In the rhythm of the tide

And what of the dream
That we've been dreaming?
Don't you agree that a dream is only ever made for achieving?
What of the way
You made me sigh?
Was I too bold to believe, to conceive a future for you and I?

I sit listening to the song by Melody Gardot, and although it's a song about lovers, I can't help but project it onto the story I'm about to tell — my love story with La Rochelle and its little friend, Île de Ré. No, there is no man involved in that story. Not with any and most certainly not with a man of my dreams, but with a city — so special and so magnificent to everyone who’s been there. That, I know.

We slowly approached La Rochelle, wrapped in the last rays of the setting sun, which painted the city in mellow orange hues, glowing even brighter against the white façades of its buildings. It was the second year when we arrived much later than expected, thanks to our electric car — a noble planet-saver, but no friend to punctuality or my nerves, always demanding attention and care. Still, with the sun just dipping below the horizon, we were just in time for our first and most sacred ritual: dinner at the large black table, listening to the fountain in the yard, followed by a late evening walk to the beach just five minutes from our home.

La Rochelle — unknown to me before moving to France, yet now so deeply loved a few years later — is a port city on the Atlantic coast of southwestern France. Not only historic, but strikingly beautiful, versatile, and generous with wind, sun, colour, and food.

The history of this city — so radiant in the summer, basking under the sunlight that dances on ocean waters — dates back to the Gallo-Roman period. In the early 12th century, it began to flourish when the Dukes of Aquitaine granted La Rochelle a charter as a free port. Not long after, when Eleanor of Aquitaine married Henry II of England, the city bloomed further, benefiting from the vast English trade network. And that is where the story began. 

Called a gateway to the ocean, La Rochelle became a vital port — something visible to anyone crossing the bridge to Île de Ré, a journey we and many other travellers made almost daily, in search of a chance to bathe in the ocean waves. Here, the tides dictate life, often retreating during the day — the most sacred hours for sunbathing. Especially in La Rochelle. But if the city’s beach is out of reach, the ones on Île de Ré always welcome all for a warm — or occasionally brisk — swim as the beaches even when the ocean is far away are sandy and perfect for walking as far as needed. 

On a small street called Rue Georges Emonin, there is a house. Unlike any other, it hides behind gates and lush green apple trees. Renovated by an Australian long-settled in France, it is a masterpiece in black and white, inside and out. In the centre of the living room, a piano waits for anyone willing to practise or play, while others gather around the dining table nearby, watching the sky change colour through the windows opening onto the yard. With windows everywhere, the house refuses to let anyone forget the brightness of the sun, the deepness of the night, or the drama of lightning flashing across the sky. Unlike the bedrooms, which have shutters, the yard-facing rooms do not — and thank goodness for that, because there is nothing more beautiful than the sky at sunrise or sunset.

La Rochelle, though it may seem big, is quite small — at least if you live where we do, somewhere between the ocean and the centre. Best explored on foot, or sometimes by bike, its winding streets offer a mix of architectural styles — from medieval to Renaissance to modern — making one feel as though walking through three cities at once. Small buildings that look as if they might crumble sit beside grand ones reminiscent of Paris, while others call back to the Middle Ages. Tucked in between are shops, bakeries, patisseries, and cafés — each a reflection of the city’s taste, expressed through seasonal, flavourful offerings. And I must say, that taste is very versatile, offering seafood, fish, meat, a variety of cheeses and seasonal vegetables and fruits mixed with the amazing breads, cakes, ice creams and one of the best Pasteis del Nata I have ever had.

The weeks here — whether just one or two — seem to calibrate themselves to the rhythm of the ocean, slowly shifting like the tide in a peaceful way. Mornings are the best. With everyone still asleep, there is only the terrace, a cup of coffee, and me — enveloped in the sounds of distant waves and seagulls conversing somewhere high above.

Some days continue with a gentle bike ride to the centre, where fresh bread is always waiting. Other mornings call for the car, in pursuit of that perfect loaf. The city, so crowded with tourists during the summer months, feels almost unreal in the quiet of early morning — eerily empty, making each moment feel more intimate and profound, in contrast to the days when the streets swell with life, revealing everyone’s shared love for this place. Days unfold by the ocean, following a drive across the bridge and often concluding with a towering ice cream before heading home. Some afternoons are spent on busy beaches, packed with sunbathers, while others pass on quieter shores, where not a soul can be seen — only rows of oyster beds stretching out toward the horizon.

There is truly no way to describe the beauty of these two places — La Rochelle and Île de Ré. No article, no words, no epithets could ever convey the experience of spending time here in the summer. From shopping at the central market, sipping coffee in cafés, and searching for the best produce to cook with, to enjoying apéritifs in blooming wine bars and dinners in charming restaurants — it is all here, and so special, that it simply must be lived. Just like the iconic bike ride across the bridge and around the island — pausing in small villages, picking blackberries from wild bushes, and savouring ice creams along the way — it is not something to be described, but something to be felt.