If cities could talk, Étretat probably wouldn't say anything at all. It would lean against the sea, squint in the sun, and wait until you understand. Because Étretat isn't a place that advertises itself—it's a place that is. Complete, crooked, and beautiful, with slate and half-timbering, a salty wind, and the smell of crêpes in the alleys. And when you hear the gravel under your shoes and the seagulls circle above the bakery, you get the feeling: This has always been like this.
The old houses on the promenade look like they've fallen straight out of a storybook—one where the wood carvings tell more than the menu, and where you don't know whether you're in the 19th century or the next photo contest. Some walls seem to sway with stories, but they still hold—like the smile of the old lady who has been sorting postcards at her souvenir stand for decades.
The beach? Not soft, but honest. Pebbles, as round as a good argument, glitter under the Atlantic sky. And if you close your eyes, you hear not a roar, but a rolling sound – as if the sea itself had decided not to foam here, but to murmur.
Then the cliffs: dramatic, yes, but not intrusive. The famous rocky pinnacle stands there like a silent sentinel above all the selfie sticks and declarations of love. Those who walk around it discover more in the landscape than just a backdrop – they discover silence with a view.
And up on the hill by the chapel, where the sun gilds the sea with its last strength in the evening, you might understand why so many artists set up their easels here. Because Étretat isn't a postcard motif, but a feeling. One that tastes of salt, of buttery croissants, and of the promise that some places can simply stay as they are.