What does an Alpine climber do when it is raining in Chamonix? He drives to Georges Livanos in Marseilles, or rather to his practice climbing ground. Practice ground? An understatement for the Calanques; they are a climber’s paradise. For these are limestone cliffs, some of them hundreds of feet high, rising sheer from the sea; and there are some you can only get to in a boat.
In addition to all this, there are Morgiou and Sorrniou, two small fishing villages, with idyllic and alluring names; the only two places, locked in their dreams, on that twelve-mile-long coast – a hem of the land which is uncrossed by any road, and deeply indented by innumerable bays. Cactuses blossom there, and the hot sun beats down on a turquoise sky, perfectly mirrored in a seabed covered with red starfish, while shoals of glittering fishes flash in the crystal-clear water above it. There is no road to those two hamlets, only two pot-holed tracks, extremely difficult to find. This is a landscape in its original, primeval state.
Who would not wish to pitch his tent there? So – let us go.
We were at Livanos’ home in Marseilles. We had actually tracked it down, and even found him there – a miracle, in view of our scanty acquaintance with the language, and a miracle in respect of the man himself, for he is never at home. This salesman, always on his travels, this specialist in Grade VI climbs, always on ‘extreme’ faces, takes his wife with him when he goes. Yet here they were, both of them, lively, gay, relaxed, as if we had always known them. Very soon eggs and tomatoes were sizzling in the kitchen, while Livanos cracked jokes and talked about the Calanques.
Later, over a strong cup of espresso coffee, he asked us what exactly we were looking for. Sipping the aromatic beverage reflectively, I told him: a climb on firm limestone, with a view of the sea, in some deserted corner, and redolent of the warm south. Livanos grinned. ‘You German romantics!’ he said and promptly drew a bold sketch, laughing happily as he did so, really enjoying himself. ‘It’s Morgiou you want,’ he said. ‘The Grande Chandèle, our tall candle. That’s the best climb round there; highly romantic. And don’t forget to do it by its Marseilles ridge – it’s much the best thing on the Chandèle.’ He hummed a few bars – could it have been the Marseillaise? – handed over the sketch, and off we went.
We had a job to find Morgiou, but we did, thanks to the sketch map. One can rely on Livanos: from the Marseilles suburbs onwards, every road was correctly marked. We would have been completely lost without it, for I know about twenty words of French and Wolfi commands less. So we would have been hard put to it to find a recondite fishing harbour.
Morgiou, a bay with brightly coloured boats in it, under the hot sun. We decided to have a look at the Chandèle straight away and find a place for our tent. The scenery was savage, a coast of precipitous cliffs, below which we made our way; there were shrubs and trees growing out of the rock, and the air was keen with the tang of the sea.
It grew more and more lonely; the sea was glittering and moving; there were cactus flowers – and nobody. Just a small fishing boat out there between the islands. In the middle of all this solitude, stood a noticeboard – how very odd! It said: ‘Occupé – les naturalistes de Marseille.’ It was all French to us, so we went on. Then we turned a corner. ‘Oh …!’ we said, and fell into a temporary silence.
The accent was unmistakably French: stalking gazelle-legs, swinging hips, and a lot of other things besides … at a distance, but not so far away as all that.
‘H’m!’ I remarked and looked at Wolfi, whose mouth was still wide open, whose eyes shone with the light of a boyfriend in a television commercial. … ‘H’m,’ he said, clearing his throat, for he had taken note of my look and had immediately assumed his toughest north face expression: ‘The “naturalistes” must be nudists, then …’ Was it only my fancy, or had his Viennese accent suddenly acquired a French timbre? ‘Obviously,’ I replied and, unhurriedly, took stock of the impressive landscape. It was a marvellous bay.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Wolfi as the next contribution to our voluble dialogue; moved no doubt by his mountaineering conscience, and pointing to the rock tower of the Chandèle, beyond the marvellous bay …
‘A typical Calanques feature, on superb rock, with views far out to sea, a magnificent climb’: thus Livanos’ description before handing the route guide over to us. Oh, that Livanos!
So much for the description. (This is where it ended.) Now what? Before our eyes, lovely, happy nudity … and, by heaven, this was obviously France!
‘It’s the only way through,’ I said, summing up the situation, and trying to sound objective. To our left was a cliff, barring the way, with the breakers creaming at its feet – then a strip of sand, and sharp-edged, sloping slabs – the only sharp-edged objects to be seen in that direction …
That Livanos! I could just imagine him grinning over his ‘route description’, specially designed for ‘Romantics’.
‘We must get across – but how?’ growled Wolfi, wrinkling his forehead. We had never met a mountaineering difficulty of this kind before, and there is no mention of it in Paulcke’s textbook on alpine dangers. But it has never been our habit to beat a retreat.
‘There are only two ways about it,’ I philosophised. ‘To be noticeable or not to be noticeable. With, or without …’
Wolfi scratched his head. ‘Oh, well,’ he said, smiling contentedly. We decided for ‘with’. The alternative would really have been too much bother, with all this climbing gear of ours …
We were certainly noticed. The first looks cast upon us went through us like gimlets. We thought hard of the Grande Chandèle and continued on our way.
Now everybody was staring at us, the intruders, with many an inquisitive glance. Could we be members? Blushing, we looked, as indifferently as possible, away beyond slim shoulders, feeling the while appallingly ‘dressed up’. None the less we accomplished that exciting traverse. With stride unfaltering, our pitons clinking among French bosoms, our bodies hung about with ropes and climbing hammers among French buttocks, dazzled by graceful contours, our pulses racing, but undeterred, we made our way through that shapely panorama set in the graceful coastal scenery of the Calanques; two tough sinewy alpine figures, their thoughts fixed only on the summits, the cynosure of all eyes, like models on a catwalk … Suddenly, Wolfi begun to hum a Parisian ditty, unmusically, out of tune. I too slowed my pace as I crossed the big, sharp-edged, sun-drenched limestone slabs, with their outcrop of sheer loveliness. I had to, of course, because of the sharp edges …
I wondered if mountaineers could qualify for membership? My pace grew still slower. After all, Paulcke’s book on alpine dangers says: ‘Go slowly and you go well, and if you go well you go far.’1 And if you go well …! Ye gods, I was fairly dazzled the next moment; if I could only address that gorgeous creature! I groaned – oh, these language difficulties! – and passed on in silence, broken hearted. Passed on, left her … and if you go well – that ass Paulcke had no idea what well means. Well didn’t mean the same thing, here and now. No, here, if you go slowly, all that happens – unfortunately – is that you still get on far too quickly. At this moment a deep sigh next to me announced the end of the ‘Song of Paris’. If you go slowly, you get along too quickly and much too far; there was no doubt that we had irretrievably completed the traverse. I sat down, exhausted, on a boulder. Wolfi said not a word and passed the flask of peppermint tea across to me; then he took a swig himself. From the last slab of paradise the strains of the Marseillaise came wafting over to us.
It was only later, from much higher up, that we observed quite a different approach route to the Grande Chandèle. Livanos again – he never mentioned it!
Oh, well …
Sun, sea and sand – and, of course, rock. The weather had long ago turned fine again on Mont Blanc; but it was fine here too, and here stood our tent, on the seashore.
We balanced our delicate way up that lovely ridge. Down below lay the island-studded sea; a gentle breeze blew in from the distant horizon, the rock was firm, the water rippled and glinted, more than 1,500 feet beneath our feet. A splendid cliff, this Grande Chandèle, a marvellous tower, set in an enviably beautiful practice ground, in the midst of a region that has neither roads nor houses – almost as it was in the beginning of things …
We sat on top, blinking up at the sun, down to the sea.
‘C’est très joli ici,’ remarked Wolfi, for once in unexceptionable French.
‘Tu as raison,’ I replied. Then we went off for a swim.
1 ‘Ce va piano, va sano: the va sano va lontano.’ [Back]