Images of white horses splashing through endless salt marshes are indelibly seared into my brain.
Flying into Marseille airport in the south of France, you are literally on the edge of Camargue country as the large lake of Berre runs alongside the flight path and airport. Collecting my hire car, I set off to an area of France that since childhood I had always wanted to visit and run wild in.
The local traditions are strong, and the May 1 festival still takes place in Arles. Moleskin jeans, wide-brimmed hats and spurs are the attire of the gardians and gariannes who herd the bulky black bulls through the town at break-neck speed, a traditional way to herald spring.
During La Course Camarguaise, the brave gardians try to collect the tassels tied to the horns. The bulls are bred and raised here for export to Spain for the bullfighting rings. Even here, bullfighting takes place once a year.
On June 23, the Feu de St Jean is celebrated, when the French jump over fire. However, the Camargue do it on horseback. On Les Saintes Day, everyone rides into town and after a large breakfast, the dayis full of gypsy music and riding displays.
These include ventre à terre, when contestants have to snatch an orange off a plate held up to them by a girl in traditional Arles dress, and saut d’un cheval à l’autre, when gardians jump from one horse to another at a gallop. The Camargue women still dress in fichu lace shawls and theirpillbox couifo hats.
Eating the local taureau flavoured in red wine and orange peel is a must. I chose Le France Restaurant overlooking the old walls of Arles. For €12 I had a refreshing tarte de tomate followed by a bit of bull.
Cooked to my requested medium, it was like no other steak I had ever tasted and I highly recommend it. The solid muscle was tasty and not as tough as expected, while the carafe of local red wine helped the meal go down and the men playing boules completed the stereotypically French scene.
The Rhône flows wide and slow along the old walled town, once a Roman provincial capital. Many of its sites including the amphitheatre and arch of triumph are under Unesco protection.
The port may never have rivalled that of Marseille, the oldest city in France, but Vincent van Gogh made Arles his home in 1888 and produced over 300 artworks that year.
It was time to drive south and get lost in the wild lands of Camargue, enjoying the native wild life. Paddy fields stretched into the distance here until 1960s but now the whole area is designated a National Park.
Sea salt produced in the region was prized for its strong flavour but now water channels intersect reed beds. There are two tributaries of the Rhône here that originated in the Swiss Alps and travel through France, before reaching the Mediterranean. Within their embracing arms, the delta holds 140,000 hectares of pure unadulterated wilderness.
The endless brine lagoons, etangs in French, shimmered in the sunlight. This wild protected area plays host to the famous bulls, white horses and over 400 species of birds that either make their home here, or just migrate through.
The greater flamingo had their heads down constantly, filtering their food and only moving when startled.
Their deep pink under wings flashed as they moved among egrets and swans.
With wild boar, beavers and badgers, this truly is as wild as it comes in France. With the warm summer weather and all this water, the mosquitoes appear. They are vicious beasties, so bring jungle formula repellent if you want to enjoy the Camargue to the full.
The tourist side is down the road in Les Saintes Marie de la Mer. Here you will find flamingo breeding grounds, salt museums and horse riding schools.
Instead, I decided to drive alongside the Grand Rhône to Port Saint Louis du Rhône and down to Napoleon Beach.
The port is famed for its fishing and fresh seafood dishes, and the city has walks and museums chronicling the Camargue life.
I drove the narrow, single-track road (cycle hire is an option if you’re fit enough) that leads to Napoleon Beach.
To the left lay the sight of ports and refineries in the distance; to the right lay a flat landscape of reed beds and water. At Bac de Barcarin, a small ferry transports the visitors across the Rhône to the western reaches.
Within minutes I came across a flock of flamingos and I hopped out of the car to snap them with my camera. Great herons and ducks of many a hue vied for my attention, but I spotted only a few of the white horses and no bulls.
Venturing into the reed beds, I came across a ramshackle house, perhaps only used in the summer. A large footprint in the mud made my mind whirl – which beast did it belong to, and was I safe?
Napoleon Beach stretched endlessly before me, westwards into the setting sun. Flanked by sand dunes and the grey Mediterranean, the desolation was extreme as the soft, salty Sirocco breeze wafted its way north.
Ride the white horses and experience the Camargue, made famous by the 1953 film White Mane. The stunning wilderness of Camargue certainly did not let my childhood fantasies down.