From a slope overlooking the city of Marseille, the surrounding mountains and the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean, I was half way between the natural world and civilisation. In the abode of possibility, ancient limestone cliffs clouded the trails foreseeable rhythm. Birds larger than I had ever seen were soaring above my head. Only then when studying my map for the first time, I realised I was following the wrong trail. I would have to hike back to the beginning and start again.
Throughout most of human history, arriving at a new town came with a huge sense of accomplishment. You had to physically earn the destination by travelling there on foot. These days we just hop on some form of public transportation, and then we’re there in no time. Not a single drop of hard-earned sweat. I think there’s something inherently wrong about this, at least in principle anyway.
This thought process led to months of curiosity and research into hiking and wild camping; a form of travel I had never experienced, nor previously considered. I found myself in the Calanques National Park in Bouches-du-Rhône, southern France; a wild and rugged terrain stretching along the coast between Marseille and Cassis. Here I would learn to experience the in-betweens of destinations. This was my introduction to the wild.
That first night before sunset, I came across Calanque de la Mounine; a small uninhabited creek near the port of Callelongue. Contemplating whether to set up camp, I soaked in my surroundings and enjoyed the mere passing of time. Psychedelic yellow Jacobaea maritima were growing out of the cracks in the rocks. What a strange, yet beautiful plant to sit beside. Later, I cleared a space between the pebbles, then set up my tent and sleeping equipment. When everything was sorted, I sat on the rocks listening to the waves rocking back and forth, drinking a small, 100ml bottle of whisky. The booze helped relinquish my uncertainty.
When darkness fell, the slightest sounds of the wild magnified. My surroundings felt infinite, though I tried to blend in. With nothing to do but lie back and dream, I thought about the future and eventually drifted to sleep. I was woken a few times by passing helicopters and park guards in speed boats. It’s illegal to wild camp or bivouac in the Calanques, so I laid low in the darkness. Luckily due to the shape of the rocks, the boats couldn’t see me, but the helicopter remained a risk. When their noise faded away, the enchanting stillness of the wild reappeared. I was alone, once again.
The second day was one of the most challenging, yet thrilling days of my life. I managed to clear a lot of distance in the early morning when the temperature was still cool. By midday, I was almost at the creek of Sormiou, trekking along the desert scrubland like a lost mountain dweller. Soon, the city of Marseille reappeared in the distance; a reminder that civilisation wasn’t all that far away. This sight wasn’t nearly as comforting as you might believe. The environment was extremely harsh and unbearable, and I hadn’t seen shade for miles.
After a short detour into town to stock up on food and water, I returned to the mountains, but struggled to carry on walking. With the weight of my bag carrying a full supply of fuel, I felt fatigued and nauseous. Eventually finding shade beneath a pine tree, I crashed for a good hour or two, resting upon the sight of Sormiou. Just the thought of the world outside of my beloved pine tree, was anxiety provoking and borderline petrifying. When my body had almost recovered, I took the plunge and descended into the open sunlight.
Miles and miles of barren sand and limestone led me to a point, where if I continued following the trail, there’d be nowhere else to fill up water and I’d be running on empty. The prospect of this was far too dangerous to attempt, so I detoured towards the small port village of Morgiou, where I hoped to camp nearby and find water before the following morning. The trek was torturously hot and difficult, but with evening just around the corner, the mountains opened up and the village appeared from above.
Overlooking Morgiou, I set up camp on a cliff edge. The view was out of this world, but I was too exhausted to fully appreciate it. I had walked 17.5 miles that day, up and down mountains. I felt sick and defeated and wanted to go home. I probably would’ve quit if there was an easy exit, but there wasn’t, so I sucked it up and played tough. Tomorrow, I told myself, I’d make it to Cassis and sleep in a nice, comfy bed. That thought alone, was the one thing that kept me going.
Mother nature painted the cliffs in a warm, pink glow of wonder. As night fell, the darkness replaced the pink. I felt more frightened than the previous night. Perhaps it was because I didn’t have any whisky left, but the location felt wilder and more primal, and open to disaster. As I was lying there in my tent, I heard something moving around in the scrubland above me. This happened every time I remained quiet. It freaked me out, so I got up and turned my headlight on. When I did, I saw eyes in the bushes, watching me. I packed away my things as quick as I could, and ran down the mountain in the dark, slipping once or twice on loose rocks.
When I got to the bottom, I snuck through the village to the harbour front and found a spot on the rocks roughly 15 feet above. It was too dark to set up my tent and I didn’t want to attract any attention or get caught, so I unrolled my mat and slept out in the open beneath the stars. I found comfort listening to the villagers talking inside their homes. It was so quiet out; I heard the cracking open of beer bottles at numerous occasions. There I was, a stranger hiding on the rocks above the village port, yet nobody knew I was out there. I put my headphones in, switched on a podcast and tried to fall asleep, looking up at the stars and pretending the wilderness behind me didn’t exist. At one point throughout the night, I awoke to a passing black cat, just inches from my face. What a night, I thought.
The following morning, there were fishermen loading up the boats. For whatever reason, I remembered that near Morgiou, was the Cosquer Cave; an underwater cavern with prehistoric rock art engravings. It felt amazing to have slept in a place surrounded by so much history, despite the dread of last night. I walked on, keeping that in mind, remembering that soon I’d be back to civilisation.
The third day was tough from the very beginning. As I was approaching Sugiton, where apparently the wildest part of the trail begins, a large hare runs out from the bushes and crosses the path. From there, the trail got increasingly difficult as I approached Mont Puget; the largest limestone mountain in the Calanques. At one point I came across a few other hikers, but they decided to turn back due to the steepness of the climb. The highest part of the trail near the Grande Candelle was just 500 meters from sea level, but felt a lot higher due to the constant ups and downs.
By midday, I knew the end was drawing near when people began appearing regularly. I went from seeing one person every hour to a few people every minute. Soon, I was just another face in the crowd. A dirty, smelly backpacker surrounded by hundreds of beach-goers wearing clean clothes and perfume. I kept my head low, slightly ashamed of my appearance, but proud of what I had accomplished. Right when I was reaching my limit, the national park transitioned to pavement, and I was out walking on the streets of Cassis. I had travelled 16.1 miles that day, but the overall hike was 45.6. My dreams tormented me throughout the night, replaying the hike over and over. My body went into shock and I spent the whole night throwing up.
The following morning by the pool, the Calanques loomed in the distance like a giant, epic monster. I knew that one day I’d be back, but for now, Cassis was mine and I had earned it. To think that such pristine, natural beauty lies between two cement infrastructures. There must be very few places like this in the whole world.