Having ending up at the dam end Lac de Sainte Croix I had thought our opportunity to cruise the Gorges du Verdon lost. But no, in a rare display of willingness to backtrack, Himself sets course and we’re off. Quickly too, before he changes his mind! Lavender fields pave our way, their blooms improving every day, evolving into their deepest purples.
We take a longer route out – I’m not terribly keen to recreate the hairpin drive in on what was the tiniest of roads.
It’s not long before we catch our first glimpse of the Gorges’ turquoise waters. Oh! It’s stunning!!! I can’t get down to the water fast enough and practically skip there.
We’re faced with a choice of watercraft. Canoe? Electric? Paddle? I love the idea of a canoe, but I’ve never been in one and fear for my phone (photos! blog!) if we tip. Electric boats are cheating, says I. Paddleboat it is. The coolest of crafts it’s not, but at least we won’t tip.
Himself is tasked with steering, we both paddle. It’s harder than expected if you want speed. It takes a while to find the balance between pace, direction and distance. Himself looks longingly at the electric boats more than once whilst I lean out, camera in hand, determined to not to miss a moment.
Look at that water!! It’s truly that colour – there’s not a whisper of filter on it. Impossibly jewel toned, crystal clear.
Carved out by the Verdon river, the Gorges du Verdon soar on both sides with rock faces elaborately weathered into infinite crevasses and caves over millennia. Swallows swoop and twitter overhead – they nest in nooks and crannies, taking advantage of natural rock verandahs.
Incredibly, this area was once covered by sea, leading to limestone and coral formations prior to the upheaval that created the Haute Provence Alps in the Cretaceous period.
I’m utterly mesmerised and could stay out here for hours. Days, if I could work a canoe. A high heels and red lipstick kind of girl I might be, but I’m truly happiest surrounded by nature and creatures.
I rather like this shot of Himself, looking quite blissful for a man paddling hard.
On the way back we meet a wee feathered flotilla, a lady duck and four politely keen, glossy green headed suitors. She approachs, hopeful of a snack, a request I’m sadly unable to fulfil. Note to self: learn to paddle a canoe, bring duckie snacks.
We have an hour to explore which is almost perfect, given we’re paddling hard most of the time but it’s soon time to hand our little boat back. Reluctantly, on my part at least. For those with canoe skills and so inclined, the Gorges extend over 25 km and reach an impressive depth of 700 metres at points. One can only imagine what extraordinary sights those depths might hold. Along the way there are waterfalls, rapids and caves to paddle through – picture that journey.
At least in French waters, chances of being eaten by a crocodile are exceedingly slim making water pursuits a very relaxing affair. (Himself and I have this conversation about far northern Australia regularly: there are signs, says he, telling you where it’s safe to swim. But crocodiles can walk, and as far as I know, can’t read, I counter. I won’t be swayed. No power on earth could coax me into water above the crocodile line in Australia).
Post paddle, our sights are set on an upper road that promises vantage view points over yesterday’s Lac Sainte Croix and the Gorges. What we don’t realise, is that we’ve inadvertently selected the Haute Provence Alps road, literally through the Alps. It takes a while to twig. We’re distracted initially by a hike with the promise of feline fossils and despite following the signs very carefully, an hour’s hike leads us nowhere. Good views of the lake though, as promised.
It’s not until 20 minutes or so later, the nature of our road reveals itself when all of a sudden mountain peaks soar on all sides and ravines plummet precariously at every turn.
I turn to Himself and squeak: did you know about this? No, says he, eyes firmly glued to the road.
The scenery, needless to say is breathtaking. True to its promise the road does indeed offer views over the lake and the Gorges even if I have to lean out of the window to get them. No mean feat for somebody terrified of heights.
And just feel a little added sparkle, deep into our drive, it starts to rain. Just in case Fearless there was quite feeling it yet. I’m not too proud to say that more than several squeaks emanate from me at key points. Mostly when all 5 tonnes of us veers precariously close to the edge.
Sections of the road are literally carved out of the mountain creating enormous rock overhangs. At one point we encounter a small tunnel, just large enough for one, with a sign that suggests that one should beep one’s horn rather vigorously on approach. And just as well do. As we’re about to emerge, two oncoming vehicles have to pull up very quickly and then back up to let us through. That’s not stressful at all.
It’s on drives like these that he truly earns his Fearless nickname.
The road and views are utterly magnificent but several hours in, I’m worried that it’s becoming too much – it’s already been a big day up the Gorge and hiking. And raining. And it’s getting late. Our planned end is still a way off and I’m concerned it’s time to stop. Himself is determined. No. He has a plan and he’s sticking to it. The man has nerves of steel. I don’t know how he does it. He is indeed, truly a braver man than I.
We eventually arrive in the alpine village Castellane and settle at the foot of an extraordinary rock along the Verdon River. In case you’re wondering, that’s a church perched on top, clearly built by someone with the philosophy of ‘the higher the church, the closer to God’
Under an indigo night sky, the rock looks amazing. I can’t wait to explore tomorrow.
Miss Baci Travels 