Lost hours wandering eucalyptus drenched paths, followed by
salty dips in crystal water.
Just off the French Riviera in Cannes, lie the Lérins Islands. A group of four Mediterranean islands. The two largest islands in the group are the Île Sainte-Marguerite and the Île Saint-Honorat. The smaller uninhabited two are the Îlot Saint-Ferréol and Îlot de la Tradelière.
I want to visit both the Île Sainte-Marguerite and the Île Saint-Honorat (particularly as the Île Saint-Honorat has the unique fame of having both a vineyard and religious land) but today there is no boat connecting the two. So I choose the Île Sainte-Marguerite, the island made famous for its fortress prison - constructed in the early seventeenth century and notably occupied by the man in the iron mask.
I’ve heard that the fort royal is one of a number of cells that can be visited, and I hope to go and see it for myself. There is also a museum of the sea which I fancy taking a look at, as it features items recovered from various surrounding shipwrecks, .
Very soon I am aboard the ferry that will take me from Cannes harbour across the diamond studded sea, to my adventure.
The glamour of Cannes is rapidly replaced by foamy spray and lunatic sea gulls. Only hours earlier I had carefully styled my hair in anticipation of my mock film-festival red-carpet photo, but, in no time, as the boat gathers speed, my straightened locks are whipped into unruly curls that thrash against my bare nut-brown shoulders.
Just like my nattiness, Cannes grows distant, and I lean over the edge of the boat, my summer dress flapping around my waist in a most undignified manner, to watch the island’s jagged coastline grow closer.
Fifteen minutes from Cannes, I find paradise.
The instant I step onto the planked jetty, which is all that is separating me from the shoals of silver fish frolicking the shallow water below, I can smell the delicate eucalyptus. Though I am one of many tourists coming to the Île Sainte-Marguerite for the day, I am enveloped in harmony. I breathe a yoga breath and slowly rotate 360 degrees to admire the forest and coastline, and the Mediterranean sea in which it gently lounges.
With no other means of access, the ferry saturates the island with visitors, but no sooner are they spewed onto the island are they swallowed by woody pines and diluted by unknown trails. We follow, heading inwards.
I knew that the Île Sainte-Marguerite offered a couple of eatery establishments, but I am surprised to find a village. It is made up of around 20 whitewashed buildings, yet I see no one. I wonder who it is that hides behind the pastel shutters. How do they fare the alternate isolation and hordes of visitors?
We continue strolling, hand in hand under the song of the cicadas. Influenced into slothfulness by the lack of human imprint, we aimlessly walk the countless dusty paths that criss-cross the island senselessly. So many tracks, that we soon discover end abruptly with fine pebbled rocky coves. Coves that can only be reached by clambering down rocks, and clinging to trees that jut out of the coastline wearing the shape of the wind.
The scenery and coastline are breath-taking.
On the south side of the island you can see the Île Saint-Honorat. I’m told that come summer weekends the shallow water between the two islands is filled with boats, but today it is quiet and my view to the smaller island is undisturbed.
I vow to visit the Île Saint-Honorat next time I come to Cannes, but the sight of the other island reminds me why I’d chosen to visit the Île Sainte-Marguerite today and we decide to head north to the fort.
Crumbling walls sprawled with the new life of determined creeping plants, lead the way to huge wooden doors that stand indicative of the islands history. But I am to be disappointed, the fort is closed today, and I can get no closer to understanding the islands secrets.
Except I can feel them. This side of the island contrasts with the other. What was peaceful has become unnerving. Maybe it’s the presence of the bronze cannons taking aim over the open sea, or the endless cry of the waves down below the steep cliffs fighting against unflinching rocks. Even the shrubs look like they’re attempting to break free, springing out of rocky walls, grabbing for air with gnarled fingers.
Unable to venture inside we move on, detouring back to the west side of the island past the ornithological reserve of the Etang du Batéguier pond. From there we mosey through dunes before stumbling upon seagrass meadows. Beyond which is a beach.
Escaping my clothes, I creep into the sharp waters of the Mediterranean. Whilst I lose myself in the sight of the distant smoky hills above Cannes, I feel the dust of the day dissolving as the waves lap my sun drenched skin. I happily trust my floating body to the vast sea, allowing it to steer wherever it sees fit.
Half an hour later, I wash up on the shore, salt baked and feral. Yet lying next to the skeletons of driftwood, I feel more in tune with myself than I have for a long time.
The Île Sainte-Marguerite isn’t just an island. It’s a cleansing experience.
A revitalising tonic.
And as I set sail on the last departing ferry at 6pm, I know that this is not my last visit.
Have you visited the Île Sainte-Marguerite ? Please share your experiences in the comments.
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