Camping in France has the potential to be even wilder than camping in Scotland, if only because we don't speak the language. However, thanks to the lack of access rights or large swathes of uninhabited parkland to invade we are forced to book a place at an actual campsite, with running water, and... um... that's about the only added amenity that's offered, actually. Still, when you're going to be away for 10 days, it's probably not such a bad thing to have access to showers, or sinks to wash your dishes in.
So no complaining here, just a gentle admission that this post doesn't really fit with the theme of the blog. This camping trip is not so wild. Although believe me, we are still camping wherever the hell we feel like it: we really do feel like camping here.
It's an hour-long bus ride from Glasgow to Edinburgh airport, and fortunately the buses run occasionally in the night. As our cheap flight to Marseille leaves at an ungodly hour from a city we don't live in, Mark and I spend the previous day packing, take a short nap, and then hit up the bus station at 3:00 am. The weather in Glasgow is pretty typical: 8 degrees and raining. The weather in Marseille, however, has been forecast at 28 degrees and sunny, which leaves us with a bit of a quandary about how to dress when leaving the flat. When you're a backpacker, forced to carry all you need on your back like a snail or some other lowly creature, it is of genuine importance that you avoid bringing unnecessary items on any trip. The heavy leather jacket that could keep you warm on your way to the airport will become nothing but a burden the instant the plane lands, and you will spend a good number of hours lamenting your weakness in bringing it as you stumble wearily from one place to the next, trying to find your campsite.
"Oh, woe is me!" you'll be crying as the leather sticks first to the sweaty arm you've rolled it up under, then to the damp back of your neck when you strap it to the top of your pack. You'll find yourself trying to open the top of your partner's pack like a pickpocket, but instead of removing valuable goods you'll be gently depositing the hated garment, hoping the added weight won't attract undue attention.
To avoid all of this – because I know that Mark would totally notice if I tried those shenanigans on him – I leave my warm jacket on the coat stand, though not without trepidation. I'm wearing a floor-length jersey sundress, a scarf, a cardigan, a hat, and hand-knit socks with sandals. It is not a great look, but I try to stamp down my vanity enough to let me leave the house in such a getup. It goes against everything in me, but I do manage. Socks and sandals in the rain is not a clever choice of footwear, but if you see the above situation with the leather jacket and just replace "jacket" with "shoes" you'll see why I couldn't persuade myself to bring anything but sandals. In France, by all accounts, it basically never rains, so what will I need with close-toed shoes?
Mark is similarly attired (not in a sundress though) but he is much less whiney than I am about it. He doesn't care what he looks like, which is something I could do with a dose of.
We sort of doze off on the bus, and the hour-long ride passes quickly. Thanks to the cleverness of another airport-bound passenger we realise there is a stop within walking distance of the airport, which will save us a good twenty minutes and the price of a second bus fare. My legs are numb by the time we reach the terminal, but for once I hardly even complain.
At the check-in desk I am forced to move a towel from the checked luggage to hand luggage, and then, miraculously, the bag is within the limit. Considering the amount of heavy camping and cooking gear we are carrying with us, I can only pray that they don't demand to weigh our carry-ons. The day airlines start to enforce their carry-on luggage weight restrictions will be the day that I am forced to stop traveling.
The flight is a typical Ryanair experience, making me wonder if we should have paid double to fly with a real airline. It does land safely though, which is the main thing. As we walk down the staircar steps to the tarmac a deliciously warm breeze wafts over us and the French sun greets us with a hearty 'Bonjour!'. I stop to remove my socks. I could camp out right on this runway and still have a good vacation. As much as the weather at home doesn't usually bother me, once a year or so it is nice to feel the sun on your face, or to plan a picnic a few days in advance knowing that you have a 99% chance of actually going ahead with it. Hooray for vacations! And if being in the sun is good, well, not being at a desk in the basement of an office building talking to moronic customers all day is even better. I'm pretty sure Mark would second this sentiment.
A few short hours after arrival our train pulls into the station at La Couronne. This is my third trip to the South of France, and the filthy, tumble-down railway shelter recognises me and pretty much screams "you're about to have an awesome time!". I knew it already. We walk the short road to the centre of the village, where our favourite cafe is continuing business as usual. First stop: deux pain au chocolat et deux crème, s'il tous plait. It is so good to be back!
The next ten days are not actually all that eventful. In the mornings we walk 25 minutes from the campsite to the village, where we have the same pain au chocolats and the same sweet milky coffee every day. Then we do a little grocery shopping, usually involving not much more than bread, cheese, wine, and pasta. Upon returning to the campsite we pack up a cooler for the day and hit the beach, always the same shady cove that saves our pale hides from the blistering sun. After this the day consists, for me, of reading, eating, spending twenty minutes trying to coax myself into the freezing Mediterranean while Mark watches in exasperation from the water, swimming, sitting in the sun briefly to warm up, and more reading. Thanks to the shiny new kindle my parents have surprised me with I am never short of books, and average about 2 per day. Around 6 or 7 pm we will usually go back to the campsite and slowly make some dinner on our favourite camp stove, then read or walk on the beach until we're sleepy enough to go to bed. It is a delicious and relaxing way to while away the days, but of course we do, very occasionally, mix it up a bit.
One day in the afternoon we decide to take a walk to the next village over, a place called Carro that boasts a large sandy beach and, therefore, a mass of super-tanned French people and a strip of surf shops and ice cream stands that cater to them. Mark needs a new hat, because the one I bought him last year somehow ended up in the laundry hamper and then, logically, in the washing machine, and came out misshapen and depressing to look upon. Mark blames me for not sorting the clothes, but I blame him for letting it fall into the hamper in the first place. What, am I supposed to look at every individual item I put in the machine? Who has that kind of time!? Mark maintains that I should have learned my lesson from the time his brand new leather gloves went through a similar experience, but once again, if it's in the hamper I am well within my rights to wash it. Perhaps, I counter, it is he who should have learned from that past experience and stopped putting inappropriate items in with the laundry? Or, failing that, stopped piling up so much stuff on top of his dresser that inappropriate items have no choice but to slide off the pile and into the laundry.
Or perhaps we can just agree to blame it on gravity.
Regardless, Mark definitely needs a hat of some kind. He is not known for his cleverness when it comes to putting on sunscreen or remembering to stay in the shade at high noon, so a hat might be his only chance of still having skin on his face by the time we head home. We spend half an hour picking our way along the beautiful, rocky coastline to get to the other beach, and once there have to cross a large expanse of sand full of mostly naked people to get to the shops. I avert my eyes, as nothing good can come of comparing oneself to the fit, confident French ladies who work on their tans all year and see no need for bikini tops. Mark has no such hang-ups, so it takes a while to get to the pavement. Just as we reach the end of the sand I notice a family of sunbathers engaging in a photoshoot. There is a girl of about 6 or 7 throwing a ball in the air and catching it, striking more and more ridiculous poses with every catch. Her camera-wielding father is laughing so hard he can barely focus, and I keep watching, trying to understand why it is so funny. The mother has a faintly disgusted look on her face, but that makes sense as she is in the middle of changing a baby. A baby. Something clicks, and that's when I realise that the child is not playing catch with a ball – it's playing catch with a dirty diaper. I grab Mark's arm and make him aware of the situation. It goes on far longer than you would believe possible. At first, the young girl is simply tossing the diaper up and catching it with her hands, but her father's laughter encourages her to come up with ever-wilder schemes. She leans over to throw the diaper through her legs, with a look of triumph on her face at having thought of something so clever. As it comes down, I see her brow furrow in thought. Then her eyes light up in delight and she runs to meet it, timing it just right so she can get underneath the plummeting packet of feces and bounce it off the top of her head. Her father, her mother, Mark and I all nearly die. The girl is running ecstatically through the sand, on fire with knowledge of her amazing showmanship skills, and anxious lest someone else retrieve the diaper before she can get to it and begin all over again. I can hardly take it. It is tempting to stay and watch, knowing that at some point the diaper must burst open, but on further reflection such a sight would likely give me nightmares for a long time to come. So we leave the beach and head towards the surf shops.
A massive cup of gelato and a new hat later, we are ready to head back to our site. There is a massive staircase running up the cliff on one side of the beach, and since Mark is well known for never wanting to "go back on himself" it is decided that we will climb those stairs and find a different way back. At the top we walk through a parking lot, and then along a road for about 2 minutes tops before we come to an intersection we recognise.
"Wait." Mark says, hesitantly. "Isn't that the old folks' home? Surely there can't be two of them?" He is pointing towards a swanky apartment block that we recently discovered to be a seniors' residence, and which we have decided we want to be sent to if we live long enough to become old and senile (family members reading this, take heed!). He is right in that one tiny village can't possibly support two upscale residences like this, and therefore, we must be pretty much at the campsite already! It turns out that the half hour long trek we made to the other village was by a very circuitous route, and it is actually possible to walk from one to the other in a matter of minutes. We are not sad to be spared further trudging under the hot sun. As much as I love the beautiful weather, my appreciation soon wanes if I am left shadeless for more than a few minutes at a time. Mark can attest to this, as later on the same day we stupidly decide to walk to the *other* sandy beach on the opposite side of our cove, which is a good 45 minute hike on hot tarmac and across arid plains. By the time we reach the tiny ice cream hut that sits at the parking lot entrance, I am little more than a moving (and whingeing) puddle. Mark has to take charge and goes to procure some ice cream to revive me with, even leaving me his hat lest I expire from two more minutes in the open sun.
When you're living like this you would be forgiven for forgetting that you ever had a job, or a flat to pay for, or any responsibilities other than making sure the ice packs in the cooler are switched out every day before the office closes. And the time just flies. Soon enough there's only two days of our holiday left, and we are trying to make every moment count. Instead of heading to the campsite to cook dinner, we bring dinner to the beach. Our portable stove seems even better than it already did (sounds impossible, I know!) when it is balanced on shells and sea-glass in front of a driftwood fire. All of the German tourists and French holidaymakers abandon the beach as the shadows lengthen, retreating to their well-equipped caravans or the expensive restaurants scattered throughout the region. We have the cove all to ourselves. We're camped out on a picnic blanket, with plenty of soft warm clothes and candles for when the sun goes down. Mark concentrates on collecting kindling for the fire while I – surprise – read. As the sun begins to set, fish start jumping everywhere you look, and flocks of clean, proud seagulls (so different from their city-living counterparts as to be another species altogether) fly overhead on the lookout for an easy target. We watch as one bird circles the water directly in front of us.
"It looks like that seagull is hunting." I say. "They don't pick fish right out of the water, do they?" Mark doesn't know. I have seen hundreds, probably thousands of seagulls in my life but I have never seen one eating anything other than human food. The bird circles again, then beats its wings quickly to stay stationary as it studies the surface. It swoops and, disappointingly, lands quite normally with its feet in the water. But wait! After a few second of awkward grappling, the seagull rises back into the air with a small fish in its claws. Triumph! You can tell that Mark and I don't get out much by how long we sit there, reliving the moment. Who knew a seagull could put on such a show.
Night has pretty well fallen by the time we light the fire and it's as good a time as any to start on dinner. We'd splurged on some tasty parmesan cheese and cream that morning, and although we're cooking on the beach we have decided not to let that stop us from cooking up a nice fettucine alfredo. It takes a lot longer than usual to bring the sauce to a boil, but we've got all the time in the world. The stars start to show themselves as I cook the pasta, with Mark sitting beside me roasting hot dogs in the fire. It turns out that alfredo sauce is delicious with hot dogs, and we are just classy enough to go there. I am pretty thrilled to be sitting on the beach, gazing out over the Mediterranean, while eating one of my favourite dishes with my favourite man.
There are a few wild housecats that like to roam the shore, which somehow contributes to the magic of the evening. I don't know why I find cats on the beach so strange, but their wary presence at the edge of the firelight does add a certain je ne sais quoi to the whole experience. Our dinner finished, we have a few drinks and puzzle over the tiny lights that seem to be drifting in the water. Mark decides he wants to go swimming. I immediately agree that it is a great idea, because in theory, it is! But considering how long it takes me to coax myself into the water during the day, I have serious doubts about my ability to ever manage it at night. Mark wades in without hesitation and is soon floating on his back, taunting me with exclamations of wonder as he looks up at the sky. I stand on a slippery rock, knee-deep in water, trying not to fall in. Every few seconds I wave my arms wildly in an attempt to maintain my balance. I am overtaken by the fear that I will take so long to get in the water that Mark will have had enough, and then I'll be the first thing the sharks eat when they inevitably come to investigate the intruders on their territory. This thought somehow spurs me on, and I splash myself repeatedly with the icy water, trying to accustom myself to its unfortunate temperature. During the day Mark and I enjoy mocking the timid women and girls who employ this splashing method of acclimatization, but I have dropped my cynical and judgemental mindset and decided to do whatever it takes. Mark continues to mock me though.
After a good fifteen minutes of tottering on that rock, I finally fall into the water, shrieking like a wimp. But Mark was so right – it is absolutely beautiful once you're in. I swim towards him with my teeth chattering, and then we hold hands as we float on our backs, admiring the impressive display of stars. There is no moon, and there is not enough light pollution on the coast to have a detrimental effect on stargazing. Thus we are able to see as many, if not more, stars than I have ever seen lying on the dock at my cottage. The Milky Way puts in an appearance as well. I look down into the water (against my better judgement, because I will probably see a shark) and am amazed to see tiny lights floating around me. Every time I move my arms or legs the lights cluster and ripple around me like tiny drowning fireflies. I am utterly enchanted.
Eventually we lose all feeling in our limbs and have to head back to the shore. It's so dark out here that we are grateful for our campfire, without which we could end up accidentally swimming to Greece. Getting out of the water proves difficult, however, even with the firelight. The seabed here isn't sandy and smooth, but rocky and slimy and sharp, requiring great fortitude and an unnaturally high pain tolerance to navigate in bare feet. Mark has had a few beers and has been in the water rather longer than I have, and his frozen legs refuse to cooperate. He falls down repeatedly. It's hilarious.
When I'm finished laughing I help him out of the water, and we settle on the blanket near the fire, trying to coax some feeling back into our shivering bodies. This is almost better than the swimming itself – the slow tingle of nerve endings coming back to life, the light-headedness caused by nearly dying of hypothermia, and the almost-painful warmth of the fire pit rocks my toes are curling around gratefully. I don't think I have ever been happier, and looking at Mark I can see he's thinking the same thing. Back when the seagull caught the fish he had already told me that this was the best day of his life, and I would be willing to bet it's gotten even better. I am smiling foolishly at nothing when Mark startles me out of my reverie. He's kneeling beside me, and takes both of my pale cold hands in his own.
"I don't have a ring, but... Andrea Heins, will you marry me?"
I flip out a little bit in my head as I realise he's completely serious. I have known for a long time that I would happily marry the loving, talented, goofball of a man who now kneels beside me, so I look up at him with tears in my eyes and tell him that I would love to. This is the best day of my life.
A few other things probably happen before we get on the plane home; more ice cream is undoubtedly consumed, further swimming expeditions are undertaken. But most of it is lost in a haze of sheer bliss, so just know that we do indeed tear ourselves away from the French soil, and make it safely home. And then I get a sparkly gorgeous ring which I have a more girly reaction to than I ever anticipated.
One day next summer we'll get married, and from what I hear it's all downhill after that.
Oh, I'm so happy for you!
ReplyDeleteAlso, you're a wonderful writer, Ange. Your entries are super long walls of text, but so worth the energy it takes to read through!
Also, I wish I had your life! Or the gusto it takes to make life like yours.
- Christina
Amazing! I do hope you compile a book one day of your epic adventures!
ReplyDeleteThanks ladies! Christina you make me laugh... yes they are long, they wouldn't be any good if I tried to keep them short! But I've cut the next one in two parts for you, so you don't get overwhelmed by it. :)
ReplyDelete