Crossing to Porquerolles

 

Here it is, the ferry to Porquerolles island. Forgive me if I'm hopelessly enamoured of the South of France, but isn't this quite the most glamorous ferry boat you are ever likely to see? The light scintillates even on the dock at La Tour Fondue (the melted tower) at the end of the Giens peninsula, a narrow spit of land that dangles from Hyeres.

 

   "A hundred years ago the ferry boat was summoned to the mainland by smoke signal – the fire of resinous leaves and twigs lit in a brazier outside the café at the end of the Presqu’île de Giens."



                                                                           from The Sea Garden

 

The tower itself, one of the many old forts that dot the landscape, looks golden in the afternoon sunlight as the ferry eases out into the blue, blue sea.

 

   "The engines thrummed and the boat nosed out into sea glitter and salt spray, then powered up to full speed."  

The crossing only takes fifteen minutes, and the boat really does go fast once it gets underway. Yachts and sail boats skim across the blue alongside, and anticipation rises. I love islands, the way they are cut off and self-contained, and Porquerolles, with its paths through pine forests and beaches in rocky coves, seems the perfect size for exploration.

     "Oleanders and palms waved a sub-tropical greeting from the quayside"

"The white and steel needles of the marina extended out to the ferry dock. A warm breeze rang with clinks of metal rigging. This shore felt far more foreign than the one they had left, as if the sea voyage had crossed much more than the few miles of the strait."

 

 "From the dock she could see pale beaches and low verdant hills berried with red roofs. The fort above the harbour punched up a fist of stone through green trees." 

Opening scene

On the southern coast of mainland France, the Presqu’île de Giens is a ribbon of land dangling into the Mediterranean. At the end of the single road that reaches the sea is a beach and a simple café, a small ferry terminal and places where cars must be parked; they do not cross.

White sails dance across a blue infinity. A line of parked Vespa motor scooters stand by the picture windows of the café and, below, children play on a strip of stony beach. On a low rocky promontory over the water, La Tour Fondue sits squat and defensive: The Melted Tower. It slumps on its half-hearted crag, trailing rock roots through the shallow sea.

When a ferry arrives from one of The Golden Islands, the empty expanse between the café and the harbour buildings fills with movement and colour. Late in the afternoon, the crowds surge from the boat, bags bumping. Day-trippers. There are surprisingly few other travellers for the five o’clock return. Without a hotel booking for the night, no-one could can stay on the islands.

A simple ticket office and a stroll up the gangway on to the ferry. The sun is still fierce on bare arms and heads. Three miles across the water is a small paradise of pine trees, sandy paths and the clear peacock blue of the sea: Porquerolles.

  The island lay in wait, a smudge of land across the water.