Yachts of Fun: Five Sun-Soaked Days in the South of France

By Lauren Regan.

At the end of a busy summer, a last-minute getaway was calling. Montenegro, Croatia and Greece were all in the mix, but after spotting flights to the South of France for under £100 from Manchester, the decision was made. Two weeks later, my bags were backs and I was ready for five days of sunshine, seafood, and pretending I belonged on the deck of a superyacht. A modest goal, really.

But before Saint-Tropez and Aperol Spritz were even in sight, the adventure began in-land. I flew into Carcassonne, a medieval fortress perched on a rocky outcrop that looks like it has sprung right out of the pages of a fairytale. 

The walled medieval city, with its windy streets, turrets, ramparts, and ancient stone, rises dramatically above the surrounding landscape, and eagle-eyed visitors might notice that there is quite a lot of pig-themed paraphernalia as you wander around the city. Legend has it that they are homage to Lady Carcas, an 8th century Saracen princess, who ruled the city after the death of her husband. Under siege by Charlemagne's army, the city was starving and surrounded, and the people of Carcassonne were nearing defeat. The story goes that in a last desperate attempt to save her people, Lady Carcas took the town’s last remaining pig, stuffed it with the very last grains of wheat, and hurled it over the wall. The attacking army saw the plump little projectile, assumed the town had food to spare and abandoned the siege. The city rang the bells in celebration of their princess – “Carcas sonne” – which is said to be how it got its name. However true, the legend remains, and today you’ll find pig cushions, pig bottle-openers. pig snow globes. If you want it, they’ve probably put a pig on it.

My Airbnb sat right under the city walls, and I was greeted by the lovely Sophie – a woman who deserves an award for both patience and performance for how graciously she pretended to understand my valiant but questionable Duolingo French. She talked me through the town, the best coffee places, the parking quirks, and even phoned ahead to check dinner availability at a restaurant known for serving the best French onion soup in town. I would stay with her again in a heartbeat.  

One scenic night’s sleep later, I hopped in the hire car and set off south for Saint-Tropez. The drive alone felt like an event, with 400km of views, castles and vineyards to keep me entertained as I meandered further down the county. A planned pitstop in Montpellier for a mocktail and a leisurely lunch resulted in three hours of exploring a city that buzzes with a kind of stylish, sun-drenched energy. It was midday and the sun was making my shoulders tingle as I meandered round elegant squares, tall leafy trees, fountains and pristine streets (I’m told the Montpellier rubbish collection systems are state of the art) and I wished I had longer to explore this surprising city, but I wanted to get to the coast before it was dark so I could see my hotel in all her glory. 

After a long drive, there was something about that first glimpse of the Mediterranean that felt like a mini-celebration. The mountain road dips gently down towards the sea, you can see the blue water in the distance, and it starts to feel like you’re entering a proper summer holiday location. 

My home for the next few days was Hotel Les Tourelles, a beautiful château in the laid-back port town of Sainte-Maxime, right across the bay from Saint-Tropez. Knowing that this was to be my base for a few days was bliss, and I spent the night planning the next few days in the warm night air on the terrace; it felt like the holiday had properly begun. 

That next morning, I ticked something off my bucket list - I sailed into Saint-Tropez harbour.
Now, yes, it was on a ferry, not on a super yacht,  but technically, factually, and geographically, it counts. 

Once a quiet fishing village, Saint-Tropez first captured the imagination of artists like Paul Signac and Henri Matisse, and later became a magnet for Hollywood glamour after Brigitte Bardot’s And God Created Woman put it firmly on the world stage. Today, you can still feel that mix of heritage and high-gloss luxury: rows of beautifully preserved, pastel-coloured buildings set against the deep-blue Mediterranean, with superyachts gleaming along the harbour. Saint-Tropez is immaculate, feels incredibly safe, and strikes the perfect balance between things to do and the kind of laid-back atmosphere that reminds you you’re definitely on holiday.

Saint-Tropez started life as a quiet fishing village, before capturing the attention of artists and then Hollywood after Bridget Bardot cemented it as a luxurious escape. After stepping off the ferry, it was time to enjoy the buzz of the waterfront, and of course, the superyachts.

I played the game everyone plays, “Which one would you buy if you won the lottery?” But even with the biggest win imaginable, the answer was, unfortunately, still “Not that one - I couldn’t afford the maintenance.” A yacht that was, fine, was available for rent for £900k a week with a caveat that this didn’t include fuel or taxes - damn, if only it was all in, I might have considered it… 

Then came the moment I had been waiting for - Homer Lobster. I had been dreaming about it, Instagram-stalking it since I had booked my flights, and the queue was, of course, enormous, but I persevered. Let me tell you, though it was a little spendy (as is everything in Saint-Tropez), that lobster roll was worth every second. If I could have queued again, I would have.

I had come to Saint-Tropez today specifically for the legendary Saturday market, which is,  and I cannot stress this enough,  absolute chaos. 

Picture this: piles of Provençal linens and embroidered dresses, jewellery stalls next to mountains of fresh fruit, pastries, cheese, and flowers, vintage designer goods openly being haggled over.  You could outfit your wardrobe, stock your fridge, and probably furnish your whole home if you were prepared to beat the heat and push through the crowds. 

By afternoon, the temperature sat comfortably in the 30s, and the beach was calling. Normally, I struggle to switch off on holiday (I have the kind of brain that thinks a sun lounger is an invitation to remember things I forgot to email) but that day I managed it - I swam in the sea and finally, Aperol Spritz in hand I finally opened the pages the book I’d been “currently reading” for the last six months. It was heaven. 

The next morning, I made the most of the air conditioning in the hire car and drove round the coast to Port Grimaud, a pastel-coloured canal town often referred to as the “Venice of Provence.” Though it feels steeped in history, it was actually only built in the 1960s by architect François Spoerry, who turned a plot of marshy land into his vision of a town where every house could have a boat moored right at its front door. What emerged was a maze of bridges, waterways, sailboats, shutters, and hidden courtyards that felt unreal, and I spent an enjoyable couple of hours trying on French hair ribbons, sipping iced coffee and mentally moving in. 

That night, the relaxation was shattered as my phone blared and lit up with an emergency alert. Des conditions météorologiques extrêmes arrivent. Cherchez un terrain plus élevé.
Extreme thunderstorm incoming. Seek higher ground. 

Thankfully, the very hill I had cursed earlier in the week while trudging back up it from the beach was now well above the water, and from my safe perch above the bay, I opened the windows and listened to the storm as it approached. Thunder cracked across the water, lightning lit up the whole sky, and waves thrashed the glamorous coastline below, and I drifted off thinking, bet they’re not feeling quite so smug on their yachts now. 

That was the last day at the chateau, and I hadn’t yet booked any accommodation for my final night before I headed to the airport. I’ll be honest, I had assumed I would stay back with Sophie in her amazing Airbnb back in Carcassonne, assuming there would be room out of season, but I was wrong. Instead, after a Google scramble, I found my dream stay - a glamping dome at Tente Evasion in the mountain town of Tuchan. 

Everything about it took my breath away, and I am already planning a longer stay in the summer months to see it in all its glory. It was dusk when I pulled up and was pointed toward the dome glowing on the hill above the vineyard. I had stopped at the local supermarket to get snacks for the evening, and as I was unloading, a curious fox popped over to see what on earth I was doing. He seemed pretty chill, and we made a silent agreement that he wouldn’t bite me in the night if I had to nip out for a wee. At this elevation, the temperature had dropped considerably, and I snoozed and watched the landscape slowly turn gold, then lavender, then navy from under a furry blanket on the bed, thinking, “I’m sure I can hear howling”. 

At dawn, the wonderful hosts delivered breakfast in a basket to the dome, packed with fresh baguettes, French cheeses, croissants still warm, fruit, orange juice, all of my favourites. It was the perfect final morning before the hour drive to drop off the car and head to the airport. Before I left, I had one more question for the hosts: “Are there wolves in these mountains?” I asked. “Oui, lots”, she replied. At least that explains why the fox wanted to come inside. 

Five days. Countless memories. One lobster roll I am still thinking about. The South of France has a way of sneaking under your skin, and I can see why the super-rich flock to it for its natural beauty and classic glamour. I’m already plotting a return trip to explore more of the area - maybe Monaco, Monte Carlo, or even a second sail into Saint-Tropez harbour if I save up enough for that super yacht. 

Lauren Regan is the founder and creative director of MOLE, a brand storytelling and PR consultancy.

Crafting a meaningful brand story is within reach for every organisation. MOLE works with businesses in the UK and Canada to find their voice, tell their stories, and shape their future. To speak to Lauren about your organisations ambitions, reach out on [email protected]