I was so tired I couldn’t speak so we kept going up. The afternoon culminated in a flight of five hundred or so steep stone steps which we carried, yes, carried the bikes up. And still there was one more hill. However, it was now clear that David wasn’t the only one wanting to reach the top of the hill. There was a procession of puffed out cyclists, slow winding cars and even coaches. At the top of the hill was the viewpoint of Mont St. Clair, marked by a big cross.  Going up there was clearly the thing to do on a Sunday afternoon. There were a couple of shops selling icecreams, and an artist’s studio and an old church which an information board informed me used to be a haven for pirates back in the middle ages. In front of us there was an amazing view of Sete, the canal running down to the sea  and to the right, Marseillan Plage curving all the way to our campsite and then on another few miles to the nudist resort of Cap D’Agde (not that I could see anything at that distance!) Then to the left, the Etang de Thau, with oyster beds all neatly laid out, and kitesurfers streaking across the water. A beautiful sight.

We stopped for an icecream and then got back on the bikes, taking the opposite direction to all the crowds. We glided down a quiet hill past all the gated mansions and shady gardens which David had wanted to see. We passed ‘Pierre Blanche’, a nature reserve, a wooded hill with big white stones lying about and then finally we were back at sea level and picking up our cycle track to go back along the beach. We staggered back onto the campsite just in time to hand in our bikes –  and to book ourselves in for an extra night.

Sete, you are my favourite French town yet, knocking Collioure off the top spot. Will I find anything to top you…?