Having heard the tales of Huguenots and Dumas’ fictional Count imprisoned there, we sail from Vieux-Port to Château d’If, that brittle limestone white against the blue. From 16th century fortress to a prison preserving class distinctions in its structure, today the Château mostly trades in tourism. From Frioul Archipelago to cells and stairs my focus turns, my hands on old inscriptions carved in the cold stone: it’s like reading braille. Back outside, walking battlements, I see back on the mainland, beautiful la Bonne Mère. I’m reminded that the archipelago is part of the Calanques National Park, another part of which we visited, on another day much like this bright day. Echoes, too, of Fort Saint-Jean, late sailed by. I once read somewhere that, in 1516, Francis I came here to see a marvel : a rhinoceros, destined for the Pope, making a strange but scheduled stop en route. If there could be a kinship felt between this gentle, lonely beast and prisoners still far off on some future If, well that’s a big if. And yet I like to think so, for what binds us more than chains or coarse rope to each other is a longing for home.