The Calanques are river valleys that the sea came into. Along twenty kilometres of white limestone between Marseille and the town of Cassis, in Provence, streams cut gorges during the ice ages, when the Mediterranean lay far lower. The rising water filled them: narrow inlets between walls that drop straight in. Port-Miou is the deep one, long and still as a harbour, with fresh water pouring out of the rock at its head. It is the largest submarine spring in France, and so salty at depth that nobody has ever managed to drink it. Port-Pin is the gentle one, the one you reach on an easy path under stone pines that lean out over the water. En-Vau is the one people walk in for. The trail climbs a ridge and the inlet appears as a green-blue slot in the white rock. Then the path tips over the edge and drops through a stony ravine with no shade in it, to a pebble beach at the back of the cove.
When you swim out, the walls stand close on both sides, the pale floor falling away beneath you into deep blue. The walls above that beach are seamed with climbing routes on hard, sun-bleached limestone, because these inlets are one of the cradles of French rock climbing. From the sand it takes you a while to pick the climbers out, small slow specks on an otherwise blank white face. One pair of Bonelli's eagles nests in these cliffs, out of about thirty-five pairs left in all of France, and the sectors around the nest are closed while they breed. Boats leave the old harbour at Cassis and turn into one inlet after another, reaching coves no path comes down to, with the ochre face of Cap Canaille behind them. Under the cliffs near Cap Morgiou is the strangest thing on this coast: a cave whose entrance now lies 37 metres underwater, painted when the shore was kilometres out, its walls carrying seals, great auks and shapes that look like jellyfish.