So, it’s warm in the Languedoc … let’s give the Mediterranean a try. It’s what all tourists from the northern regions of France do, in July and August, when they decamp to the southern half of the country.

We can consider that a hearty recommendation, no?

Well, we could. But that would not keep the nearest beach, so spectacular and empty in the winter and spring … from being a horrible decision, in late August.

We drove down the D13 highway to Agde, founded by the Greeks about 2,500 years ago, then turned left onto the ribbon of land that separates salty lagoons from the main body of The Med.

Our target was Marseillan Plage, and we knew it might be a bit lively.

It is a great, wide beach, several miles long, with fine, natural sand — much like the beaches of my hometown, Long Beach, California.

We had visited the plage in January and again in March and April, and if the wind were not blowing it was a great place for collecting shells, watching dogs fetch sticks thrown by their owners and enjoying some seaside sun and solitude while leaning against the seawall.

But August?

The popular approach to the beach is lined with a half-mile of shabby and seasonal shops, not a one of which is open out of season. There are restaurants of several varieties, ice-cream stands, trinket shops, stores selling beach wear, tobacco shops, the tourist office. There must be a tattoo parlor in there somewhere.

We maneuvered down the main drag, agog at the number of deeply tanned/sunburned people wandering across the road, and made a left towards the main parking areas — all of which were still nearly full even though it was 4. We had hoped that a significant fraction of the beach crowd would have dispersed by then, following a long dose of pre-lunch radiation.

We found a place to park, and then we opened the car door and realized that what they say is true — it often is hotter at the beach in this part of France than it is a few miles in the interior.

The sun felt like a baleful, burning coal about a yard over our shoulders and all the more unwelcome given the thick humidity which blanketed the neighborhood.

We lugged our beach-going equipment, a surprisingly heavy lounge chair and a bag full of towels and blankets, down the short final block …

And then we were shocked by wall-to-wall people there, in front of the lifeguard station. It reminded me of the pictures you sometimes see of enormous crowds on the beach at Coney Island in ages past.

It was like several arrondissements of Paris had been emptied and sent down here, to be disgorged at Marseillan Plage.

We had the sea, but we also had a sea of humanity, and we had to pat close attention to pick out a route through the happy tourists to an empty spot about six feet wide and deep, and we plopped down to the sand, about 20 feet from the Mediterranean.

The crowd, half in the sea, half out, seemed content, which was mind-boggling. It was terribly hot. If one sat still … it would be at most five minutes before sweat was streaming down one’s face.

We were face to face with the awful reality of the French summer, where everyone in the country has pretty much the same idea — to get to the sea and then lie down on a towel and revel in discomfort.

It is hard to wrap your mind around — that an overnight city of tens of thousands of people is populated and “enjoyed” no more than three months a year, then returns to its natural state of “seafront ghost town”.

I targeted 30 minutes, upon arrival, adjusting my enormous straw hat in a sad attempt to avoid the worst of the radiation.

However, by my watch, we lasted 17 minutes.

It was jammed, we were roasting, the crowd showed no signs of diminishing and we would have had to elbow aside someone to get into the water.

Everyone else seemed happy enough; perhaps they did not know that the best of all possible worlds, when it is approaching 90 degrees Fahrenheit in August, is to be a few miles in the interior with access to shade and a small, unheated swimming pool. Which we had left behind at the start of our journey.

We were back in the foothills a half-hour later, leaving the rest of them to enjoy the waning days of their vacations.

We are sure to return, but only after the visitors have packed up and abandoned the rickety apartments where they crash for July and August.

Sometime soon, no later than October, we assume, Marseillan Plage will return to its natural (if unprofitable) state — broad and gray. And empty.