Cassidaine by day.

I've just spent a lovely stretch of time on the Côte d'Azur. I've great affection for the Côte d'Azur--of yore. That sepia notion looms large: a stunning coastline, peppered with impossibly charming villages which were the sun-filled, color-drenched locus of artists, writers, royalty and movie stars. This is the Côte d'Azur of say, some 30 or 40 years ago, before gaudy resort over-development and summer gridlock reared their ugly heads, like the advance guard of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Or something like that.

Luckily, beyond St. Tropez, Cannes, Nice and Monaco, there do remain a few (relatively) idyllic exceptions today. One is Cassis.

On the western-most border of the French Riviera, Cassis is a village of about 8,000 residents tucked into an inlet some 20 miles from Marseille. The beautiful white cliffs richly in evidence here have been quarried since antiquity, yielding a limestone used, among other things, for the base of New York's Statue of Liberty. I visited the nearby calanques, or coastal inlets; the tour's worth the ticket queue at sultry noon. The untenanted little bays and coves, with their imposing, cathedral-like cliffs and outcroppings (and a million plus visitors per year) still manage to seem somehow secret, serene and wild. The calanques are slated to become part of a national park in 2010, so the number of visitors (on foot, by bike, and boat) and attendant regulations are bound to increase. Visit soon if you can, and rent a kayak while you're at it.

As for Cassis itself, it is a low-key charmer of a port village, with creamy limestone-inlaid streets, gurgling fountains, aqua-hued Vespas, and laundry fluttering from windows. While outside of town you do have a one or two high-end options, the laid-back hotels in the village itself range from fairly spartan to comfortable but basic; this does impact the number of people who visit. I was concerned about the hordes of mid-August, but my worry was needless: while vibrantly busy, the village isn't overwhelmed, and the locals are friendly. I explored the large open air market, where I spotted some Reine-Claudes next to Provencal apricots. (Reine-Claudes grow in my garden, and are a tart, mouth-filling delight; they remain green, even when lusciously ripe, and are my favorite kind of plum, whether eaten out of the hand, or cooked. I digress).

The range of olives on display--purple, black, pink as well as green--were a delight (I sampled too!), as were the types and quantities of savon de Marseille, itself made from olive oil.

There were crafts, jewelry, summer frocks, and pottery on tempting display. I found myself out in the port itself, scrubbed nearly clean of its fishing past and reinvented as a starting point for leisure whether by yacht or rowboat. I also stumbled onto l'Eau de Cassis, in business since 1851. My home smells the lovelier for it (I left with Au Coin du Feu).

Of course, all this summer exploring leaves a girl quite thirsty; fortunately for me, in Cassis, there are certainly bars and restaurants enough.

I can recommend a stop at friendly local landmark Nino (a reservation may be necessary). Speaking of thirst, I'm off to refill my gin and tonic. I'll fill you in on the nightlife in Cassis in the next entry...

Market day.

The Cevennes benefit from an AOC (Apellation d'Origine Controlee, or, roughly speaking, "controlled term of origin") for the sweet onions grown here. That is, they are granted a special, federally-managed certification, as are French cheeses and wines. The onions are that good. I always have a basketful on hand, and they don't have time to sprout, unlike my potatoes, in less regular menu rotation...

For every day of the week there is an outdoor market in a surrounding village or town. Creature of habit (aren't we all just a bit, despite ourselves?), I nearly always go to the two same ones, which means that Monday mornings, come what may, I am in among the (local, organic and conventional) produce sellers; the knife sharpener with his spinning, wet wheel; the weaver (who repairs chairs); the man with the startling bowl haircut who sells living trout out of the back of his specially modified pickup truck; the beekeeper with the unkempt hair like milkweed; the cheese guy from whom I also get fresh butter--sliced from a big yellow mound as I watch; the jovial butcher (photo), who also sells free-range chicken with the claws and head still attached, so the customer can see what breed it is--which of course affects taste--bien sur! (and as one of the unofficial village characters, is always ready with an enormous succulent bone for the dog to demolish); the sausage specialist, with easily two dozen different types on hand (I'm a little awed by the donkey sausage); the garlic and olive seller...

And of course the sellers present depend upon the season. Right now I am buying up the sweet, sweet parsnips, just-pulled beets (picture), turnips, pumpkin and squash(es), all produced down the road from us.After a stop at the bakery and then the Tabac for my news fix, Dakar the Weimaraner and I head for a rest at the cafe-bar. This purely in the interest of exposing a young pup to all the places French dogs are expected to frequent calmly, mind you...And if I order a noisette (an expresso with a smidge of milk) while there, it's just for authenticity.

This morning's market run went slightly less smoothly than usual: I tied Dakar to a sign while I snapped photos (what a tourist!). This was good only in principle, as, having seen another dog, Dakar dragged the sign crashing down, thereby scaring the daylights out of everyone, especially himself. This led (inevitably) to more running away, with the only problem being that the sign and its apparatus remained attached to the poor dog...with me in hot, if somewhat delayed, pursuit.