QUAI ALDOPHE ROBERT & white limestone
By Sal Balharrie
This is trip without a boat. Feels strange. Seldom happens, but here I am in Marseille, sans bateau, to see our son who currently lives in London and we both felt like sea - thus Marseille beats Hackney.
I was last here 31 years ago, in 1992. After traversing France north to south via the lock system, we stepped our mast, discarded tyres, barging boards and sold the bike in Port St Louis du Rhone. Marseille was then our first experience of a marina, Med side.
Seems like a very long time ago and yet little has changed in one of Europe’s oldest cities. They still serve bouillabaisse, the price remains regulated by an official Marseillais soup body - going price is currently 60 euros per bowl. The bikes are electric these days, the city is flush with scooters.
While out to sea, the horizon is dotted with islands, the coast line is marked by a unique rock formation. The Massif des Calanques - a wild and rugged terrain stretching from the ninth arrondissement of Marseille, to the east towards Cassis, spanning 20km in length and 4km in width. The alps of the Cote d’Azure rise from plains of agriculture, peak then tumble to the sea in fingers of white limestone - between each ’shard’ is a deep, natural fingerling of harbour, known as a calanque.
I remember, back then, anchoring in one such harbour, near Cassis. I remember the sharp, white limestone underfoot and how trees seemed to grow miraculously out of cracks.
But from some reason, my memory had not held true the colour of the water; the incredible depth and beauty; the clarity, truly breathtaking.
We hired a moped, me on the back, Arch in front, we had a bottle of water and a few almonds. As a family we are historically very bad at catering for hikes, always optimistic, if we’re hungry or thirsty, we’ll find something. On this day we would not be lucky. The Bar Nautic at the base of the Calanque, is a cash only business. It did not take credit cards.
At the entrance to the National Park - Calanque Morgiou - a large guard sat on a chair. You can not park your bike there, he said. There is no bus, you must walk. It takes an hour. Park there! Park there!
I looked around at the cool french kids in thongs, surely they weren’t equipped for an hours hike on a 35 degree day?
But we parked the bike where the guy told us to, or where we thought he told us to, while he waved others through. Clearly we were missing something. But we began to walk.
We passed a small cafe, buzzing with pizza and laughter, under trees. We passed a small car park - ahhh we could have park then walked from there!! Two additional guards directed traffic. Is there a bus? A shuttle? I asked optimistically. Do I need a ticket? Can I buy one?
No. No billet. On your feet, sur pieds, the taller bloke said.
The expanse of the Massif soared above. We began walking, heading out of the car park.
The road was little more than six feet wide, unmade, more of a track. Every few hundred metres a turning cycle had been cut to enable a car to wait for another to pass.
The bush rose either side. Everywhere you looked was perilously dry. Being Australian, fear of bush fire is burnt into our DNA and it didn’t take Einstein to realise, should there be a fire, this was a death trap.
Just as I mentioned this to Archie, a Ranger’s car speed up behind us and three kids - who looked more like Scouts than Rangers - jumped out. Can you smell smoke?
Now, it’s a funny phenomena, like yellow car syndrome, when someone asks you can you smell smoke, you immediately can. Yes, we said, we think we can!
Yes? Good! they shouted in triumph, then jumped back in their car and sped off. What just happened? Had they confirmed a fire and only to leave us?
We flagged down the next car - a young woman from Toulon meeting her friends on the beach.
Now, if we had just survived a bush fire, would be so lucky as to survive this crazy ass drive? 80kmph, slipping and sliding, down a single lane track with unknown, oncoming traffic and the additional obstacle of bikini clad walkers?? While she asked us about koalas, I clutched her yoga mat.
But survive we did.
And what did we find on the other side of the hill?
Calanque Morgiou is a fishing village - well more a cluster of small houses, that once would have only been accessible by boat. From narrow beginnings, a small rocky harbour, expanded out, a Calanque curtained by the magnificence of towering stone to the sky, with crystal clear water below.
To one side a tiny boat yard, making strictly one kind of traditional fishing boat. An old door stood canvas for the testing of paint; year on year builds of colour; all hues bright, all tones chalky; wooden crates spilled over with the detritus of working fisherman.
And also, there was a plaque, quite small with ceramic flowers, one I could not help to admire, yet it required peering - it was worn, hard to read:
QUAI ADOLPE ROBERT victim of the barbarous nazi
Adolphe Robert, I wondered, what happened to you?
In 1923 Adolphe and his family opened the cash only Bar Nautic with its tables and balcony to take in the view and they lived there quietly for 20 years until World War 2 had its way and the family was sent on a train to Dachau. The barbarous ways of man indeed. How? Quite simply how? Today, Calanque Morgiou is difficult to access. But then? What threat did the family pose? How did that happen? How did any of it happen? This world has witnessed shocking scenes - and still does - but how??
My mind began to unravel and spiral as it does when contradicting information simply does not compute. And then I pulled myself back to the present where, for this moment in time, french kids loll on rocks, sipping beer and flip and roll into the water and we with them.
Thank you Adolphe Robert for your Quai.
Slowly Archie and I swam out to the boats lying at anchor and I made a pact with myself - 30 years is far too long a time between anchoring.
Watch this space.
