Îles d’Hyères

Hyères we go The Îles d’Hyères are beloved by the French and sailors training for the

Olympics but are otherwise often overlooked. Sam Jefferson decided to explore

Are you telling me that we will have to swim to and from the boat for the whole trip?” My crew demanded incredulously. I been stolen. Me and my crew were therefore forced to decant all our belongings into waterproof bags and take the plunge into chilly waters before a sail had been raised in anger. But let's recap because I’m guilty of ABOVE just east of Marseille. It’s a spectacular Looking west from Porquerolles down stopover; a hidden port cut deep onto the excellent into the white limestone cliffs topped anchorage at Baie d’Alcastre with fragrant pines that crackle and buzz to the hypnotic rhythm of the cicada through the summer months. shrugged. “It’s possible, yes.” Sailing trips are beset by minor challenges I find. It’s part of the charm I suppose.

That said, I hadn’t anticipated that the problems would present themselves as early as they did on my recent trip to the Îles d’Hyères on the French Mediterranean coast. Just to kick off, I was only able to start the trip by swimming to the boat because my tender had clapping on the sail before the anchor is out the ground. I had planned a leisurely cruise from my home port of Sète in France to the Îles d’Hyères (better known by French people merely as Porquerolles) over the summer months. It’s a journey of some 110 nm and, due to work commitments I had ended up leaving the boat at Port Miou, a beautiful calanque or carstic fjord To save money, I shoved my boat on one of the mooring buoys (17 Euros per night for a 28ft boat) and left it there for three weeks. This was not a problem but I also left my dinghy in the dinghy dock and now, returning all set for a week long sail to Porquerolles, it was most definitely absent. This was trying. I have long had a bad relationship with this dinghy. It replaced a superb Avon

dinghy that rowed like a dream and, unfortunately this coracle-like craft did nothing of the sort. I was therefore not broken hearted to see it go. On the other hand, I needed it. I’m allergic to marinas but was aware that a week swimming to and from shore might be a bit trying.

My crew was similarly concerned. He was well versed in the shortcomings of the boat, having enjoyed a short cruise with me the summer before. A gloomy, waspish Brexit refugee from Croydon with limited sailing skills but a good deal of tolerance for the questionable comforts of my boat. He was pretty stoical about the prospect of a late evening swim and half an hour later we were onboard, Pastis in hand, all our possessions still dry. Things took a further turn for the better the following morning when, following a bracing swim to the harbourmaster’s office to settle up, he told me that my dinghy had merely been moved out the way as it was attracting too much interest from the local kids. We were all set for our adventure.

BELOW LEFT

Port Miou is a stunning mooring. The author's boat, 'Black Joke' is in the centre replete with dinghy

BELOW RIGHT

The port of Cassis, which adjoins Port Miou; a great place to buy saucisson and bread

Hot wine and saucisson

Our first stopover was the pleasant anchorage off the town of Bandol. I figured this was a good place to put some fuel in the boat and stock up. This was unremarkable save for the

fact that we got an early indication of just how intense the heat was going to be. It was July and France had already been in the grip of a pretty savage canicule. As we tied up at the fuel berth, surrounded by concrete, it became quite hard to think straight. Yet we needed to provision. It had been loosely agreed that my crew would cover most of our provisioning costs and I would cover mooring, fuel and sailing the boat, so he duly went off to get some provisions while I filled up with both fuel and water before catching up with him. It was clear that he was struggling as he returned with little more than a saucisson and a box of already hot wine. I thought this might make for a joyless trip so went back to the shop to top things up before we got as far away from this concrete hell as possible and passed a pleasantly cool night at anchor.

The next day there was no wind so we got up as early as possible and motored past Cap Sicie and Toulon in the cool of the dawn. I had sailed this route once before, approaching from the west as night fell and found it thoroughly confusing due to the Presq’ile de Giens (nearly island) that juts out from the French mainland, and is only attached by a low sand spit to the north. Approaching from the west, it’s therefore tempting to sail behind this ‘island’ and find yourself in a blind alley. I would have explored it more but figured it was best to get to the islands which would, perforce, be less busy as they are less accessible. We duly arrived off Porquerolles about midday just as things started to get hot. The islands are relatively hilly and verdant, the hillsides bedecked with fragrant pines and topped with crumbling forts, while the main island of Porquerolles also features many acres of vineyards. Yet the most dominant feature is the gin clear water that just begged you to jump in. It was calling to me as I dropped the anchor yet, before I could do that, my crew pointed out that it was probably best if I went to get some bread as we realised that, in our heat induced stupor of the day before, we had both failed to buy any. I was therefore sent ashore to deal with this situation. I had low expectations of the village itself as Heikell’s pilot guide suggested that it had largely been built by the military quite recently, and was a bit soulless. Heikell is nearly always right but on this occasion I disagreed as the town was a pleasant surprise. It felt surprisingly soulful and had a certain dégagé air that actually reminded me a lot of the Caribbean, particularly in the heat. The centre of the town was dominated by a huge dusty square fringed with eucalyptus which made everything feel even more exotic.

ABOVE

Looking back from Porquerolles toward the hills of Provence

BELOW

Two different views of Porquerolles village and L’'église SainteAnne de Porquerolles

Beer, bread and giant fish

Exotic, maybe but the midday heat was insufferable. I found the bakers, however, and was delighted that he seemed to be showing off some sort of giant fish he had out back to a bewildered customer who had come in for a baguette. Anyway, he stowed the fish behind the counter and handed me a couple of baguettes. I couldn’t take the heat anymore though and collapsed on the shady veranda of a nearby bar where I was presented with the most refreshing beer I have ever had. Thus revived I returned to the boat and served up a meal that was not exclusively saucisson. The anchorage off the Rade de Porquerolles is a bit of a rolly one during the day due to traffic so I was hoping to move to a better spot. My crew, however, was keen to see the town once it got cooler, having been regaled with my tales of fish and heavenly beer. We therefore stayed and swam, read and slept – not the worst way to pass a day. As the shadows lengthened we sallied forth and took a long stroll around the island.

Porquerolles has an interesting history that mostly involves fighting. The island has been inhabited since Roman times and has variously been in the hands of the Italians, French, Sicilians and even the English for a brief period. The most recent quirk was that it was bought by some Belgian chap called Francois Joseph Fournier, a self-made man who made most of his money digging things up in Mexico. He paid a cool £140m or so in today’s money for the island in 1912 as part of a wedding gift for his wife. Extravagant. Anyway, in 1971 the French government bought up most of the island to stop it being uglified and also outlawed vehicles coming to the island. This means that it is a maze of walking and cycling trails threading its 4.3 mile length. The island has a population of about 200 residents yet receives an eye watering 10,000 tourists a day in the middle of summer. Most of these tourists rent a bike and then proceed to cycle blindly at you on dusty trails. However, once the last ferry of the day goes, peace largely reigns and we were able to fully explore the hills in relative solitude until night fell and we descended on the town. We opted not to buy dinner in town as it was a touch on the pricey side so we retired to the boat and I prepared a platter of bread and saucisson.

Vinaigre and Dr Crotte

The following day the wind was forecast to fill in during the afternoon so I suggested we move round to a less uncomfortable anchorage and chill until the breeze arrived. We therefore headed round to the stunning Baie d’Alcastre and dropped the hook once more. This was a heavenly spot; a broad sweep of a bay facing north towards the mainland, fringed with white sand and overlooked by a fort. The water is about the clearest I have known – and I have spent long periods in both Croatia and the Caribbean. There was plentiful room the day we arrived. We swam here before dining on saucisson and bread and heading onwards towards the island of Port Cros as the land breeze started to kick in. Sadly, this breeze proved to be a desultory affair and we were soon motoring once more. This wasn’t a huge trauma as we only had 6nm to travel. Port Cros is the second island in the chain of three and is the tallest and most rugged with Mount Vinaigre. It’s also not particularly big, being only 2.6 miles long. Like Porquerolles its history is mostly one of invasion and attacks from pirates. The British seem to have taken a special interest in the island as they attacked it three times in the 1700s. This island is even more secluded and there is only one small port – Port Cros – which has a handful of restaurants and a few chambres d’hotes. The rest of the island is given over to walking trails, ruined forts and general verdure. I was most intrigued by the story of one Dr Crotte who inherited the island after he saved the life of the daughter of the incumbent owner the Marquis Costa de Beauregard. Anyway, Crotte (whose name translates as poo in French) set about trying to encourage mass tourism on the isle. He seems to have failed in this aim

ABOVE LEFT

The Rade de Porquerolles proved to be a slightly rolly anchorage

ABOVE RIGHT AND BELOW

Sunset over the Baie d'Alcastre

thankfully and the island then ended up in the hands of the Henry family after the death of Dr Crotte in 1919. This occurred because his daughter Blanche Crotte (White Poo) gave the island to them, then realised this might not have been wise, contested the case, and lost. Merde alors. Anyway, the Henry family did not seem to like mass tourism and the island remained pleasingly wild, while a selection of artistic and literary types such as Andre Gide and Paul Valery spent a lot of time here seeking inspiration. It has retained this wildness to the present day.

We opted to anchor just off Port Cros as the wind was forecast to pick up and there was good protection to be had behind the small uninhabited islet of Bagaud. I was rather glad to see that there were mooring buoys laid on and these turned out to be free until 6pm, after which you paid 15 Euros for the night – not too bad all in all. You can reserve these buoys online (portcros-parcnational.fr) but the website seemed to date from the days when people talked about ‘surfing the web’. A horrible mix of fonts and colours that defeated my phone. In the end, we gave up, swam ashore and then took a look around the small hamlet of Port Cros, very charming in the cool of the evening; just a horseshoe of houses situated around a stone pier with a handful of cafes, one churning out some bang average rock standards that made me glad our mooring buoy was just around the corner. We had a beer but opted to dine on the boat and feasted on saucisson and stale bread before laying up and enjoying the cool of the night bathing beneath the stars and discussing the merits of early 90's grunge music.

Drought, nudists and more saucisson

In the morning the bonhomie of the night before deteriorated somewhat as my crew took a shower and used up all the water. It wasn’t entirely his fault; though it was a decent effort given we had filled up at Bandol four days previous. Ultimately my fault for not explaining the finite nature of water aboard. It did put a bit of a different slant on our trip though as all the islands were on drought alert and therefore refilling was an impossibility unless we went to the mainland. We could, however, buy bottled water at Port Cros which

would tide us over. Not ideal but the other option was cutting the trip short, which neither of us wanted. Anyway, we went ashore and, in the cool of the morning took a long walk to the peak of Mount Vinaigre and enjoyed the magnificent views.

Descending back into town, I settled up at the capitanerie while my crew bought provisions; saucisson and a baguette. I decided that I didn’t want to die of scurvy so went back to the shop and topped up with some cheese, vegetables and general nibbles. In an act of extreme spite I also bought a cake for myself, which I ate without telling my crew. Yes, I can be a vindictive swine when the mood takes me. Given the parlous water situation, I decided we should head back to the Presq’Ile, as Hyères Plage had a marina – doubtless a concrete inferno - that could refill our tank. In the meantime, I bought enough bottled water to last the day and we headed off – not without regret – as it was a lovely island. This about turn also meant we would miss the Île du Levant. This was a shame but I must admit that I had been slightly put off by the fact that the island is part military base, part nudist colony. My limited experience of nudist colonies suggests that they are almost exclusively peopled by elderly men with bellies so enormous that they, blessedly, cover most of their genitals. As to what remained visible…. well, I’d already seen enough saucisson for one trip.

It turned out to be the best sailing day and the wind rapidly filled in to a good 15kn and we enjoyed a thrash up the coast, beating all the way. We swiftly passed Hyères and I proposed we push on to Toulon to fill up with water. Several tacks later and the wind increased again and turned bang on the nose. As we cleared the protection of Ile de Grand Ribaud I could see that things would be heavy so I suggested we instead sail across to Porquerolles once more and anchor off Petit Langoustier on the western tip of the island. This gave us an extra night in the islands, the only problem being the lack of water. I said I would walk back into the village to get some more bottles and possibly eat a meal that was not mainly composed of saucisson. My crew agreed this would be a pleasant evening so we dropped anchor in another beautiful bay which had a wild feel on this breezy day but still offered superb protection.

The walk back into Porquerolles

ABOVE

Two views of Port Cros

BELOW

Muchos saucisson

was relatively long but well worth it. This end of the island seemed very calm and peaceful in the beautiful evening light. I was delighted to be back in town too and celebrated with a wood fired pizza – my crew selecting the diavolo – topped with something that looked suspiciously like saucisson. This saucisson fetish baffled me as he said he and his wife followed a vegan diet but, hell, I guess this was a holiday and saucisson ruled. Back on the boat the night was particularly beautiful; no moon, a fresh breeze ruffling the black water, dark silhouettes of jagged rocks all around, the roar of the sea and the stars piercingly bright up above. I was minded of the Ford Madox Ford quote; ‘overhead the great black flood of wind polishes the bright stars’. Beautiful. The trip was all but over and I retired to bed early as I knew the following day would be an epic one. I wanted to get at least to Marseille which was a fair trek.

Starvation sets in

Getting up at 6am the next day, I pulled up the anchor, slipped out the bay and pointed the bow west. The day panned out well with a fair following breeze, which took us right through the calanques and into the Baie de Marseille. My initial plan had been to stop at one of the ports just to the east of Marseille but we had such a good slant it seemed a shame to throw it away. I offered my crew the chance to get off at one of these ports and then I would push on alone, thinking it might be better to just knock off the final miles with a solo sail in the cool of the night. My crew eagerly agreed to this – no doubt chagrined by the lack of water and the prospect of more saucisson – but some trouble with the trains meant it was actually easier for him to stay on the boat for the night. I was sort of glad for the company as I hate the Golfe du Fos but hoped he could help me out a bit so I cooked him a hearty dinner of pasta with real vegetables – to ward off the scurvy - and then briefed him on how to do a night watch. Sadly it wasn’t to pan out; he took the watch from 10pm to midnight but the interruptions were constant and he grew understandably alarmed when several thunderstorms developed over the land. God I hate the Golfe du Fos; it’s apocalyptic, flat and featureless with virtually no ports of refuge from the double menace of the Tramontana and the Mistral. At this point I should have run for St Maries sur Mer, the only port of refuge, and got some sleep but I was in the ‘let’s-just-bloody-wellget-this-over-with’ frame of mind. The wind was still favourable and I had the gennaker up but at 3am I had to drop it as the wind started to swing, gust and shift all over the place as the thunderstorms took hold, illuminating the night with horrible red/orange bolts of forked lightning. We were just 12 miles from the shelter of the Herault coastline but the wind now shifted decisively and increased dead on the nose. I spent four hours going virtually nowhere. I let my crew sleep as I knew he hadn’t signed up for this and just got on with it. By 8am we had made the coast more or less and the wind started to blow a full, violent Tramontana off the land. Turning west toward Sète, we were able to sail once more and the boat settled gleefully to the task in the flat water and howling wind. I was too played out to reef the main so I just hung on like grim death. My crew emerged after a fitful night’s sleep at 8am. Thankfully he was not seasick and illustrated this by impassively eating our only pain au chocolat. This meant that there was no food left on the boat apart from half a saucisson. I could have wept but the boat kept me distracted with a magnificent display of speed in heavy weather so I clung onto the tiller for dear life and we roared into Sète after 26 hours at sea. I had slept for 45 minutes. Packing up the boat, utterly beat, my crew offered me the last of the saucisson, explaining that he wouldn’t be able to eat it as he only ate vegan. I told him, in the most diplomatic manner possible, what he could do with the saucisson and we parted ways.

ABOVE LEFT

A picturesque anchorage at the Baie de Langoustier

ABOVE RIGHT

Departure from Îles d’Hyères as dawn breaks

BELOW LEFT

Flying the flag in the Baie de Marseille as the boat speeds home

BELOW RIGHT

Return to Sète in desperate need of sleep and a pain au chocolat