Greasque to Cassis

8th October

25 miles

After the storms of yesterday we woke to bright sun filtering through the pines and lighting-up the rusty pit-head with an appropriate russet autumnal glow.

The British van which arrived after us last night had parked right next to us forming a small Unis Royaume amongst the surrounding La Gloire. I have written before about how the strangeness of Albion manifests itself on campsites. idiosyncracy knows no cultural bounds; French campers can be a funny lot too.

When we arrived the previous evening one side of the aire had been filled with vans parked parallel to each other as in a car park. The opposite side was empty. I decided to park length ways as this gave more manoeuvring space for vans using the service point. This was not going to cause anyone any problems, as there was an additional parking area near the museum entrance which was far from full. When I hopped out to turn the gas on I was greeted by dark looks; by the time I was about to place the van on levelling ramps a small deputation of fellow citizens had formed to explain to me that my position was not normal, and was taking the space of 'trois camping cars'. I lacked the French to argue my point, and anyway by this time some fairly doughty looking wives were putting in their 'trois centimes' to boot. Concerned that they were about to whip-out their knitting needles and with visions of the Terror and the Paris mob flashing through my head, I moved Maisy into a more 'normal' position, thus avoiding a burgeoning diplomatic incident.

Some aires are totally bland and innocuous. People turn-up, sleep, and bugger-off early next day. Others have developed complex cultures which strike the newcomer as strange and exotic. A lively boule match and vans with striped table cloths already set for dinner are good indicators that you have not arrived at a simple stop-over, but an impromptu fête in celebration of the values of the Republic. Not that people are unfriendly. Gill had wandered over to look at a fig tree.The French gentleman parked next to it joined her, and whilst acknowledging that it was a magnificent specimen, went on (and on) explaining how his fig tree in Dijon was more magnificent, beauteous, and productive. Apparently listener feedback was not required, and blissfully unaware of the vague, 'Shaun of the Dead' expression which had now spread across Gill's face, Monsieur le Figue moved on, without hesitation, deviation, or repetition to outline  the fundamentals of fig husbandry and pruning techniques. Only when he had sketched out the exact procedure for his favourite recipe - duck with figs - was Gill able to extricate herself, with a glazed look. "Blimey," she muttered, "they're all out there today."

Time to move on. Cassis was less than 30 miles away, and after a refuelling stop at Auchan, Aubabon, we arrived at Camping le Cigale by lunch-time.  Le Cigale is a traditional  two star site. The facilities  functional, but hardly stylish, no heated sanitary block here, or camping pods for glamping aficionados. You know youmare in for  an authentic Gallic camping experience when you note people wandering about clutching toilet rolls and sensing a  need to join them, Andrex at the ready, discover 'Turkish style, WCs predominate. It's a nice spot though, with views if the hills through the pine trees. It's a bit tight for motor homes the size of Maisy, and the owners could be a little more vigilant with the tree trimming, as low branches were a problem in places The brochure describes the site as '15 minutes from 'centre ville'; which it is - vertically. So once you figure-in the effects of gravity, it's probably a ten minute walk into town, and a twenty five minute breathless wheeze back.

Cassis' picture postcard waterfront

A panoramic shot

Over the twenty five years of regularly visiting the Med, we've come across some lovely small ports,  from Hora Sfakion in Crete to Mojacar in Andalusia. Cassis has to be amongst the most beautiful. It's setting is spectacular with 1000 foot cliffs to the west and the famous Calanque inlets to the east. The town itself  climbs steeply from the harbour, with a backdrop of arid limestone crags which vary in colour from chalky white to rust red. However the immediate environs are verdant: the Cassis vineyards alternate with patches of  Mediterranean pine forests. The town is overlooked by a castle, reminiscent of Portifino, and the ochre and pastel coloured cafés on the quayside are every bit as jolly as St Tropez, without having totally succumbed to being a ghetto for the super-rich. Of course, in July and August Cassis is probably hopelessly overcrowded, but where isn't - even Skegness and Rhyl are heaving!  But on this sunny Wednesday in mid October the town was pleasantly busy, with enough people in the cafés to give them a lively vibe. We checked out the boat times and ticket prices for our trip to the Calanques planned for tomorrow, then strode swiftly (gasped slowly, goggle-eyed) up the two kilometre climb back to the camp site.

Cassis - it's got a beach...

a drop dead gorgeous harbour

with lovely, interesting tourists

....overlooked by a great castle.

The castle reminded me of Portifino, and the ochre and pastel coloured cafés on the quayside are every bit as jolly as St Tropez, without having totally succumbed to being a ghetto for the super-rich. Of course in the summer Cassis is probably hopelessly overcrowded, but where isn't - even Skegness and Rhyl are heaving in August!  But on this sunny Wednesday in October  the town was pleasantly busy with enough people in the cafés to give them a lively vibe. We checked out the boat times and ticket prices for our trip to the Calanques planned for tomorrow, then strode swiftly (gasped slowly, goggle-eyed) up the two kilometre climb back to the camp site.

blog time!