French Polynesia

The country changes its character with every crossing. The Society Islands, around Tahiti, feel the most lived-in, with green ridges rising straight out of the sea, roads that hug the shore, and a steady hum of scooters and church bells. Further out, the Tuamotus are low and nearly level, a scatter of pale rings of coral that barely clear the water. Life there is organised around the passes, where the tide runs hard between the reef and the open ocean, and around the slow business of fishing and drying copra under the palms. The Marquesas are a different country again: steep, dark and abrupt, with valleys cut so deep that cloud pools in them and the old stone carvings still stand in the grass. The Austral and Gambier groups are quieter still, more isolated, with a sense of distance that makes every arrival feel earned.

A day in the region usually begins in Papeete, where the market stalls are loud with fish being cleaned and the vanilla sellers wrap their pods in brown paper. Vendors in printed pareu cloth call out prices across the aisles, and the bakeries send out warm bread before the heat settles in. From there, a short trip across the water brings you to a motu, a sandy islet at the edge of the reef, where the lagoon shades from pale green to a deep, clear blue. The sand underfoot is fine and cool in the shade of the trees. Lunch might be raw tuna marinated in lime and coconut milk, eaten with the fingers while a squall moves slowly over the peaks of the main island and then passes on. The afternoon is for snorkelling over coral heads, where parrotfish crunch on the reef and the light breaks into moving nets across the sand. Nothing about it is hurried.

Staying a while is the natural wish here. The evenings are for sitting on a veranda as the sky turns from orange to violet and the reef keeps up its low, continuous sound beyond the palms. The coast is not a feature added to the region for visitors; it is the region's working edge, where fishermen mend nets, children swim before school, and the lagoon is read like a familiar letter. To spend time in French Polynesia is to learn that rhythm and to accept that the sea sets the pace, which is perhaps the most lasting thing the islands have to give.