After a full day exploring Arles, we left the city behind and headed south into the Camargue. Breakfast was at our accommodation, followed by the familiar routine of packing up, preparing a simple lunch, and loading a cool bag with an ice pack. By mid-morning, we were on the road, trading stone streets and Roman monuments for flat horizons, water, and sky.
Entering the Camargue
Our first stop was La Capelière, the main information centre of the Camargue National Nature Reserve. It’s an essential place to begin, both practically and mentally. Here we asked about trail conditions, current wildlife activity, and permits for other protected sites. The landscape may appear deceptively open, but access is carefully managed, and local advice makes a significant difference.
From La Capelière, we drove toward the Étang de Ginès area, where the Camargue’s character immediately became clear. Low vegetation, shallow water, and wide, exposed land replaced any sense of enclosure. It felt less like entering a destination and more like stepping into a system.
Pont de Gau: Stops 1 to 10
By mid-morning, we arrived at the Ornithological Park of Pont de Gau, one of the most accessible places to experience Camargue wildlife up close. The park is organised around a series of numbered observation points, clearly marked on both the map and along the trails, making it easy to follow a logical route through the wetlands.
On our first visit, we walked stops 1 through 10, covering roughly 4.3 kilometres on the right-hand side of the park. The route led us past lagoons, reed beds, and open marshland, with frequent observation shelters positioned along the way. The area is particularly known for its herons and flamingos, and the scale of what we saw was striking.
The flamingos here are greater flamingos, the only flamingo species native to Europe, and the Camargue is one of their most important feeding and breeding grounds. They filled the shallow pools in every direction, feeding in loose groups with their heads submerged or standing motionless on one leg against the pale sky. Their pale pink colouring varied noticeably from bird to bird, some almost white, others deeper rose, depending on age and diet. What surprised me most was the sound. Every so often, the stillness was broken by their low, grunting calls, oddly pig-like and completely at odds with their elegant appearance.
Beyond the flamingos, the birdlife felt constant and layered. We spotted avocets, black-winged stilts, and Eurasian spoonbills, their distinctive shapes easy to recognise as they moved through the shallows. Large colonies of herons and egrets nest in the trees throughout the park, while terns, gulls, and avocets occupy the small islands scattered across the lakes. Ducks skimmed low over the water, smaller wading birds picked carefully through the mud, and occasional bursts of wings broke the stillness as birds lifted suddenly from the reeds. We saw hundreds of birds in total, and the density of life made the walk feel immersive rather than observational.
Despite the flat terrain, the walk never felt monotonous. Some sections opened out into wide, exposed views, while others felt more enclosed, the path threading between reeds and water channels. Allowing around an hour and a half gave us time to stop often, linger at the observation points, and take in the scenery.
Late Afternoon: Tree Frogs and the Open Road
In the late afternoon, we returned to La Capelière to pick up the keys to our accommodation and walk the Sentier des Rainettes, or Tree Frog Trail. After the openness of Pont de Gau, this shorter loop felt noticeably more intimate. The path wound through wetter ground and lower vegetation, focusing on smaller ecosystems rather than wide horizons.
With daylight still to spare, we decided to keep driving south, following the road as far as it would take us toward the sea. The land flattened even further, becoming sparse and elemental, until it felt almost suspended between water and sky.
The road eventually ended at Plage de Piémanson, a vast, undeveloped stretch of sand on the edge of the Camargue. There was little here beyond wind, water, and space. Standing at the shoreline felt like reaching the outer edge of the landscape we had been moving through all day. We didn’t stay long. The light was beginning to soften, and the openness felt like a natural punctuation mark rather than an invitation to linger.
From there, we turned back inland and drove on to Salin de Badon, ready to settle in for the evening.
Evening in the Reserve
In order to stay close to, or, rather, within, the park, we decided to stay in a traditional gîte. In France, a gîte is a self-contained holiday rental, often rural and designed for independent stays. The gîte at Salin de Badon is located right in the heart of the Camargue, owned and operated by the Société Nationale pour la Protection de la Nature. Formerly a hunting lodge, the stone building is best described as rustic, though characterful feels just as accurate.
Accommodation is self-catering. There is no drinking water, and rooms are shared. On the positive side, the gîte has hot and cold running water, central heating, and access to three nearby bird hides, all included in the stay. It’s simple, but perfectly suited to its surroundings.
The only truly disastrous moment came upon arrival. The sheer number of mosquitoes was astonishing. We grabbed our bags and ran for the door, barely stopping until we were safely inside. Being the first to arrive that evening, we took immediate advantage of the quiet, showered, and started preparing dinner while the adrenaline wore off.
Day Two: Wind and Water
By morning, the Camargue felt completely different again. The light was sharper, the air cooler, and the wind unmistakable. We drove to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer and set out along the sea dike trail, with the Mediterranean on one side and lagoons on the other.
The walk was exhilarating at first, the kind of exposed landscape that makes you feel very small. But the wind was relentless. After about two hours of walking straight into it, we turned back, windswept and slightly sandblasted, but glad to have seen the coastline in such a dramatic state.
Pont de Gau: Stops 11 to 16
Late morning drew us back inland and once again to the Ornithological Park of Pont de Gau. We ate lunch at the bar area inside the park, grateful for some shelter from the wind. Supplies bought in Arles the day before turned into a simple but perfect meal: cheeses, charcuterie, crisp radishes, and strawberries. Eating well, outdoors, in the middle of the wetlands felt like a small luxury.
Having covered stops 1 to 10 the day before, we spent this visit walking the left-hand side of the park, stops 11 through 16. This section felt quieter and more expansive, with longer stretches between observation points and fewer people. The experience was less about close encounters and more about watching the landscape as a whole. We moved slowly, stopping often, letting birds come and go rather than seeking them out.
From Wetlands to Walls
In the afternoon, we left the Camargue behind and drove to Aigues-Mortes. After two days of flat, open wetlands and shifting horizons, the sudden appearance of its perfectly preserved medieval walls felt almost unreal. Rising sharply from the surrounding salt flats, the city looks less like it has grown out of the landscape and more like it has been placed there deliberately.
We walked along the ramparts, where the view outward revealed the Camargue once again: lagoons, salt pans, and wide skies stretching in every direction. From above, the scale of the surrounding wetlands became even clearer, and it was striking to see how isolated the city still feels, despite its historical importance. Inside the walls, narrow streets and stone buildings created a sense of enclosure we hadn’t felt in days, a sharp contrast to the exposure and openness of the marshes.
Aigues-Mortes was founded as a port city, and although the sea has long since retreated, that sense of purpose remains embedded in its layout and fortifications. Walking through the town felt like stepping briefly into a different rhythm, one shaped by defence and trade rather than tides and migration. The shift was refreshing rather than jarring, offering a human counterpoint to the natural landscapes that had defined most of our time in the Camargue.
As evening approached, the light softened against the pale stone walls, and the city felt calmer, less performative. It was a fitting final stop, a place that gathered together the themes of land, water, and history before we moved on. From there, we continued north to Combaillaux, where we cooked dinner at our Airbnb and finally slowed down, marking a quiet end to our time in the Camargue.
The Camargue is a place that truly rewards slowing down — we saw so many birds! Have you ever seen that many flamingos?
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