Exploring the Wild Coast of Marseille and the Calanques

The Wild Coast: Choosing to Travel on Foot

Exhausted from relying on public transport systems across Western Europe, I decided it was time to experience the in-betweens of destinations. Throughout most of human history, people traveled to different places on foot — physically moving through the terrain they ventured into. Today, we take transportation for granted: we close our eyes, play music, and arrive. There is nothing wrong with that. Modern means of transportation are incredibly convenient. But I wanted to experience arrival to places on foot — to feel the ground beneath my steps and earn each destination.

This desire led me to the south of France, where I set out to trek the wild coast between Marseille and Cassis. What followed was one of the most demanding, disorienting, and ultimately unforgettable weeks of my life.

The Massif des Calanques: Into the National Park

My journey on foot led me to discover the Massif des Calanques in southern France — a symbolic stretch of mountainous coastline. This rugged, wild landscape extends between Marseille, France's second-largest city, and Cassis, a small fishing town to the east. The region holds the distinction of being the only national park in Europe that is simultaneously peri-urban, marine, and terrestrial. A haven for epic hikes and secluded beaches, this Mediterranean landscape is considered one of France's most beautiful natural areas. At the heart of the national park lies a colossal limestone cliff formation scored with deep valleys — geological features that likely emerged during the Messinian Salinity Crisis millions of years ago. My plan was to trek from Marseille to Cassis through the Calanques National Park, retracing a mode of travel that predates the invention of public transport.

Toward the end of June, my Airbnb host — an ex-military veteran — whisked me down to the trailhead on his motorcycle. I was, frankly, more frightened of his driving than of the hike itself. Despite a few early miscalculations, the first night went largely as planned. I arrived at the port of Callelongue at around four in the afternoon. The port is commonly known as le bout du monde — the end of the world — and the name is apt. Beyond Callelongue lies the entrance to the national park, where wilderness begins and civilization ends. That first night, roughly a mile east of Marseille, I camped on the shore of Calanque de la Mounine, a tiny enchanting inlet known for its starfish, scorpionfish, and sea urchins. An ancient semaphore, seemingly abandoned, overlooks this narrow cove. Lying there and listening to waves move back and forth, I felt the first real impression of the park's remarkable biodiversity.

A psychedelic yellow-and-silver ragwort was growing out of a crack in the rocks — wild yet strangely beautiful. When dusk arrived, the smallest sounds of the wilderness amplified. The sea crept forward wave by wave, never quite reaching me. Small plants trembled in the night breeze. Insects hummed hungrily nearby. I eventually drifted off, though I was woken several times by park rangers in speedboats and hovering helicopters. Bivouacking in the Calanques is technically illegal; knowing this in advance, I had confirmed that I would leave no trace. Fortunately, the shape of the surrounding rocks concealed me from the boats — though the helicopter remained a concern.

Heat, Hardship, and the Road to Morgiou

When the noise from the helicopters and speedboats finally faded, the wilderness returned to its beautiful stillness. The next morning, trail markings guided me along the oceanfront scrubland past the creeks of Queyrons and Marseilleveyre, which appeared almost like the American Wild West. Beyond that, I moved through the winding cliffs of Cortiou, L'Escu, and Podesta — sections that felt, beneath their canopy of trees, like a tropical rainforest. The flat terrain and cool morning air allowed me to cover significant ground quickly. But as I approached Sormiou at midday, the sun became brutally hot and shade grew scarce.

Trekking in the Massif des Calanques is strongly advised against during summer, largely due to wildfire risk. By the time I understood the full weight of that warning, it was too late to turn back. Regret set in quickly. I had already covered many miles when it became clear that continuing along the trail would leave me without any water source — and my bottle was already empty. The risk was too great. I detoured toward the small port village of Morgiou, where I hoped to find drinking water and a place to camp for the night.

The walk was tortuously hot and difficult. But as evening approached, the mountains began to open up and the village emerged below me. The view was genuinely beautiful, though I was too exhausted to appreciate it fully. Feeling defeated and unwell, I longed for the comfort of home. I would likely have quit if there had been any easy way to do so — but there was none. So I pushed on. I told myself that I would reach Cassis the following day and sleep in a real bed. That promise was enough to keep me moving through the wilderness.

References

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Durin, S. (2015). Ethnicity and the au pair experience: Latin American au pairs in Marseille, France. In Au Pairs' Lives in Global Context (pp. 155–169). Palgrave Macmillan.

Menzies, R., & Aix-Marseille, I. (2011). Children's versions of Gulliver's Travels and the question of horizons of expectation: from biting satire to the exciting adventure story. In C. Delmas & I. Gadoin (Eds.), Horizons: Representations (Vol. 3, pp. 43–51). Université de Grenoble.