In the tourist brochures, Sète is given the epithet “l’île singulière” (the singular island), which makes me think of astrophysical phenomena. Fortunately, the town has, to my knowledge, no resemblance to a black hole. It is, rather, one pearl on the string of towns and villages that lines the Mediterranean coast west of the Camargue delta. Arriving by train, I first thought that of Sète as a very flat town made up of beaches, an impression which was undone as soon as I stepped out of the train station and gazed upon the hill at the centre of the island, optimistically named “Mont” St-Clair (175 amsl).
A fan of panoramic views it was not long until I had climbed up the pilgrims’ path starting close to our flat, stopping every so often to admire as much the wild herbs in the rather unkempt gardens on the steep ascent, as the widening view of the harbour.
The town centre is very much characterised by the old port with its fishing vessels, the new port with a shipping terminal from which apparently ferries leave for Tanger, and four canals of varying length, width and depth. On the one side the Mediterranean, on the other the “Étang de Thau” with its mussel and oyster beds. It can all be seen from the top of the roof of the chapel erected by and for the pilgrims.
Americans have the right to bear arms. You would think that it was the constitutional privilege of every hexagonist over 18 years to own a car and use it whenever possible, with a preference for causing ridiculously long (all the more so in Sète, where the average street bends and invents a hill every 50 metres or so, and you can consequently no longer see the intersection) queues at traffic lights, or careering down one-way streets.
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Culinary missions of the summer: learn the recipes for tiaille and macarons. This should be good!
