Calanques National Park

Listen first. Under your boots, loose white stones shift and click against each other. Somewhere below, out of sight, water slaps against rock. The air smells of warm pine resin, wild rosemary and salt. The light here is hard and bright, and it bounces off pale limestone until you almost need to squint. Ahead, the land suddenly drops away, and a strip of sea appears between two cliffs. The water is turquoise near the shore and deep navy further out. Welcome to the Calanques.

The word calanque comes from the old Provençal language of southern France. It describes a narrow inlet with steep sides, cut deep into the coast. Think of a small fjord, but made of white limestone instead of dark granite, and warmed by the Mediterranean sun. Along this coast, between Marseille and the small port town of Cassis, a whole chain of these inlets cuts into the shoreline. Each one has its own shape, its own beach of pebbles or sand, and its own mood.

This landscape became a national park in 2012. That status makes it unusual in Europe. It protects land and sea together, and it sits right on the edge of a large city. Marseille, the second-largest city in France, presses up against its western boundary. So you can ride a city bus from apartment blocks and supermarkets, and an hour later stand on a cliff where eagles hunt. Very few places in the world put wilderness this close to a city of this size.

How did these inlets form? The limestone here was laid down on the floor of an ancient sea, many millions of years ago. Much later, rivers and rainwater cut valleys into the rock. During the Ice Ages, sea levels were far lower than today. When the great ice sheets melted, the Mediterranean rose and flooded those valleys. The sea moved inland, and the old river valleys became the inlets you see now. In a sense, you are looking at drowned canyons.

That rising sea also hid one of the most extraordinary discoveries in French archaeology. In 1985, a diver named Henri Cosquer found a narrow underwater tunnel in a cliff near Marseille. It led up into a cave above the waterline. On its walls were paintings and engravings of horses, bison, seals and even penguin-like great auks, along with human hand stencils. They were made tens of thousands of years ago, when this cave stood far inland from the shore.

Here is the part most visitors never learn. You cannot visit the real cave. Its entrance lies deep underwater, and the site is sealed to protect it. Rising seas are slowly flooding the painted chambers, and some of the art is already lost. In Marseille, a full-size replica now lets the public see the paintings. But as you walk these cliffs, remember that somewhere beneath the waves, prehistoric art is quietly disappearing.

Now look at the plants around you. Few of them grow taller than your waist. This low, tough scrub is called garrigue. It includes rosemary, thyme, juniper and small evergreen oaks, all built to survive heat, salt spray and very little rain. Where the soil is deeper, Aleppo pines lean out over the cliffs, twisted by the wind. Crush a leaf between your fingers and you will smell the herbs of a Provençal kitchen.

That wind has a name — the mistral. It is a cold, dry wind from the north, and it can blow hard for several days at a time. On mistral days the sky turns a deep, clean blue and the sea fills with whitecaps. But the mistral, together with summer drought, also makes this one of the most fire-prone landscapes in France. For that reason, access to the trails can be restricted or closed in summer on days of high fire risk.

The sea is the other half of the park. Below the surface lie meadows of Posidonia, a flowering seagrass found only in the Mediterranean. These meadows shelter young fish, protect the beaches from erosion and help keep the water clear. That clarity explains the colour you see from the cliffs. Over pale sand, sunlight reflects back up through clean water, and the sea glows turquoise. Over seagrass and deep rock, it turns dark blue.

People have lived and worked along this coast for a very long time. Near Cassis, the inlet of Port-Miou was once a busy limestone quarry. Cassis stone is hard and pale, and it is often said that it was shipped to build harbour walls around the Mediterranean. In the inlets of Sormiou and Morgiou, you will find small huts called cabanons. Fishing families from Marseille built them as weekend shelters, and many families still treasure them today.

The cliffs also carry a sporting tradition. Climbers from Marseille have trained on this limestone for generations, and the area holds a special place in French rock climbing. On a quiet morning you may hear the clink of metal gear and voices calling up and down a rock face. Above them, if you are lucky, you might see a Bonelli's eagle. This rare bird of prey nests on the cliffs and is one of the park's most protected residents.

With all this beauty comes pressure. Millions of people visit every year, and the trails, beaches and plants show the strain. Paths widen, soil washes away and fragile plants are trampled. To protect the most crowded inlets, the park has tested ways to limit numbers on peak summer days, including a reservation system for the popular inlet of Sugiton. Staying on marked paths is a simple way to help.

So pause for a moment where you are. Feel the heat coming up from the white rock. Listen for the cicadas, the wind in the pines and the sea moving below. Look at the line where the cliff meets the water, and notice how the colour of the sea changes with depth. As you walk on, watch the light move across the limestone. In the late afternoon it softens to gold — and the whole coast seems to slow down with you.