We arrived in Frejus early in the ripening afternoon of a rottingly hot day. After 15 km of smelling the crisp Mediterranean on the cool sea breeze that ambles temptingly between the low hills leading to the coast, we were ready to swim. But before we could tip-toe our way to the sea through the baking bodies that littered the plage like pre-cancerous human brownies, Paige spotted a postcard. The next week of our misadventures would be dictated by her find.
The picture was of a tiny red island topped by a castelesque structure of red-brick, surrounded by the brilliant blue waters whose colors are the reason they call it the Cote d'Azur.
"Ou est ca?" Paige asks in ever-improving French as she waves the card at a passing couple.
"C'est L'Ile d'Or, a cote de Agay." The friendly gentleman then launched into what was probably a very interesting and very informative monologue about the history and eccentricities of the little island. But all we caught were vague and uncertain impressions--a cartoon ("Tan-Tan") had been written about it; a crazy Belgian had once ruled the sub-acre island as an independent country, complete with its own currency; the 36th of Texas had landed there on August 15, 1944, and chased the occupying Germans from their bunkers; that it was beautiful and close to shore. "C'est pres--comment 10 kilometre."
That was enough for us. We were off to L'Ile d'Or, the wind at our backs. And despite our best intentions of making it to Menton the next day, remained camped on the paradisaical beach for the next four days. Who can resist free camping, crystal waters, flirting fish, lazy yellow-purple jellyfish, a private island just a 600 yard swim offshore? Certainly not us.
The picture was of a tiny red island topped by a castelesque structure of red-brick, surrounded by the brilliant blue waters whose colors are the reason they call it the Cote d'Azur.
"Ou est ca?" Paige asks in ever-improving French as she waves the card at a passing couple.
"C'est L'Ile d'Or, a cote de Agay." The friendly gentleman then launched into what was probably a very interesting and very informative monologue about the history and eccentricities of the little island. But all we caught were vague and uncertain impressions--a cartoon ("Tan-Tan") had been written about it; a crazy Belgian had once ruled the sub-acre island as an independent country, complete with its own currency; the 36th of Texas had landed there on August 15, 1944, and chased the occupying Germans from their bunkers; that it was beautiful and close to shore. "C'est pres--comment 10 kilometre."
That was enough for us. We were off to L'Ile d'Or, the wind at our backs. And despite our best intentions of making it to Menton the next day, remained camped on the paradisaical beach for the next four days. Who can resist free camping, crystal waters, flirting fish, lazy yellow-purple jellyfish, a private island just a 600 yard swim offshore? Certainly not us.
If you give the fish little pieces of bread, they circle around you, by the hundreds:
Our island:
Trying to be artsy:
looking west towards Frejus:
URL on the island:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eCb-1NCPxCM
VIDEO on the island:
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