in my grandmother's footsteps

I have been travelling again. Down obscure self-development paths, and more conventional tourist routes in the Bouches-du-Rhône département, of which Aix-en-Provence and Marseille are the best known cities.

In addition to attending an introductory craniosacral therapy weekend organised by the shiatsu school near Aix that I'd been wanting to discover for a while, I had been hoping to pick up the trail blazed by my maternal grandmother, AKA grannie. A photo album of the trip she made with two friends, in the winter of 1935, recently surfaced at my parents'.

grannie's vist to Cavalaire-sur-Mer

For a month the trio visited the coast between Marseille and Fréjus, car-touring and painting – or at least that's what "the artists" in grannie's captions did. And how did my mother cope with her ma jaunting off for so long, at the tender age of eight? And my grandfather – who had to make the drive from England, to rescue one of the friends who fell ill mid trip.

Back to self development, and the "yoga of the vagina" workshop. What can I say without freaking you out... Probably nothing, but I'm going to press on. Skip the next three paragraphs if this is already more than you want to know!

So there we were: nine brave souls willing to (discretely) explore our most intimate body part. In a group. But in fact being in a group wasn't the problem; we were lying horizontal, well covered with skirts and throws. All self exploration was out of view. Almost. (The fact that it wasn't quite, was exceedingly disturbing for a brief period!) The difficulty was more to do with the jade egg. Check out jadeeggs.com. According to multi-orgasmic.com (yes, you read about it on Rebecca's blog), the use of the egg evolved in ancient China. So we have a long history of disassociating ourselves with this potential source of power... And, by the way, it's not just about improving sexual function; using the egg on a regular basis can help with all manner of gynae issues. So go for it, girls...!

But, alas, I didn't make friends with my (obsidian) egg, and ended up at the familiar psychological wall. Plenty of time to try again, in the comfort of my own home, however...

The next day I hit the road, using the car-sharing website, blabla.fr for the first time. And it worked a treat. So if you can commit to a departure time, and have space in your car, why not take an extra passenger? It's sociable, ecological, economical, and makes sense in every way.

I was dressed for the 30 degree forecast, so the squalls and 14 degrees driving south were a surprise. But the afternoon shaped up, and I was able to enjoy a rapid skim over the newly refurbished old port area in Marseille in warmth, as the storm clouds gathered.

The tourist veneer – an imaginative blend of restoration and elegant new museums, linked by high-level walkways and with pockets of garrigue-style planting – was impressive, the ambiance reminiscent of Bilbao, Liverpool, Newcastle... which have received similar make-overs. Of course, there's an inauthenticity around "sanitising" big bad Marseille in this way. But you don't have to go far – just a block – to get the feeling of the real city: narrow streets, washing hanging to dry from flats in an uncertain state of repair.

Everything was going well. I was about to drive back to Trets, the little town just east of Aix where I was overnighting with an ex-student at the Aix shiatsu school, when suddenly, my wallet wasn't where I expected it to be. My handbag and rucksack are scoundrels for hiding things, with their myriad pockets. But I searched everywhere. Nothing. I jogged back to the shop where I'd bought some wine for my host, in a lather of sweat, just in case... Nothing. OMG. How am I going to get the car out of the car park? Let alone navigate the weekend cashless, chequeless and cardless. It's so obvious – Marseille – what do you expect... Trying to avoid panicking I phoned my host to ask her to cancel the cards, which she efficiently did. And then I found the wallet, in an unlikely pocket in my rucksack.

At the car park, stress seemed to have blown a fuse in my brain: I had no idea where I'd parked (yeah, I know, where had all that mindfulness gone?!). Running in ever-diminishing circles I couldn't even locate the reception office reputed to record an image of the number plate of every vehicle entering the car park. Half an hour later I spot the Megane. Oh joy. But oh no. The payment machine doesn't accept cash. Now I really do have to find the reception desk. And, by now, my parking fee has escalated to 10 euros. Dam. But I'm out. And grinding into the Marseille rush hour in the mother and father of a storm. I don't think I've ever driven in such conditions. As the monsoon descended, cavalier drivers cut in from right and left, throwing up tidal waves of water that completely block all visibility for seconds at a time. Utterly terrifying.

I arrived at Annick's, joining her and her husband Jean Paul late, but they had waited for me and we had an enjoyable supper. Being based there worked well for the weekend. I was superbly looked after.

But the course assured my stress levels were maintained. The craniosacral therapist, David Kanner, was a patient, intuitive teacher. But he didn't hide the fact that trying to bring something meaningful from a four-year training into two days was a challenge for him, too. The combination of extreme subtlety – feeling the movement of the different skull bones, dense theory (with no physical skeleton to demo on, no 3D software), and everything of course being in French, guaranteed that I had a difficult time. This is the first shiatsu-related training I have done in France and there were many cultural differences, both in terms of shiatsu style, and traits of nationality: passivity in receiving, bossiness, and a tendency towards Il faut... (and yes, I know all about projection!). I was close to ducking right out of the second day. But decided against, following David's advice. So I stuck it out, finally clutching to a handful of simple techniques that I might be able to integrate into my shiatsu.

That second evening I felt light, truly on holiday. I drove towards the Mont Sainte Victoire, the ridge peak north of Trets and east of Aix, and walked up to the hermitage on its flank. Seated there I enjoyed a pleasant contemplative moment, the late-afternoon sun lighting the vineyards and lines of hills receding south.

After the weekend I extended my trip a couple of days, taking advantage of my current lack of commitments. Beyond curiosity about much-lauded Cassis, I had no agenda. But I wanted to savour the flavour of the rolling, craggy, wild, garrigue countryside. So I took the most off-beat route I could find: using sat nav to drive minor roads, climbing and descending the west-to-east chains of hills. It's a lovely, unspoilt part of Provence, a far cry from the tourist traps of chintzy St Remy (virtually my only other experience of the region); cyclists more in evidence than cars.

view towards the Mont Sainte Victoire

The same cannot be said of Cassis – obvious at the first "car park + shuttle bus" sign. It's undoubtedly a place of great charm, full of delights – if classy shopping is your bag. But retail is not my therapy so I headed for the jetty and jumped on the first boat trip to the Calanques, the fiords and inlets that are the major tourist draw. This is arguably the best way to get a perspective on this beautiful and relatively inaccessible area. Having one's own boat would be even better!

From the boat we could see the quays used until the twentieth century for exporting the cement and limestone used to build the Mediterranean ports of Alexandria, Algiers and Marseille, as well as the Statue of Liberty. More recently, tourism and wine making have taken over. Cassis was one of the first three vineyards to profit from the appellation d'origine contrôlée introduced in 1936.

Still avoiding the town itself I strolled around the top of the first calanque for a different view...

Actually getting into the sea was bizarrely difficult – if you wanted to avoid the mega crowds on the shingly town-centre beach. But I found a place where the limestone slabs tilted towards the sea, allowing a way in. Perched above the sea, along with a bunch of tourists and locals, I nerved myself to jump in. The water was delicious, but the sucking and propelling of the waves alarming. And getting out was every bit as difficult as I had anticipated. After a few abortive attempts I allowed the waves to whoosh me up onto the ledge, from where I could make an ungainly exit, walrus-style. A local asked me if I was ok, and commented on the danger – he had hurt himself getting out.

From Cassis I drove along the spectacular Route des Crêtes, Cap Canaille giving vertiginous views over the bay.

... to La Ciotat, a real fishing port with a picturesque, oleander-bordered harbour and active dockland area.

Having been eating a rice salad made in Vaulnaveys for the previous three days I decided to treat myself to a restaurant meal (bad choice – an absurdly over-priced, over-cooked stir-fry) before driving east along the coast, looking for a possible camping spot. I am naive, having no idea how grim coastal camp sites in the populous Cote d'Azur can be. I couldn't see myself spending the night in any of them. The sun was going down and I was running out of time...

Hastily snapping the shot above I continued to a car park in a forest near a beach near Port d'Alon. Carefully driving to its furthest extremity I waited for night to descend before unrolling my sleeping bag and bedding down next to the car. For a while I feared being discovered as the headlights of the last visitors left the area. And then a vehicle seemed to be passing right next to me, entering an adjacent property. But all quietened down and I was left with just whining mosquitoes for company.

It wasn't a great night, I admit. But I was happy to have made my choice – and survived it! At 5am I was off and out, sadly renouncing the early-morning swim that had been the reason for being there, but intimidated by the presence of a vehicle that had appeared during the night, and the possibility of law and order catching up with me (it would be hard to pretend "no overnight parking" was ambiguous).

Back at La Ciotat I used the facilities of one of the camp sites I'd rejected the previous day, then spent the morning tanking up on coffee, and blogging, in a quayside café. Pure happiness. Then, just as I thought I was going to leave La Ciotat – which, you will gather from the large number of photos posted above, was the highlight of my trip – I tumbled on a little bit of paradise: Plage du Mugel. And there I spent the next couple of hours, swimming in its glorious, crystal-clear water and watching the primary-school geography lesson taking place nearby, grandparents playing with their water-pistol-toting toddlers, girlies taking snaps. Now I understand why everyone goes to the coast for their holidays. This was truly heaven.

But all good things had to come to an end. It was time to leave. I wanted to make the most of my trip by camping somewhere between the coast and Vaulnaveys. So I took a sinuous, non-motorway route via Manosque to Sisteron. Here I found myself once again turning my nose up at the camp-site possibilities. After extensive touring I found an acceptable spot between a cornfield and a stream.

I was about to snuggle into my sleeping bag when I had a moment of panic: what was I doing the following morning? Oh the limitations of a digital diary. I was out of charge, so no way of finding out… I looked at my camping spot and made a quick decision. Home it had to be. And, probably for the best – rain later fell in copious quantities.

So now I am home, having not made it to Cavalaire-sur-Mer, but grannie very much in my thoughts as I wove around the many other wonderful places.