Another stretch of the Sentier du Littoral.

There is a run I like to do after work because it is very close and very stunning. It also involves the Sentier du Littoral (great promise) - a different stretch. This time, you start at la Plage de la Moutte (near des Salins in St. Tropez). Instead of turning right to go the beach there, you turn left and follow the sea path all the way around the mass of land upon which sit Les Parcs de St. Tropez. Les Parcs de St. Tropez are filled with mansions/villas like this one:



(As an aside, in order to take this photograph, I rode my scooter to the gated entrance of this very ritzy and clannish community and used my charm to convince the gateman I just wanted to do a quick ride around those streets - you know, just a Sunday evening stroll on the scooter. He hesitated, but with a few extra pleading smiles he caved, with one provision: "pas de photo," said he. Well, this is the only photograph I took, so I broke the rule only once. I became somewhat paranoid because once I started noticing, there were video cameras at every entrance and turn in the road. These people were serious about their privacy/hideout houses.)



Back to the path. It stands to reason that if each of these houses abuts the sea and these houses were built on the best land in St. Tropez, the trail here is bound to be special. Plus, since all the villa owners have boats and this is their portal to the sea, the path is often crafted into specially built staircases, stretches of path. You pass by dock after charming dock snaking out into the ocean. Nice that the rich so generously ameliorated this length of the way.























There is an ideal time to do this run: right when the setting sun strikes its match.

Les Salins

If you want to go to a splendid restaurant in St. Tropez - head to La Plage des Salins restaurant. Whole grilled fish - swooped from the water, staring up at you minutes later from your plate. Feet in the sand of the beach - water lapping your toes. White moon rising over a lavender sky and a restful sea. The restaurant is at the end of the Route des Salins - where St. Tropez meets the sea at its final stopping point. The setting for the restaurant is worlds away from anywhere else you could eat in this town.

Ramatuelle.

In the hillsides hanging over St. Tropez rests Ramatuelle - perhaps the most picturesque and quaint of all French villages (a very big assertion indeed). If the town of St. Tropez can be tacky in its dripping wealth and gold and glitz, Ramatuelle is its unfailingly sophisticated and understated cousin. Even the plants in Ramatuelle are labeled to acculturate its residents and the tourists who dip in. Ramatuelle is also the much classier address for a July/August summer home if you are French. Both give way to fabulous beaches and restaurants, but the beaches near Ramatuelle (where I've been venturing) are like the village, sparser (no pot-bellied Russians with big cigars surrounded by 20-something yacht dolls, blessedly), rugged, pristine - unsullied.



I rode my lovely little scooter up the steep grade to reach the town, whose streets turn inward on themselves like an escargot. Walking through the folds of the tiny cobbelstone paths, you peek around each corner breathless that the next street could be any more convincing than the one you've just tiptoed down. From the color of the shutters and doors to the sound of people humming in the shower (this town is calm) and a guy dressed in white linen whistling, puckered lips to the heavens, calling up to his cherie in a window above (note the lack of any car/scooter sounds - the interior streets are perambulator only), you want to breathe, hear and witness Ramatuelle, I promise.



























And, of course, blessing the land just below the hilltop of Ramatuelle are glowing green vineyards and lavender-studded chapels.

du Savon.

Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday mornings are market days in St. Tropez (place des Lices). You will feel sardined-in, guaranteed. You will also need to use your elbows, as if you were on a basketball court. The most governable looking older French woman turns aggressive in these moments and you might take an elbow. She will disregard that you have been standing there waiting from the moment she walked up to the booth. No matter. The lady behind the market stall won't seem to notice either, even though you've made direct eye contact with her, compelling her to turn to you after she's taken the money from the customer at hand. Instead, she yields to the loud, shrill "Bonjour, je vais prendre..." from the old one with the elbows. I admire them, I swear. It is just that I wasn't taught to be hawkish when waiting in line to pay for peaches. I am no good at it. I ended up waiting at least two times longer than any French lady. Go figure.

Soaps. Soaps from Provence. To look at them was enough. I waited my long turn and bought some too. Divine.

La piscine.

There are people in St. Tropez who would never go swimming here (la Ponche - the least touristy, but most charming area of town) - too close to town, maybe a little gritty, seaweed deep down, etc. The people who do are pretty great: 13-year old boys who do backflips off the side of the concrete edge, me (cannonballs and dives), kids (cannonballs too), old ladies who breaststroke in the water and watch the tricks with a big grin on their face. To be fair, this is the closest swimming hole to the heart of St. Tropez and it is never crowded. The water is deep enough to dive into. I swim far out in this pool and then climb the ladder again to jump off again. I keep telling myself it will be the last time, but I just keep jumping back in.

So many shades of cantaloupe.

Not in a disparaging way, but is he for real? His skin was also a shade of cantaloupe or maybe blood orange.

Sentier du Littoral: Ramatuelle.

The Sentier du Littoral deserves a whole series of posts. I shall heed that call. La belle France really won over my heart today when I learned that there is a path that follows almost the entire coastline of the country (maintained for hikers/explorers): the Sentier du Littoral. Historically, it was a path for surveillance, for protection and defense. Since 1976, it has been cultivated and exists as a path for anyone to hike along the coastline - regardless of private property - a beautiful thing. What does that mean? Beaches and areas that are really tricky to get to are suddenly a possibility with a little commitment and a hike. The trail itself is often rocky or sometimes cuts directly through brush/thicket as tall as you are, giving you the impression someone just took giant scissors and made a tiny trail through. You can literally start at the port of St. Tropez and end up in Ramatuelle and far far beyond taking this trail (the beach possibilities are endless on that stretch).

You see, I started the day by charting out a course on the map - heading, by scooter, to a beach that looked pretty remote - down a long drive on Route des Plages toward Ramatuelle on Route de Collebasse with a turnoff at Chemin de la Bastide Blanche (I'm telling you all the roads, because I think you should go). I wanted to continue down that windy looking route to what looked like wild terrain and a far-flung beach on google earth, but was stopped by a road that turned into a dirt trail (the satellite situation was deceiving). Little scooter said, no way. I agreed (but totally possible by sporty car). So, I changed course and headed back to turn right on Route de l'Escalet instead. To Plage de l'Escalet. Where I began:



I saw this sign, which made me cognizant of the lovely Sentier du Littoral:



First, I turned left toward Cap Camarat, just to see.

The trail was like this:



This sink hole was divine to swim in - it is very deep - does it look deep? It is. (Yes, getting out of it required overcoming my fear of stepping on a black sea urchin - which I did not end up doing. It was one of those moments where you get into something and forget you are going to have to get out):



These boat huts, for some reason, made me feel as though I were in Mexico:



At the boat huts, I met two very nice French ladies who were hiking the trail and whose sunscreen had turned their sweaty faces a glossy white color. They disapproved of my flip flops, but said it in a nice way (I sort of agreed with them. Chacos next round). The French ladies said that if I continued in that direction, I wouldn't find the best swimming areas; if I went in the other direction, all the water turns a pale turquoise and the seaweed disappears. I didn't let on that I have a thing for seaweed and I did turn around, hike back and walk past the starting sign again to take it in the other direction.



They were right, the trail on this side led to better water for swimming and lounging.



Cap Taillat:





My lounging rocks:



He was nervously praying on the trail - it appeared he may he even been biting his fingernails. When he moved, he would shake like the movement pained his bones (or his exoskeleton, I guess). I wagered he might have been nervous thinking about mating season, when his female love would likely eat him after they finish mating (remember learning that in elementary school? I think it is true):



Still nervous: