to enjoy moments of great joy,” says Clarac, a 52-year-old
Marsellais with mid-length wavy hair swept back with
a headband and no concept of body fat. Known lovingly
among the climbing community as
Le Loup Blanc
(
The
White Wolf), Clarac hops and bounds from rock to rock
without ropes or gloves, securing the route for us to
follow, with a speed and agility that would put Spider-
Man to shame.
A climber here since the age of 15, Le Loup worked as
a specialist teacher for disabled children and delinquents
before becoming a regular instructor to all groups of
any-aged climbers in 1996. Under the guise of Escalade
Cala0nques (
escaladecalanques.com
),
he spends his
time teaching newbies how to survive out on the edge, as
well as organising private sessions for autistic and deaf
children. His mantra is that anyone can have a go.
He’s also a big part of the climbing mystique in this
area. Back when he started, a lack of security and
regulation enabled him to discover
and design some of the most renowned
climbing routes (a few of which
contain drops of more than 300m),
including the Armata Calanca, which
he created with his friend Stef Wyns.
For us, he chooses something
simpler, leading the way out at around
9
am, before the sun reaches the peak
of its fury. He takes as long or as little
time on the cliffs as he thinks his
group would like. “I give you the basics
and energy, and you will see what
happens,” he says, enigmatically. I’m
excited to see where he’ll take us. The sharp smell of pine
sap, along with olive trees, lavender, rosemary and
thyme, is a gentle reminder that this is not your average
climbing spot.
As I clip and unclip my carabiners one by one and
edge along the rock face, each new step brings quick
bursts of accomplishment. Moving across vertical
surfaces with the sound of waves thrashing rocks 45m
below is physically energising – and mentally
challenging. My foot slips down a metre-wide gap, and
hot prickles run across my skin. Terror kicks in, even
though I know I can’t fall. When I finally haul myself up,
noticing biceps I’d forgotten existed, a silly smile breaks
across my face and the fear is replaced by ecstasy.
Climbers aren’t the only adventure-sport types
making their Provençal home by these towering cliffs.
In 2006, Bruno Scheerlinck, a 41-year-old Belgian,
began his popular diving school, Espace Beuchat
(
espace-beuchat.fr
),
in Marseille’s Pointe-Rouge. Twice
daily, he and colleague Baptiste take 20 divers of every
calibre on two giant, grey dinghies that bounce and slam
against the waves for 20 minutes until they arrive at the
off-shore Archipel de Riou, a set of massive rocks that
house cul-de-sacs of Swarovski crystal-covered water.
On the afternoon we visit, only two other boats are
anchored there, bronzed limbs draped over their sides.
It’s perfectly silent but for the slap of water against the
dinghies. The stillness lends itself to
an afternoon of encounters with
green bream, damselfish and a
flurry of black-face blenny.
For those who prefer to stay
surface side, Jérémie Metzger runs
R O C K C L I M B I N G
M A R S E I L L E
05
06
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