One of our favourite summer swimming spots… kalkbrottet in Lanna.
Its grey today, overcast and chilly. But I shouldn’t complain. Its been a perfect Swedish summer and it has pushed on into September, with lots of sunny t-shirt days making cycling to and from work a joy. But just as autumn seems slow to really establish itself, summer was slow in coming. In June the temperatures were struggling to get above 15, and our senses, jaded from a long, bitter cold winter, were longing for sun and warmth. Early June we headed up to Kilsbergen with the canoe and some friends for a barbecue and a paddle. The kids went swimming, but the water was cold. It was peaceful up in the hills, there was no-one around and our voices echoed across the still waters of the lake. It seemed no-one much had noticed that summer had come…
The idea of a holiday in the south of France was to swim. Some time back I found a book on Amazon called Wild Swimming France, a companion volume to a book I had earlier bought about wild swimming in Britain. Wild swimming refers to swimming in rivers and lakes: neither of the books focuses much attention on coastal swimming. It is what the Swedes so delightfully call “sweet water” swimming, as opposed to the salty sea. The wonderful pictures in the French edition caught my imagination and the seed of an idea for a swimming holiday began to germinate in my mind. Traditionally, the south of France evokes thoughts of lavender fields and vineyards and mediaeval villages; swimming is usually thought of in terms of bikini clad girls basking on the crowded beaches of the Cote d’Azur (remember the Cannes scene from Mr Bean’s Holiday). But as I waited through the Scandinavian winter and spring I dreamed not of these but of little rivers gurgling through wooded mountains, and deep blue lakes lying peacefully between the hills.
Maria found a beautiful place to stay in the hilltop village of St-Julien-le-Montagnier. Some of the swimming spots in the book, we thought, must surely be around there. We discovered that the Verdon river runs from east to west just north of St Julien, which is in the Var region of Provence. The Verdon has carved out a spectacular gorge system, the so called Grand Canyon of Europe. In the seventies the French government decided to dam the Verdon in several places, for hydroelectricity and a reliable water supply for the region. One of the resulting lakes is Lac d’Esparron, close to St Julien. A little further to the east is a much bigger lake called Lac de Saint Croix, backed up behind another huge dam.
Midway between the two lakes on the Verdon is a little town called Quinson, and it was there we had our first swim. It was late in the afternoon when we jumped into the deep waters of the river, far below the soaring peaks of the canyon. The water is an extraordinary milky blue, as it is all along the Verdon river system, pleasantly cool, but not the shocking cold of our Swedish lakes. The kids jumped from the rock walls. We swam downstream, into the canyon. The water is still, backed up from the Lac d’Esparron at the other end of the gorge. By the time we climbed out of the water, the river was in deepening shadow, lying as it does at the bottom of a deep canyon.
Our next lake swim was a few days later at Bauduen, on the bigger Lac de Sainte Croix. It was hot on the beach by the village, and a dip was welcome. There was a high rock beside a rocky promontory there too; it was becoming clear that for the kids jumping was the biggest attraction of “wild” swimming, the higher the rock, the better. Later we drove and walked along a dusty road that followed the lake shore away from the town. After perhaps a kilometer we threw our stuff on a small stony beach with still, cool water, and swam delightedly out into the lake, the water clear down to four or five meters. Refreshed we continued along the road to its end another kilometer into the wilderness, and from there we followed a narrow track through the forest. We had read about a great jumping rock called Le Défens, and eventually it came into view around a headland, a rocky outcrop to which we could wade just off shore. On the lake side the water was apparently bottomless, clear, deep blue, and we spent a lovely hour swimming around and leaping from its heights before hiking back to the car.
Pont de Galetas is a bridge over the Verdon River where it flows into Lac de Sainte Croix. The river backs up into the spectacular Gorges du Verdon, with its soaring crags and old forest ledges. Far above there is a narrow road that twists and turns along the canyon wall. Downstream from the bridge, on the shores where river widens into lake, a motley collection of hire companies offer canoes and pedal boats and even electric motor boats (“bateau electrique”), so we hired a one big enough for five and pedaled away, under the bridge and up into the gorge. There were lots of jumping spots, but we were determined to get as far up the gorge as possible, so the swimming was short. There was a downpour shortly after we entered the gorge, and the whole two hours we were pedaling clouds scudded across the sky, threatening more rain. We huddled at one stage with several other boats under a rocky overhang as the rain fell. There was a waterfall on the left side of the gorge under which the kids swam on the way back. We made it to a point where the water had become too shallow to navigate further and there we turned and pedaled back. It was raining and late when we arrived back at the beach, all the other boats were tied up. We gathered our wet belongings, bundled into the car and drove home.
Our only other wild swim was in a narrow wooded valley with a high waterfall at its head and cascades of milky blue water falling through the forest at its base. The water was cold and there were lots of people on the trail, though few in the water. We swam and rock hopped and climbed the rapids. The nearby town, a delightful medieval stone village, is called Sillans-la-Cascade.
We had decided to visit the coast at least once while we were in France, and dreamed of snorkeling in the Calanques between Marseilles and Cassis. So on our final day we drove to Cassis, glimpsing the picturesque harbor from far above as we came down from the coastal mountains. But a stop there and a boat to the Calanques was not to be. There was, quite simply, nowhere to park. After driving around for half an hour we gave up and drove on, eastward to La Ciotat. We managed to find a place for the car, and we had lunch in a beachside cafe, but there was no space on the beach for us, the sand was covered with a sea of humanity and the water was uninspiring. Eventually we drove on, even hoping for a place to stop in Saint-Cyr-sur-Mer, another delightful little seaside village, but even there we were unsuccessful. So we went home, aborting our plans for a dip in the Mediterranean. Home for our last three days was a 17th century coaching inn near Mirabeau, north of Aix-en-Provence; the old stone structure, on the land of a local wine grower, who lived in a chateau nearby, had been rebuilt and converted into a holiday apartment complex. In the beautifully landscaped gardens there was a lovely pool, and it was to there we retreated after our day at the coast. It was quiet and peaceful, cool and refreshing. That was our last swim in France, not wild perhaps, but wonderful nevertheless. The next day we drove to Nice for the flight home to Sweden.