day5-St. Marguerite Island, morning dew, eucaliptus scent, seclusion

St. Marguerite Island was a trap. A beautiful trap one would not regret to be caught in. We ended up spending most of the day in the seclusion of the island, willingly giving up the other destination of the day—the sleepy village of Biot and the Fernand Leger Museum there. Only a few minutes walk on the island was just enough to make us decide to postpone the ferry by two hours, immersing ourselves in the rare treat of sunshine, of sea breeze, and most importantly, of being away from towns filled with people.

The 15-minute ferry ride was in itself a delight, with a magnificent view of snow-covered Alps in the background and the coastal towns in the foreground. Occasional shower of sunlight through the break of the thin blanket of cloud brought a dramatic glow to the white mountain sides. Buoys tucked together with a tie, safety floats hanging on the side of the boat, ropes tied in accordance with the seamen’s tradition, every naval detail on the ferry intensified our excitement. Being in the off-season, there were less than ten passengers on the boat; some tourists, the others seemingly locals, taking a little excursion to the island. The fortress on the cliff still kept its vigil on the Mediterranean, centuries after its construction. Wooden piers on strikingly clear, indigo water received us onto the island.

A signboard at the port was made of pottery, with its roughly textured base terracotta brown and its glaze various tones of blue-green. Complete with streets names curved in on the surface, it was a delightful juxtaposition of function and beauty.


A small pond with an even smaller island in the center was found in the Western edge of the main island, where numerous water fouls were enjoying the seclusion of the island. The pond was surrouned by a low wooden fence and bushes of vine plants clinging to it. Green of the tender leaves and reddish purple of the plump but miniscule berries came alive with the sunlight, which shined on the morning dews on these plants.


The moisture of overnight rain also had a beautiful effect on the feather. Resting on a bed of fuzzy leaves, the fibers of the feather had been arranged into a graceful shape by the moisture, seeming almost impossible by any human intention.


Inland was a savanna-like pasture with gnarled aleppo pines, tortured for centuries by the incesant wind from the sea. Farther inland, a boulevard of eucaliptus trees were emitting a strong, refreshing fragrance. The smell was so intence and permeating the forest so much that it felt almost artificial to me, who was a shameful child of modern, synthesized chemical products. The scent, though, was probably the most refreshing smell I had ever experienced in my life, even more so than trunks of conifers freshly cut for Christmas trees.

Listening to the wonderful noise the pebbles make as waves rolled them along the shore, we wandered the island, feeling liberated and envigorated. A shady, eucaliptus-scented boulevard took us to the fortress overlooking the pier we disembarked earlier. We had about an hour before the 2pm ferry would leave the island.