So. I must apologise. Turns out I suck at travelling and writing stories. But here I am, a month or three later letting you know about my time inter-railing. I am writing this from Australia where everything feels more relaxed and I am not filling my days hectically with things to do.

Also, I’ll be doing a “postcard” format to keep you up-to-date with the Australian adventures and TA in New Zealand as well. Hopefully this will go better. Time will tell. Sorry once again for the delay


Saturday 09th July

Once again, the sun rose and so did I. The Spanish lady and her daughter had gone out the previous night and had come noisily creeping back late at night (remember, this day is starting in Barcelona haha), so it wasn’t the most restful of sleeps. I packed in silence so as to not wake them up. I hope you see me up here, on the moral high ground? (Does… It make it not count if I point it out?)

Anyway, I really needed some laundry done so I gave all my dirty, sweat-stained clothes to the guys at the front desk as soon as possible (08:00) and then sat in the lobby and waited for it to be done. They promised that it would be done in about three hours, and so I went wandering to the west before long. I hadn’t been this way yet since it was the opposite direction to town. It just got more residential. Saw some colourful flats. Yeah. That’s it. Just a city, innit?

I eventually picked up my laundry and then handed in my keys. I was done with Barcelona! My train was still a little bit of time but I didn’t really have too much time to really do anything, it was that awkward amount of time, you know? As such, I went to Parc de l’Espanya Industrial. This was one of the areas recommended by Accidentally Wes Anderson after all. I sat in the shade of a tree reading, a drying pond in front of me with dogs playing in it and kids playing basketball behind me, Spanish grime on a boombox.

I got to the station and had my lunch (four bagels, two apples and a bananananana. Do you really need to know that though…?) before boarding my train. There was the same amount of security (metal detectors, X-Ray, scary looking guards), but no passport checking, despite going to a new country. Guess it’s because of the EU thing – can’t relate.

I wasn’t sat at a table seat like last time, but I did get the window seat! My companion was a fellow Inter-railer. She was from Canada and for the life of me I can’t remember her name which I feel so guilty about. She and her two best friends were from Toronto and this was all their first time abroad. Outside of North America at least.

The train crossed the mountainous Spanish-French border and then worked it’s way along the bottom of France. I noticed a particularly juicy looking mountain I’d have liked to have climbed. Alas, another time. But man, the South of France looks so idyllic. Since it was at the bottom of France, all the water and sunshine seemed to have poured and fallen down to the bottom and the place was soaked. The train tracks literally passed meters from the Mediterranean and along skinny artificial land tracks across, dividing lagoons. The afternoon sun made the shadows long and the place dappled in golden light. Kite surfers were everywhere and the beaches we passed meters from had families playing in the shallows and faded beach huts lined up on the dunes.

The French architecture also was noticeably different. As soon as we had crossed the Pyrenees, the roofs all changes to terracotta red tiles in wave-like patterns and it just all looked so French. Painted wooden shutters were on every building and rooftop balconies seemed mandatory. Every town just exuded calmness and happiness. In-between each town, there were vineyards in ordered rows and columns with the an overlooking château on a hill on the hazy horizon.

When people say that they would like to retire to the South of France, I can see why. Of course, this was all from a customary passing glance, but it looked idyllic. In this case, imagination of what the South of France looked like truly aligned with reality, to me.

As we pulled in Marseille, the Mediterranean glittered on my right and in the distance, I could see some pointed mountains. They looked so temptingly close that I knew right then and there that I would be climbing them in the coming days. Read on to find out.

I jumped off the train at Marseille St Charles station. The sun had set and the night life of Marseille was ramping up. Noise was all around me. Ragged motorbikes and rap music rang from all around. The clink of glasses in the bars and the coughing of smokers. I walked down a cobbled street as teenagers raced each other on electric scooters and trams cheerfully chimed as they stopped to pick up weary workers, on their way home.

I reached the bottom of La Canebière and emerged out onto the Old Port, or as they say in Le French, Vieux Port. There was a full brass band blasting out a discordant Rasputin and a group of teenagers were jumping and down singing along. Further along Vieux Port, the portside bars were over-spilling with people. The drink was clearly flowing.

I walked along to the place I was staying, beyond the Vieux Port, and greeted the owner Driss. He was renting out rooms in his flat it seemed. I hadn’t read the full description on Booking.com, just chosen the cheapest option. That’s a smack-a-forehead moment. Lesson learned. But, it seemed happy enough so I decided to stay, instead of trying to find a “proper” hostel at this time of night. I had the room to myself as well, so I just dumped my bag and went to sleep. A new city to explore tomorrow. I was excited!

Sunday 10th July

I woke up. Driss’ flat was situated near a fire station, so I found myself startled awake in the night. I guess there are wildfires in the Mediterranean at the moment… But yes, aside from that I actually slept incredibly well. I jumped up and headed out after a shower.

I was in France, so I found some croissants in a supermarket (cheap living still!) for breakfast. I may have bought four of them whoooops, and so I walked them down to the nearest beach, Plage de Catalans, and ate them overlooking the Mediterranean. There was also a beach volleyball competition seemingly going on as well, so I watched that a bit. There were different divisions seemingly, from school kids all the way up to retired businessmen. It actually looked so good. If I lived in the Med, I think I’d try and join a beach volleyball team, have the Top Gun theme playing in the background and all.

I walked round and down to Vieux Port. There were bells tolling in medieval towers to my right and there was a sprawling port to my left, boats of all shapes, sizes and ages docked, bumping the wooden walkway as the waves rolled into the port. The sun beat down and I was already sweating at this early hour. At the end of the port, where the band was playing Rasputin last night, I queued in line and bought myself a ticket for the 11:00 ferry to Château d’If and Îles du Frioul.

I had to wait a while and so I sat in some shade and watched a father-and-sons musical performance. They were perched against a column under some shade. The father played a clarinet, one of the sons played the accordion and the other played a bongo. An interesting mix for sure, but it was great, I loved it!

I finally managed to board the ferry, le bateau. It was crowded, families and crowds of friends going to the sunny isles out in the bay. They all had bags full of suncream and hats and towels. The ferry navigated it’s way out of the chock-a-block full port, cruising on a wave at the speed limit, probably. It passed under the big Palais du Pharo before Le Capitaine gunned the motors and we started speeding towards the sun bleached islands in the bay. On either side we had private boats and yachts also making their way out to the coast and islands around the Marseille, the affluent spending their Sunday on the boats and beach evidently.

I think I was one of the only people to get off at Château d’If, being a tourist destination rather than a sunny Sunday destination. Château d’If was amazing though, I loved it. This was a small castle situated on an island which used to be a political prison. And then some guy called Dumas then got inspired and wrote a book called the Count of Monte Cristo based upon this Château, the eponymous Count escaping from this prison in the first stanza of the book (spoilers). I must say, the funniest thing is when the Count of Monte Cristo is mentioned in the Shawshank Redemption. Great film by the way, highly recommend.

Anyhow, the Château was impressive. They had many mentions of the book and Dumas. But what struck me most about the Château was the amount of graffiti which was about the place. In fact, besides the book and a small amount of history of the place, most of the tourist information was based around graffiti, almost as if the Château has now been turned into a monument of graffiti. Not spray paint graffiti, more like carve-my-name-into-this-stone graffiti. It was quite amazing! There were bored soldiers who had carved their names, to prisoners reminding the world they existed and the tourist graffiti when it was first opened.

I bought a postcard to send to my grandparents and then ate lunch at the small restaurant, overlooking Marseille across the bay on Terra Ferma. There was an American family on the table beside me who fed the seagulls and got started on their “fifth beers of today! Yeah!” before I boarded the ferry again and went to the Îles du Frioul.

These islands were just a sun trap. Pure and simple. I walked along the rough path eastward, each step kicking up pale dust. I soon turned off the path and climbed over the rocks to find a small sunny nook to sit down and read in. I even put on another layer of suncream on. Can’t be too careful when you’re redhead like moi! My view was of clusters of boats in turquoise water. Some boats had some thumping music, a party in full swing whilst some just had a family playing in the water around their own boat. They all seemed to be living the life in the sunny South of France.

After a while, I made my way back to Port du Frioul and found myself a restaurant where I had a cold drink and a banana split whilst I waited for the ferry to come and take me back to the mainland. By the time the ferry had splashed it’s way towards Marseille and I stepped out onto the cobbled stones of the Vieux Port, I was feeling like it was dinner time. I found a cheap sandwich bar and chomped down on some food before I started making my way back to Driss’ place. Along the way, I passed the “Queen Victoria Bar” which advertised itself as a British style pub with the Union Jack flying outside. I was planning to avoid it but I saw that the Wimbledon Final was on and so I poked my head in and ended up watching the final set. Djokovic is a beast, but I really wanted Kyrgios to win, that would have been funny.

I finally got back to Driss’ place and got to my room. I then watched an episode of the new Stranger Things series. I only watch that for three of the characters, Steve, Robyn and Dustin. The show would be nothing without them. And then I pretty much passed out from tiredness.

Monday 11th July

I’m bored of starting each day with “I woke up” – it’s obvious. So let’s skip that. The first thing I did today, after demolishing another French bakery breakfast was head to Palais du Pharo which I had spied from the ferry the previous day. It perched on top of a large rock at the mouth of the Vieux Port. The grounds that it was on was clearly a public domain since there was a kids play park and a large field where some school kids were playing football, the sides determined by different colour bibs. The Palais was also clearly used for graduation ceremonies since there were still signs up from a month ago.

I soon walked back down towards the Vieux Port before walking around and started heading north, out of the old town. I passed a large superyacht with a helicopter strapped down. I like to imagine a movie star like Tom Cruise was around town, mobbed by the paparazzi. But yes, I had read that the Musée des Civilisations de l’Europe et de la Mediterranée was worth the visit, but when I got there it seemed overpriced and I wasn’t all too interested in going to see a museum on such a wonderfully beautiful sunny day. Therefore, despite walking through a security check to get to the ticket desks, I did a 360 and walked back out of there. I always feel awkward when I do this, like saying to the museum that I just wasn’t interested in what they had put so much effort in to.

Instead, I walked round to the Cathédrale la Major which was a big, beautiful and stripey cathedral. The doors were open and there was a van parked on some double yellow lines outside the cathedral, playing some very loud rock music, I think AC/DC. Praise be. Still, the cathedral was beautiful. There was a crêperie across from it, so I went in and got myself some overpriced crêpes. Sugar and lemon juice of course, nothing beats that combination. Especially this new fascination for Biscoff, much prefer sugar and lemon. Hot take, I know. Sorry.

I then wanted to go see quite an impressive landmark, Palais Longchamp. However, it was quite a while away, so I decided to replicate what I did in Sevilla and get myself a Voi scooter. Therefore, unlocking the app, I found myself a nearby scooter in Le Panier area of town and hopped on it, attaching my phone to the built-in phone holder with Google maps open. I started my way along, driving on the right and weaving amongst the traffic like I was a veteran scooter rider. However, the issue with riding one of these electric scooters in Marseille was that the majority of the old town was made from cobblestones and so when I started making my way across a junction, I went over a particularly bumpy patch of cobblestones and some tram tracks and Bang! my phone dropped out of the holder and smashed down onto the road.

Now, at this point I may have sworn. Sorry Mum. Sorry Grannie. My phone had my inter-rail pass, my health insurance, general translating and navigation, how I book accommodation… I did not want to break it! Literally the last thing. Talk about all my eggs being in one basket. And so I parked my hired scooter against a lamp post just past this junction, turned around and located my phone where it was laying in between the tram tracks. The traffic was starting to flow again, but all the cars seemed to be missing my phone thank goodness. I had to wait a nerve-wracking minute or so before the lights stopped and I could dash into the road to check if my phone had survived. I picked it up, turned it on and sure enough it was still alive with only a couple bruises. “Bruises” being that the screen was completely smashed, whoops.

I turned around to go back to the scooter and lo and behold, some ten year old kid was nicking my unlocked scooter. The cheek! He was running away from me and was about to hop on it. So, I simply just went to my newly smashed phone and just deactivated the scooter from the app. The lights went out and the back wheel locked and this kid looked so hacked off with me, it was hilarious.

I walked the rest of the way to Palais Longchamp, I was nearly there after all. It was a beautiful and spectacular scene. I found myself a bench in some shade and read a little bit. It was late afternoon at this point so I decided to walk back to Vieux Port, I had had enough of heart palpitations for today and I didn’t want to risk anymore with another electric scooter ride. On the way down I passed a man in dungarees who was standing on some steps, holding his finger to the doorbell for the full twenty seconds that I was within earshot of him. He must have really wanted to the attention of whoever was inside.

I went to the same cheap sandwich bar before I made my way home and to bed where I watched another episode of Stranger Things, finishing this season. I rate it 4/5, but only because of my favourite characters Steve, Robyn and Dustin.

Tuesday 12th July

Now, when I arrived into Marseille on Saturday, I had spied some mountains in the distance. These mountains actually belonged to the Parc National des Calanques. They created a rugged skyline and tempted my mountain loving spirit. So there was only one thing really to be done.

After a breakfast by the beach, I walked back down to Vieux Port in the sweltering sun, the smell of the sea and freshly baked bread mingling and shaking hands. I caught the ferry, La Navette this time, to Pointe Rouge. This was a much smaller ferry with less people heading allllll the way out that direction. It was such a beautiful crossing. As the ferry cut it’s way through the aquamarine depths, Marseille behind me, the mountains rose up ahead of me and the sea side resorts showed themselves to my left (or, portside in navy speak. Gotta know the lingo). There was a Ferris Wheel and beach huts and crowds of people shuffling along the wooden walkways.

When we arrived at the town of Pointe Rouge, I made a beeline for Carrefour and bought myself another 1.5L bottle of water. It was verging on 40°C after all and I was gonna be climbing some mountains. I repacked my small daybag satchel thing and had to stuff Juanca’s head to close the zip up. Sorry.

I walked along and made my way out of town to Château Pastré, situated at the end of a long, straight driveway. It was shut, with sun bleached wooden boards over some of the windows and the grand flowerpots were either overgrown, or just empty. The ground seemed to be made of mostly sand and the tall trees surrounding me cast small pools of shadows from the midday sun.

I progressed past the Château and the path up into the mountains appeared as a small entrance in amongst the dense trees. Now, I was wearing shorts and a loose button up shirt, along with my Vivos. I don’t think I would have come across as particularly prepared for climbing some mountains, especially with the choice of footwear. But I persevered, I hadn’t come all this way by boat to say no now! Therefore, I fired up Strava (do you do anything really if you don’t Strava it? Spoilers, yes) and started climbing.

Now, I am saying “mountain”, but the tallest point was only like 300m above sea level. The path up was overgrown with trees wilting in the heat of the day. The sandy soil quickly made way for polished rock and dirt tracks. This was obviously a well walked area since there were signposts for differing walks. I was joining the “black” and the “green” paths, making my own route. Black licks of paint were neatly applied to the polished stone and I doggedly followed these up. The heat is nice when you’re standing still, but when you’re climbing up a mild mountain, it gets worse. On top of that, the trees were blocking out any potential breeze. Breezeblocked, Alt-J.

However, I did manage to make some progress and I eventually made it to the top. Or at least, the highest point of my walk. Marseille was behind me, and the French Riveira was ahead of me. The Mediterranean was spread like a blue blanket upon the earth and there were private yachts anchored around the coast. You know, just like the montages in the movies where the rich protagonists get a private yacht and swim in turquoise clear water. Or perfume ads. Your pick. I stripped off my shirt, it’s colour changed from the amount of sweat I had produced and I lay it out to dry on a rock whilst I stood in a pool of shade and gulped down some cooling water. Water is never appreciated until it is needed, and boy did I appreciate it just then. I also downed some food whilst I was admiring the view

I gathered my belongings after applying another layer of suncream to my arms and neck, and then headed off down the mountain towards the sea. I had passed only a handful of hikers. They were all appropriately dressed! I even passed one brave guy who was evidently doing some fell running of some sort, sweat beading all over his burnt back as he passed me. I descended into a valley and walked along under the protection of the trees once more until I emerged onto a path directly beside the sea which I followed, passing by luxury boats until I emerged into the town of Callelongue. Here I stopped at a café where the waitress gave me a coke with both ice and a look of pity at my probable red face, red arms and sweat wet shirt.

I walked around to Les Goudes where after waiting for a bit in the shade, I jumped back on board the ferry which took me firstly to Pointe Rouge and then on to Marseille. On the crossing back, there seemed to be regattas upon the water of all different sizes, skill and classes. Windsurfers raced past each other whilst kids tried to upright a capsized Laser Solo. There was a bigger boat regatta out further but I couldn’t make out what type of dinghy was being raced. But one with colourful kites that came in and out with regularity. Closer to shore, there were queues to the Ferris Wheel and the beach teemed with people.

When we got into the Vieux Port, the massive superyacht was gone. I passed the waffles place en route to home so I got some food there. It wasn’t quite enough to replenish all the calories I think I had lost and sweated away, so I also bought myself a loaf of bread and some hummus on the way back too. Call it an after dinner snack. I devoured these after a cold shower and headed to bed, the end to a good day.

Wednesday 13th July

My muscles ached the next morning but that didn’t detract from the fact that I wanted to head out and see some more sights. So I had another breakfast and then decided to head to Notre-Dame de la Garde. On the way, having bought a postcard for Grannie and Grandpa, I posted it. Issue is, I don’t speak much French or know how the French postal service works. So I rocked up and spoke to the grumpiest, most disgruntled and exasperated helper ever. He had slicked-back, oiled hair with skinny jeans and looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here at work. However, he got the job done, and I managed to send my postcard. I saw it later at Grannie’s, so I know that it got there OK! The postcard itself was of Château d’If and was a pretty nice picture in my opinion. All the other postcards I saw in Marseille seemed to be of the Vieux Port or big aerial shots of the city.

I heaved my way up to Notre-Dame de la Garde. The sun was hot today, must have easily been over 40 degrees. This cathedral was situated at the very top of a hill, with a stunning view over the entire city. It was the highest point in the city and was used as a watch tower in medieval times, as well as a working cathedral. There was this giant golden statue on top of, I presume, Mary but the sun was directly above us so whenever I looked at her, I kinda had to squint. The cathedral was also stripey, white and black horizontal strips of stone was how it was made up. There were plenty of visitors here, and since you approach from the bottom of the hill, you come across the crypt first and so most seemed to run in here to hide from the shade. The office for the priest was also there, so when I went into the crypt then I saw a lady who was very animatedly talking to the priest, presumably seeking council. I felt like that was an intrusion and I shouldn’t have been able to see it, yet the doors to the office were glass and tourists all milled about outside so…

After having a potter around the Cathedral, and having a spot of reading in the slim shade(y) of the cathedral in the near-midday sun, I made my way back down to the Vieux Port. I passed a French horn player actually, although I had no idea what he was playing, and not to be rude, but I don’t think he did either. I found myself some savoury lunch in the Vieux Port and then headed to the Palais de Pharo again where I had a nice early afternoon reading, overlooking the boats coming in and out of the port. When I was walking there, I actually passed the grumpy post office worker. That was funny. He was also, clearly on his own lunch break! I do think that the Palais de Pharo was my favourite place in the city. My book was also getting really good. Brandon Sanderson really can write!

Finally, approaching dinner time, I went home, buying some food on the way for dinner, and packed my bag ready for leaving early the next morning. I was going to be catching the coach from Marseille St Charles to Genoa quite early in the morning.

However! When I was packing, I realised a tragedy had struck! I was missing Juanca! I could not find here anywhere. After racking my memory and wringing it dry, I think the last place I saw her was at the top of the mountain in Parc National des Calanques. I think I may have left her on a rock at the side of the path. Whoops. I hope someone found her and took good care of her. Clearly, I didn’t. I feel I have to apologise to my friends for losing her, she only lasted two cities!… Whoops, sorry!

Overall Impression of Marseille

A new additional bit, a TL;DR version. Marseille was… Chaotic I thought. I had a good time there, but spent it alone. I was still getting used to travelling alone and the “hostel” situation didn’t help that. But it is also sun-drenched. And not too much to do as well I thought.

Al’s Fun Facts and Random Stuff

  • Days spent in town: 5
  • Bakeries visited: 2
  • Pages read: Pfffff, no idea. But I have finished like, 2 books.
  • Jazz Clubs visited: 0
  • Number of things that went wrong: 1, my phone smashing!
  • Memorable moment: That two minutes from my phone smashing to seeing that kid nick my scooter. A story for life forever now. Oh, and the Parc National des Calanques.
  • Music Suggestion based off of city: Sleeping on my Dreams, Jacob Collier. Because it sounds chaotic-ish
  • Average ginger seen a day: 1
  • Postcards sent: 1, yay
  • Burnt-o-meter: 3/10
  • Number of items lost: 2, Juanca and a facemask I lost when the hostel in Barcelona didn’t return it after doing my laundry. Scandalous.
  • “Hostel” rating: 3/10. Do not recommend, wasn’t a hostel and wouldn’t have like to have been there as a vulnerable traveller.

Juanca’s Diary Obituary

I can only assume she had had enough. She must have been driven to sneak off after spending time with me in Barcelona and Marseille whilst the allure of the South of France must of helped that decision. She was abandoned in the mountains, and she will make a new, French friend who will treat her correctly and allow her to live in that chaotic city.

We all loved Juanca and her time with me I found to be too short. It is a shame that she thought the other way around.

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