Yesterday the sun was out, and the sky was blue. This prompted us to get up early and get our asses down to the fish market, which operates on the quay of the old port every morning. This wasn't because we wanted to pick up a couple of reasonably priced sea bass for our lunch – mainly because we'd have no means to cook them, and that's what you're supposed to do with sea bass, isn't it – but more to get pictures like this for the archives:

There's a long row of fishmongers hacking the heads off a wide variety of local marine life, whipping incisions across bellies, removing guts with a deft finger and slinging them all onto the pavement. An eel, who a few moments previously had been considering where Mrs Eel might like to go for her holidays this year, was chopped into managable chunks at the behest of a forthright French lady, who knew exactly what Mr French-lady wanted for his tea. Such was the manic work of the razor sharp knives on this quay, and so much blood flowing, you imagined that any fishmongers foolhardy enough to chop off one of their own digits probably wouldn't find out until they got home. At which point it would be too late, with the finger in question bobbing around in some unfortunate tourist's bouillabaisse.

Les Calanques are, we had read, a particularly beautiful and unspoilt row of inlets on the coast to the east of Marseille, so we set off to have a look. They don't even have electricity down there, which would at least mean no pneumatic drills, which have slightly blighted our early morning dozing at the hotel in the centre of town. Sadly, we got within about 5 or 6 miles of our destination, only to be turned back at a checkpoint which prevents any cars reaching the villages of Sormiou or Morgiou during daylight hours, because of the substantial fire risk. The roads in question are even referred to as “Fire Roads”. We weren't planning on going berserk with matches and petrol – not much, anyway – but it seemed sensible to follow the orders, and we made our way along the coast (or as near to the coast as we could get) until we reached the shattered shipbuilding port of Le Ciotat.

in 1989, 10,000 people out of a population of 30,000 lost their jobs when the shipbuilding firm who were located here decided to close down. Despite the rather grim picture above of rusting shipbuilding equipment and a car park, they do appear to have got things back on track; a well funded tourist information centre handed us a bundle of literature to assist us with our exploration of the town. “Just feel the quality of this paper,” said Jenny, feeling the quality of the paper. “I will,” I replied, “just as soon as you've stopped feeling the quality of the paper.” She handed me the paper. It was of exceptionally high quality. Le Ciotat scores very highly, paperwise.

Further down the coast to St Cyr sur Mer, there was a surprise: a beautiful, long, white, sandy beach, with no rowdy elements or bunco-booths ripping off innocent tourists such as ourselves, just a large number of French people baking their already highly-tanned bodies in the afternoon sun. There seemed to be no apparent concern about imminent melanomas, except from Jenny and I, who walked slowly along the promenade, slathered in Factor 40 and wearing dark clothing. “They probably think we're goths,” said Jenny, with some alarm. “But by comparison, I suppose we probably are.”

Next and final stop was Cassis. At the old port sat a table full of squealing and guffawing English boys and girls, who are sufficiently high up the career ladder in London's Square Mile to allow them to holiday in the South of France, but not quite high enough to get them into a hotel down the coast at St Tropez, Antibes, Monaco or Cannes. They sat there pontificating in a sickening fashion on the notion of beauty, while guzzling bottles of rosé. Jeremy then arrived. “Jeremy!” squealed a girl, who for the sake of argument we'll call Olivia. Jeremy arrived with regulation pullover tied around his shoulders, grinning. He downed everyone's leftover wine in turn while the rest of them laughed and applauded, and then grabbed Olivia and pretended to throw her in the water. “Jeremy, no!” she pleaded. “Don't throw me into the water!” If she'd had another glass of rosé, she'd have pleaded with him to marry her. They all decided to leave, and the waiter approached. “Oh,” said one profoundly irritating young man, “do we have to pay for this?” He was probably asking whether they had already paid, but it made him sound like the freeloading, moneyed, haughty, imminently-inheriting scumbag that he undoubtedly is.

We've decided to steer clear of anything remotely posh, today. Perhaps the opposite… getting fleeced by a street trader, or mugged in an dark alleyway.