The Snails of Cassis

(Does this entry have much of a point or theme, or is it simply an excuse to post more pictures from our travels? You decide.)

Cassis, France, is a little port town on the Mediterranean, set among rugged, pine-topped cliffs leading into the sea, whose color varies from a deep, wine-dark blue to the sort of unnatural, piercingly clear azure that seems only believable in gemstones or glass.


We saw a lot more vistas than we did wildlife in Cassis, but it was a surprisingly good spot for snail sightings. I found some sea snails (intertidal snails, to be precise) tucked into the crevices of rocks that were being buffeted by enthusiastic waves of the returning tide:

[aren't they cute?]

I also found a larger periwinkle, which I temporarily displaced in order to photograph. I know, I know—I shouldn’t traumatize gastropods just to take their picture—but look at the beautifully patterned and colored shell, and the texture on it like woven strands of rope or twirled embroidery thread, and tell me what I did was wrong:


We even ended up seeing a couple of land snails hunkered down against the dry midday heat. One was on a sycamore, of which there are many in Cassis:

[yes, this tree is growing through an awning.]

The other was on a pot outside our hotel, being surprisingly aesthetic:


—But then, it was France, and they’re good at being aesthetic there.

{A note: I do write all text and take all pictures. Please do not reproduce either without my permission.}