Hidden Provence

Dumbass in the realm of Dumas

Sam Jefferson treads in the footsteps of the Count of Monte Cristo as he makes a great escape to the Calanques of Provence

One of the enduring fascinations of owning a yacht is, for me, transformation. The same living space can be transported to an entirely different part of the world and, in the process, remain both familiar and also entirely alien. Never was this more true than during lockdown, which I rashly opted to spend on my boat,

Black Joke, a 28’ Morecambe Bay

Prawner, in Sete in the south of

France. My boat was transformed into a very small floating prison.

When lockdown lifted, I promptly rented a flat and anchored my boat within sight of the apartment. There she lay, very pretty and gently plucking at her anchor cable – inviting me to go off on another adventure.

With restrictions lifted my friend Tom, in a bout of post lockdown insanity opted to cycle down from London to visit. All things considered, I thought that we couldn’t do better than head down to Marseille and explore the calanques just to the east. These are a selection of narrow, steep walled inlets cut into the limestone making for a string of very striking and tempting anchorages in the midst of the

ABOVE Port Pin

BELOW

Map of the Calanques of Provence

wilderness. I also fancied a trip to Marseille as I’d spent lockdown reading the Count of Monte Cristo – the early section of which is set around Marseille – it therefore seemed fitting to pay homage to the Count as part of our great escape.

Iles du Frioul

We spent two days getting there from Sete and our first stop was Iles du Frioul, these are two islands connected by a causeway plus the small island of If to the west facing directly on to the port of Marseille. We anchored at Harvre de Morgiret on the western side which has plenty of space. The water was warm and crystal clear. We both swam before heading to Port du Frioul to find some cold beer. One of the big problems my boat had was a lack of a fridge and, although we kept stocking up with ice, warm beer was a constant concern. Port du Frioul is probably hell during the day thanks to endless tripping boats dumping fleshy cargoes on its shores. By evening though, it’s just the yachts left and the bars were sleepy and offering suitably desultory service that made you 100% certain you were in France. Tom needed cigarettes and managed to buy some at a vastly inflated rate. He duly smoked one and felt like he wanted to die. I think a few nights sleeping on the cockpit bench and being flayed alive by the sun each day were taking their toll. He looked like he was part some kind of government health campaign extolling the evils of smoking.

The next day we headed further west into the calanques, passing close by the Chateau d’If, an imposing fort built between 1529 and 1533. It is here where Dumas imprisoned his fictional hero Edmond Dantes in the Count of Monte Cristo and from whence he made his dramatic escape by posing as a corpse. We put our rudder to the islands and headed west into a new domain; an alien world of towering jagged peaks and glowing white crumbling cliffs shooting up vertically from the sea and clad with dark green scrubby maquis. This is a national park and there are very few settlements as, historically, there were issues with water supply that left the area the domain of goatherds and the odd fisherman. We stopped for the night at the calanque de Marseilleveyre, a shallow, open calanque with good views across to the spectacular towering islands of Jaire and Jaron to the south. After a

ABOVE LEFT

the Iles du Frioul with the Chateau d’If to the right

ABOVE RIGHT

A snug mooring for the boat at Port Miou

BELOW LEFT Anchored off Marseilleveyre

BELOW RIGHT

We could have any dish we liked as long as it was spaghetti swim we headed ashore as the shadows lengthened to enquire about cold beer. This was available at a very ramshackle bar located on the beach. The staff eyed us unlovingly as we had a definite air of the naufrage about us. Tom had shaved off his beard but retained a fairly loathsome moustache which might have explained their suspicious demeanour. We were told by a villainous looking barman that food was being served and you could have anything you wanted as long as it was spaghetti. We opted for spaghetti.

The following day we headed off at a leisurely pace for the iconic Port Miou the narrowest and most defined calanque along the route which provides extremely good shelter and even a marina within. We had good reasons for doing this as, once more, we were short of both beer and ice. We arrived after a very docile sail and picked up a mooring buoy then long lining the stern to a mooring ring on the shore. Safely secured went in search of beer and ice.

The following day we refuelled at the pleasant town of Cassis before heading back west towards Marseille hugging the coast in search of a suitable anchorage. There were reports of bit of weather coming in

Top anchorages

in association with Navily

Harvre de Morgiret

43° 16’ 57” N, 5° 18’ 11” E

Probably the most comfortable night we had. The sand bottom made for good holding (pictured above). Protection: N through E to S Anchoring – Allowed Lines Ashore – recommended Type of seabed: Sand

Calanque de Sormiou

43° 12’ 31” N, 5° 25’ 30” E

Spectacular calanque with small port at head. Very deep though. We rolled our deadeyes out here though with only a minor swell (pictured below). Protection: W through SW through N to E Anchoring – Allowed Lines Ashore – Not required Type of seabed: Sand and weed

Calanque de Marseilleveyre

43° 12’ 33” N, 5° 22’ 19” E

Quite an open calanque but good in settled weather with a nice bar (pictured below). Protection: W through N to E Anchoring – Allowed Lines Ashore – Not required Type of seabed: Rock

Calanque de Monasterio

43° 10’ 46” N, 5° 23’ 7” E

Pulled in for a lunchtime stop. Holding good but overcrowded. Looked nice in the evening with a spectacular backdrop of Ile Riou (pictured below). Protection: W through SE - SW Anchoring – Allowed Lines Ashore – Possible Type of seabed: Sand

ABOVE

Th e Calanque de Sormiou prior to the breeze picking up

BELOW R IGHT

Th e author enjoying some moules frites from the south and it wasn’t clear where we would nd decent shelter. We settled on the stunning Calanque de Sormiou, sailed in and dropped the hook. ings were pretty calm and we just had to hope it stayed that way. As Heikell noted ‘the bay is exposed to wind and swell from almost any direction’. But really, we reasoned, how bad could it be?

A rough night

Pretty bad. ere wasn’t either much wind or swell but what there was came directly into the calanque. e F3-4 breeze wasn’t really the problem; it was the chop which swirled around the calanque and in turn seemed to amplify and confuse things further. By 2am the whole thing was an absolute maelstrom; Tom was repeatedly thrown from his cockpit bench seat/bed and spent a most uncomfortable night beneath the stars and wind which screeched balefully in the rigging. By dawn we desperately needed to leave and nd some at water. We squared away before the fresh breeze in ne style forti ed by strong co ee. Bright sunshine and a brisk breeze completed our reveille and soon we were having fun. e boat was

a handful as the outer jib wasn’t set and the helm was therefore a fight. Nevertheless I opted to cut back toward Marseille between Ile Maire and Cap Croisette. Heikell counselled against this and cutting through the narrow gap was tight but worth it because once we were through the channel we turned towards Marseille and enjoyed a magnificent beam reach. The water was flat and he breeze was strong and steady. The boat started to realise her potential. The stern forced down until it was nearly level with the water at these speeds drastically lengthening the waterline and also put you entirely at one with the elements. The boat began to fly and made a magnificent sight tearing into Marseille, rigging bar taut and red sails stretched to bursting. It was a joyous, exhilarating moment.

Ruination sets in

By now Tom and I were ruined by many days anchoring, washing in salt water and drinking beer so we opted to stop in Marseille. It had just been put on some sort of red alert as a Covid hotspot, so there was one more reason to visit. I have to say that it’s one of the finest harbours to visit as a yachtsman. All too frequently, sailors are shoved in some forgotten corner of a port but in Marseille you enter through the iconic gateway with the twin fortresses and there you are in the heart of the old city. What’s more, I was charged a mere 15 Euro for it, which I thought was pretty damned exceptional. We were placed right outside the harbourmaster’s office and we were able to watch this extraordinary man in action; his job consisted of eating, drinking pastis and bellowing jocular insults at his mates in passing tripper boats. Amazing. We decided we’d better follow suit and sallied out to sample a few cool glasses of pastis in the many watering holes dotted around the city, before collapsing into a profound sleep. Tom awoke the next day at about 7am to witness the harbourmaster sipping his first pastis of the day. We left and beat back up the coast toward Sete in a fickle breeze which suddenly turned into a fierce F4/5 almost at the flick of a switch. Tom somehow managed to sleep as we beat into the teeth of this ferocious wind and, after many hours of slowly not getting very far I pulled into the very charming port of La Redonne some way to the west of Marseille. The following morning we woke very early and headed onwards. By mid afternoon we were drifting lazily past the mouth of the Rhone and I nearly grounded the boat through sheer carelessness. There was something rather hypnotic and surreal about it all that lulled me into a strange dreamy state; dragonflies flew around and in the heat of the day, navigating seemed a bit superfluous. We opted for one more stop at St Maries sur Mer. We were both mildly diverted by the story that the town was founded when Mary Magdalen and the sister of the Virgin Mary turned up here in a boat which appeared to be shaped like a biscuit. Or at least they later started making biscuits that were shaped like the boat. Anyway, it was all the bait we needed and we pulled in. Well, I have to say it was hell. The town was so full of tourists it made my head swim. I realised that exhaustion was setting in and that I was getting The Fear. This was exacerbated by an event at the bullring that promised the spectacle of live bulls jumping over clowns in a swimming pool. It was all too much. We arrived back in Sete the following day and sought out a warm shower.

ABOVE

Entering the harbour in Marseille

BELOW CENTRE Marseille vieux port

BELOW RIGHT Black Joke in La Redonne toward the end of the trip