The Seychelles
- Jean-Paul Courville
- Jun 1, 2019
- 3 min read
Updated: Jan 3
By: Jean-Paul Courville
In 2019 I arrived on Mahé and spent my days exploring its beaches and hiking trails, visiting waterfalls, feeding giant land tortoises, and wandering through the local fish market in Victoria.
From there, I traveled to Praslin, known for its slower pace and striking beaches, before spending a day biking the quiet, postcard-perfect island of La Digue. That first visit left a lasting impression. The islands felt unhurried, grounded, and genuinely human—beautiful without trying to impress. I didn’t know then that I’d return under very different circumstances.
I arrived on Praslin Island by helicopter and spent my time exploring the Vallée de Mai Nature Reserve, walking the wide, picturesque stretch of Grand Anse Beach, and indulging in the island’s Creole cuisine—simple, fresh, and full of character.
I arrived by boat on La Digue and rented a bicycle, the best way to move at the island’s pace. I cycled its narrow roads, stopping often—for fresh fruit, local Creole dishes, coconut water, then more coconut water. Beaches appeared without warning. Giant tortoises moved slowly through shaded corners.
Everything felt small, intimate, and perfectly scaled. La Digue was the kind of place that asks nothing of you and gives everything back. I could stay there forever.
In February of 2021, as COVID continued to upend the world, I returned—this time under conditions no one could have predicted.
After living in the United Arab Emirates for seven years, my girlfriend at the time and I left the region and traveled to the Seychelles because it was one of the few places beginning to reopen with fewer restrictions.
Even so, getting there required commitment: COVID tests before arrival, extensive documentation, and a mandatory five-day stay at our accommodation without leaving the property. Only after another test in the Seychelles were we cleared to move freely.
That pause—forced stillness—ended up being a gift.
We spent those first days on Praslin at a beautiful resort where, remarkably, we were the only guests. Eventually, one other couple arrived, but for a time, it felt as if the island had been handed to us. The staff was fully present, attentive, and gracious. It was quiet without being empty, intentional without feeling staged.
Once cleared, we explored Praslin by car and on foot—hidden beaches, long hikes, places where time seemed optional. Unfortunately, my girlfriend severely injured her ankle on one of those hikes, which shifted our plans but not the experience.
From there, we took a helicopter flight to La Digue, where the weather, food, and pace felt perfectly balanced. I spent one full day on my own—climbing over and through granite boulders, moving along the coast where trails faded into instinct, hiking in rain that gave way to sun. It was raw, physical, and deeply grounding. One of those days you don’t plan but never forget.
After more than a month in the Seychelles, we ended the journey back on Mahé, staying at a high-end all-inclusive resort I had visited briefly in 2019. This time, it meant something different. I had sold nearly everything I owned—including my vehicle—and closed the chapter on seven years in the UAE. That final week wasn’t indulgent; it was ceremonial. A quiet acknowledgment that something significant had ended, and something new was beginning.
Two trips. Two very different seasons of life. Same islands.
Same sense that some places don’t just show you beauty—they give you space to recognize change while it’s happening.
On my first visit in 2019, the Seychelles felt like a remarkable travel destination—beautiful, welcoming, and culturally richer than I expected. I quickly learned how deeply Creole influence shapes daily life there. Coming from Louisiana, with its Cajun and Creole roots, that familiarity caught me off guard in the best way.
The rhythm of the language, the mix of Creole-French, proper French, and English, even the names of certain dishes—all of it echoed parts of where I grew up. The cuisine wasn’t the same in spice or preparation, but the shared linguistic and historical threads were unmistakable.
The second time, spending more than a month there during COVID, felt entirely different. It wasn’t a vacation—it was living. With much of the country quieter than it had been in 2019, our days became simple and self-contained. Outside of the resort, we cooked our own meals some days, ate at the resort, packed food for hikes, and moved at a slower pace.
Some of the best moments came after long hikes—reaching turquoise water, white sand, and tropical shoreline with no one else around. Sitting there alone, sweaty and tired, looking out over colors that didn’t seem real, it felt less like travel and more like stepping into a fantasy world you’re somehow allowed to stay in for a while.
