There are places one does not truly discover; one returns to them, the way one finds again a scent from childhood. The path beneath the pines, the pale curtains barely stirring, the scent

There are places one does not truly discover; one returns to

them, the way one finds again a scent from childhood. The path

beneath the pines, the pale curtains barely stirring, the scent

of wood warmed by the sun mingling with that of fish over the

embers. Something within unwinds before one has even sat

down.

Since 1952, on the golden sand of Pampelonne, Moorea has

been cultivating a certain Mediterranean happiness. Christophe

Coutal needs no introduction — he is simply there. The eighth

generation of a Tropezian family, he carries on the spirit of a

beach his father once ran, and the memory of his grandparents

who welcomed painters and musicians at the Hôtel de Paris. One

does not know all this upon arriving. One feels it.

In the kitchen, Jérôme Larmat and Yoann Toulouse compose a

!e eternity of a Ramatuelle moment

cuisine in which the Mediterranean and Asia answer each other

with finesse. Lightly seared wild fish, delicate carpaccios, fresh

herbs and carefully selected citrus, pale-hued Provence rosés

— every plate is precise, luminous, inspired. A cuisine to be

savoured with one’s eyes turned to the sea.

There are places where one comes to be seen, and others

where one comes back to oneself. Moorea belongs to the latter.

Children run between the loungers, a woman reads in the shade

of a parasol, friends linger over lunch in the sun. Time here has

the texture of those days whose feeling stays with you, whole.

In the evening, when the sky above Ramatuelle turns pink, one

hesitates to leave. The sand is still warm underfoot. Moorea does

not hold anyone back — and that, perhaps, is why one always

comes back.

RAMATUELLE I VAR