Saint-Raphael

Just offshore from Dramont's postcard-perfect coast rises Île d'Or-an absurdly photogenic chunk of rust-red rock crowned by a whimsical tower that looks as though a Bond villain commissioned it on a whim. Legend has it this enigmatic island inspired Herge's adventurous imaginings for Tintin's "The Black Island," making a pilgrimage here something of a comic-geek's holy rite, tempered by sunburn and potentially questionable life choices. Head out early morning, preferably by kayak or paddleboard, when the sunlight bathes the crimson stones in hues Instagram filters only dream of replicating, and before the crowds arrive with selfie sticks to ruin your existential reverie. Pack sunscreen, plenty of drinking water, budget around €30 to €60 for a vessel rental, and book at least a day ahead-procrastinators risk resorting to charm or bribery to secure their mode of transport. Ultimately, even if you return ashore salty, sweaty, and convinced you're no Tintin, the bragging rights alone-"Yes, I paddled out there, survived, and no pirate intervened"-make it worth every blister and glancing sunburn.

Gliding through the shockingly turquoise Mediterranean waters along Antheor's craggy Calanques feels suspiciously like gatecrashing nature's own VIP lounge. Wedged dramatically between the neon-blue horizon and fiery-red cliffs, these secluded inlets and secret coves have played host to smugglers, sun-worshipping Riviera celebrities, and the occasional sunburned tourist paddling optimistically in circles. Time it just right-early morning (to avoid the selfie-stick-wielding hordes)-and you'll own every ripple and rock. Aim for late spring or early autumn to skirt the summer surge, and budget around €40-60 for a kayak rental-less than you'd willingly fork over for lukewarm rose and stale olives back in Cannes. Bring sunscreen, waterproof snacks, and a sturdy dry bag-unless your wallet enjoys saltwater baths. Sure, your arms might ache tomorrow, and you'll inevitably drip seawater everywhere back ashore, but paddling here is a small price to pay for bragging rights. After all, casually dropping "the day I kayaked Cote d'Azur's hidden calanques" into any conversation is priceless social currency.

If your ideal holiday involves frolicking through fields like you've escaped a pretentious perfume ad-only sweatier and with more bees-the lavender fields of the Valensole Plateau await your zealously Instagrammable arrival. Come late June or early July, this sprawling sea of purple unfurls dramatically, filling the Provencal air with a heady herbal calmness that almost masks the pungent aroma of tourists jockeying for the perfect selfie. Historically, lavender has been a local superstar here, beloved by Romans who sprinkled it in baths and medieval peasants who warded off plague with bundles of the purple bloom-whether that worked out for them is debatable. Plan your visit a few months ahead because procrastinators inevitably end up parked a half-mile down a dusty road and wandering dazed through sun-baked hills at high noon; early mornings or sunset hours offer golden light, fewer crowds, and gentler bees. Pack water, sunscreen, antihistamines (in case you discover late in life that pollen despises you), and a crisp twenty euros to score yourself lavender-infused everything from artisanal soap to lavender honey ice cream that's oddly delightful yet vaguely reminiscent of grandma's linen closet. Sure, it's cliche. Sure, your friends might mock you for your flowery escapades. But come on-where else can you emerge from a field smelling like a relaxed French aristocrat rather than a sweaty tourist? Even if your photos all turn out blurry and bee-filled, you'll have a story to tell and forever know the smell of Provence in midsummer.