My dream holiday is a trip back in time. Not to see the results of seismic Pompeii or 15th-century Machu Picchu – although I love both – but somewhere created specifically between the mid 1950s and 1970s, when cities were getting weird. I love postwar architourism, exploring urban planning at its most frenzied and optimistic. I have relished trips to Niemeyer’s Brasília and Le Corbusier’s Chandigarh in India, where the monumental and visionary modernist architecture and interiors are at odds with the minimal population. So La Grande-Motte, the retro futurist folly of a resort town on the southern coast of France, a 30-minute drive from Montpellier, had long been on my “must visit” list.
The tourist board of this Occitanie seaside town likes to flag up some superficial parallels between it and the aforementioned cities, but this isn’t a high-concept capital city or administrative hub. It was built in the late 1960s and early 1970s purely to persuade the French to stop going south to the Costa Brava in Spain. As part of an initiative by the French government, a stretch of windswept mosquito-infested coast between Montpellier and Perpignan, including Gruissan and Port Leucate, was reimagined as an alternative to the Côte d’Azur with several new-build beach towns. La Grande-Motte would be the weirdest project. It was made for fun. It’s also well positioned to visit the nearby salt marshes and 13th-century walled-in town of Aigues-Mortes, for when you want to feel as if you’ve ticked a few more holiday boxes.
The mastermind behind the town’s architecture, Jean Balladur, took inspiration from temples and Mesoamerican pyramids from the first century, imagining what the 21st century would look like in the 1970s. Why shouldn’t modernist apartments be arranged in the shape of a Maya pyramid, or an intergalactic curve? I rented a tiny studio with my husband in the Incas building for part of my trip, and while there was nothing in the way of high design about the interior, being on that terrace immersed us in a timewarp.
Walking around Point Zéro (named for being the site of the earliest construction), home to La Grande-Motte’s main beach, all looks fairly standard: families playing on the sand, couples drinking cocktails outside cafes. The beach gained a Blue Flag award for environmental management and water quality in 2025. But the place is unique: the ferris wheel is solar powered and the buildings suggest you’re on another planet entirely – there are no rectangular blocks and few right angles to be seen. The urban planning has been driven by pedestrian pathways and cycle routes, punctuated by thousands of trees.
On the beach there are concrete sculptures by artist Joséphine Chevry, which look like the tips of the wartime sound mirrors in Dungeness, Kent. Chevry created them to help shape the dunes (AKA “the big mound”) but also to serve as functional wind breakers and shade when Point Zéro was created. They’re now mostly buried in the sand. Time has moved on but they will for ever be core to the town’s concept.
The place has had cyclical fortunes. As with many seaside towns, it fell from grace in the 1980s. It was gauche. In 2014 the fashion designer Simon Porte Jacquemus created a nostalgic collection and book in homage to the town and talked to AnOther Magazine of its “trashy reputation”, but he also said he found it “inspiring and exciting” and remembered his holidays there as a child. And it seems a renaissance is under way as the grandchildren of people who first bought apartments here are discovering it.
I’d recommend the fabulously vintage three-star Hotel Le Quetzal (doubles from €114 room-only) as an interesting base. It feels brilliantly 1970s, being part of the original wave of development in the town, but was refurbished a few years ago so the essentials are fresh and modern. Its design is as interesting as anywhere in town: the balconies jut out like theatre boxes and create an optical illusion of the building being slanted. There’s no restaurant but people microwave meals in the lobby or bring back a margherita from nearby L’Atelier de la Pizza to have on their balcony.
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A couple of days by the pool here are great, fending off seagulls from your pain au chocolate at breakfast and watching stray cats wander around the loungers; the same families have been coming for years. Nearby, L’innatendu is a better restaurant than anything on the seafront (I particularly recommend the squid with black rice), although the most enjoyable meal I had was a bunch of simple marinated skewers at La Guinguette des Alizés, opposite the seafront carousel on Avenue du Couchant that looks like a piece of pop art.
Strolling around La Grande-Motte’s apartment blocks was as fascinating to me as a visit to the Colosseum. I walked through the open-air theatre that looks like a derelict World’s Fair site but is used for shows regularly, around the elegant white bow shape of Saint-Augustin’s church, down to the water and the Big Pyramid apartment complex facing the yachts on the dock, and to the low and curved buildings of Le Couchant. I spent hours photographing stairwells and walkways, and the hundreds of balconies that make the town the sum of its geometric parts – graphic beauty reminiscent of the Bauhaus, Saul Bass posters and Verner Panton furniture. La Grande-Motte is a sunny, gleaming white vision of a future that we could never live up to. Or perhaps deserve.