"Our Paradise on earth is the French
Riviera," says Leslie Back in the second of her two part series.
"Only
the French have the artistic quality, panache and quirkiness to preserve
this dream place from becoming prosaic and commonplace."
On another day we made a trip to the walled city of
Menton. The mountains between Nice and the city of Menton seem to
drop right into the sea. We love these ancient fortress-like cities.
It is always amazing to find that they have all the ingredients of an
ordinary city or village, in spite of their precarious position high on a
cliff. The markets are just as beautiful as in any other French village or
city.
No self-respecting French housewife would store frozen
produce. No, she goes to the market everyday and chooses the plumpest
fruit and freshest vegetables, glistening fish that has virtually just
swum from the sea.
Meat
is painstakingly chosen and beautifully cut by
the butcher. Everything involves much prodding and discussion with
each vendor. Naturally the bread is beadily eyed and carefully
chosen.
The highest route is the
Grande Corniche and the view is
spectacular. Eugene loves this one; I keep my eyes shut tight.
I am terrified of heights. He is a very good driver, but there is
always much discussion about which route to take. He wins, he’s
driving and our little car is a marvel round those treacherous bends.
The middle road, the
Moyenne is our compromise and as far
as I am concerned the best road of the three. Rocky cliffs and the
sea contrast magnificently and I feel one has the best of both worlds. The Corniche
Interior runs alongside the sea and can be
very crowded. Bumper to bumper stuff and the usual hooting and
gesticulating.
Further on are the beautiful gardens at
Eze, an old city
perched high above the sea, and The Moyenne provides us with the best
access. The medieval town is closed to traffic, so we park below and
trudge up a very steep incline. Comfy shoes are absolutely necessary.
The gardens have huge cacti and exotic plants, less
regimented than the gardens of the Rothschild palace, but equally
beautiful. There is a stunning restaurant perched right at the top
and we eat there when we have the energy for the climb.
Down from the dizzy heights of Eze is Monaco.
We always make this a separate trip, as again we dress a
little more smartly. Monaco is a tiny principality, ruled for
centuries by the Grimaldis and inhabited by the fabulously wealthy.
It is smaller than Central Park in New York. Princess Grace
contributed to its renaissance and there are many monuments to her memory.
The gambling
in Monaco is legendary; the Edwardians loved
its decadence. The shops are magnificent. I tried a little
commercial activity of my own. The exercise proved impossibly expensive in
spite of all the spectacular merchandise that was sent to try me.
One must be correctly dressed to enter the main casino.
On a previous occasion, I had been refused entry because of my walking
shorts. Patronised by a pushy Frenchman, never again, hence the smarter
gear. We generally try our luck at the tables, but only for a short
while.
Next door stands the famous
Hotel de Paris. Alain du Casse has a fabulous restaurant
here. There is another in Paris and New York. The great chef
Escoffier once cooked here. Everything there is fabulous opulence.
Lovely to just sit on a banquette and watch the beautiful people parading
and preening themselves.
The flaneur, he or she that wanders and looks and pauses and watches the
passing show, would be right at home here.
We wandered about the beautiful buildings, the gold leaf
mouldings glistening in the sun. We marvelled at the amazing cars,
rakishly parked, runabouts for this fabulous set, which maintain all the
trappings of showy wealth, yet seemed a bit jaded to me.
Behind the casino there is a wondrous sight.
Looking down over a low wall, we saw the vast painted roof
of an apartment building. Vasarely, the famous artist, designed a trick of
the eye. What a wonderful creation to come upon. The painted
roof seems to dip and rise as one changes vantage points. The hordes
of photographers, us included, are a testament to a miracle of colour and
design. Unfortunately photographs don’t show the magic that one sees in
reality.
As we make our way back to
Mougins it strikes us just how
many different worlds we encounter in short distances from our lovely
place in the sun.
A hop, skip and a jump from Mougins is Cannes, beautiful,
sophisticated glamorous Cannes. It is a twenty-minute drive along minor
roads to get to the coast and to find Cannes reigning over wonderful
beaches and hosting giant yachts and launches in the Baie de Cannes.
Immediately there is the sight of many beautiful people
strolling along the Croisette, the boulevard that runs along the beach.
We always gravitate to the terrace of the Carlton Hotel to have a drink
and to watch the passers-by. This majestic landmark is right on
the Croisette. Twin grey domes at either end dominate its
wedding cake façade.
The Carlton was built in 1912 and catered to prominent
members of Europe’s high society. The rich and famous found it to
be an ideal place to stay whilst in Cannes.
In summer, during the Cannes Film Festival, this ‘Grande
Dame’ plays host to many great stars and starlets that flock there to
promote their films. In years gone by, everyone in the film business
stayed there from Elizabeth Taylor to Liv Ullman and the hotel provided
the backdrop to the Hitchcock movie, To Catch a Thief, starring Cary Grant
and Grace Kelly.
When we stayed there, we found it all rather amazing.
There is a uniformed voiturier at the door who parks your car; at least he
has somebody else park it. Just to the side of the main door
is a quaint sight. A stone cup-like structure juts out of the lower part
of the wall and is filled with water. It is called the ‘Dogs Bar’.
Just so typical of the French who would not travel without their dogs and
of the French hotels that cater for this!
Our stay coincided with that of a Middle Eastern
prince. His gold painted Rolls Royce was always waiting at the front
door. His entourage surrounded him at all times and it was
impossible to go into the room where the hotel kept their safety deposit
boxes, when he was inside. Today, alas, the hotel caters to group
tours and conventions, but it is still exciting and glamorous when the
stars come to stay during the Film Festival.
The seafood restaurants in Cannes are legion. Gaston
Gastonette at 7, Quai Saint-Pierre, an extension of the Croisette, is one
of our favourites. I believe I can still taste the garlic in the
fish soup or in the moules (mussels) prepared with garlic and herbs in the
half-shell. Of course there are mussels prepared in many other ways,
marinier or with wine or just about any way you could wish.
The fish
is always fresh and deliciously prepared. Oysters are succulent and
served with shallot vinegar. The French make eating oysters a
life-changing experience. One chooses carefully from a whole host of
varieties and from what is seasonal. The patron always advises in
minute detail those he considers best. The slurping and swallowing
is a very serious business and the combination of oyster and shallot
vinegar is unique. I feel as if I am part of a minor orgy when I get stuck into my first dozen.
We dress in our best for a night out in Cannes. We make
reservations in my hopeless French, although English is quite acceptable.
In the evening it is essential to book at restaurants along the Riviera.
We eat at about 10pm and then go to the Casino at midnight. There are now
three casinos in Cannes, one at the Carlton Hotel, one at the Hilton and
our choice, the Palm Court. We choose our sport very carefully.
Eugene enjoys roulette, while I settle for the more secure vingt-et-un
(twenty-one).
Of course, nothing is secure in gambling, so it is never a
long stay. It is fascinating to watch the serious gamblers.
The men puff away on giant Cuban cigars and the women wear amazing jewels,
usually nestling in cleavages ravaged by too many years in the sun.
The beaches in
Cannes are famous. Most of them are
private and belong to the hotels. The public beaches are not so grand.
When we stayed at the Carlton, we went to their beach directly opposite
the hotel. We paid a small fortune for an umbrella and two reclining
chairs. It is very important where one sits, as it is more expensive at
the water’s edge than further back.
There is a restaurant on the beach
with a buffet and tables set with crisp napery and gleaming silver.
Drinks are exotic and waiters seem to move around the beach completely
oblivious to all the nakedness around them. It is considered ‘de
trop’ to remain fully covered by a bathing costume. I bowed to custom
and removed the top of my bikini. Eugene was horrified, but
eventually got used to it. It is amazingly liberating to swim in the
Mediterranean half naked.
Further to the west of Cannes is St
Tropez. It is
more than an hour’s drive from Mougins along the A8, depending on
traffic and takes even longer along the coastal road.
St Tropez seems to embody the ethos of hedonism on the
Riviera. We love the restaurants along the wharf and sitting and
watching people eating on their sea going mansions. The beaches are
littered with celebs. Total nudity is perfectly acceptable. There is
a famous restaurant on the beach, Cinquante Cinq or 55 where we enjoyed
tender sweet mussels in cream and white wine. I was relieved to find that
women usually cover up with a skilfully draped sarong or some such piece
of silk, when they eat there. There are still some die-hards who do not.
After our excursions it was always so comforting to return
to Mougins and our apartment. There was a feeling of permanence that
allowed us to forget that too soon we would return to the real world.
Seeing our friends in Mougins village always enhanced the illusion.
Some mornings we stayed in the village, perhaps at the hairdresser or
bustling about doing ‘chores’. Around midday we would think of
somewhere close where we could explore a different village and enjoy a
leisurely lunch.
Nearby, between Mougins and Antibes are two so-called
‘artisan’ towns, Vallauris and Biot. On checking our maps
and consulting our Berlitz, it is a short drive to satisfy our curiosity
and our stomachs.
At Vallauris the spirit of Picasso is so alive.
He
worked there after the war and helped save the ceramics and pottery
industry. We saw some wonderful examples of his pottery at the
National Picasso museum, which is a converted Romanesque chapel. He
presented the town with a bronze statue, Man with a Sheep, which stands on
the Place Paul-Isnard.
We found a gem of a restaurant near the museum at 11,
Route de Grasse. It seemed to be called just
‘Restaurant’and we ate mouth-wateringly delicate ‘omelettes aux
fines herbes’, omelettes with fresh finely chopped herbs.
French
omelettes are such a joy as even this rather mundane sounding dish is
given such care and attention. The finest ingredients, the best pans
and French dedication go into making this a gourmet treat.
There was
homemade bread and we drank a carafe of house-wine. The house-wines
in the restaurants are always so good. The patrons are always very
knowledgeable and aware that their countrymen are just as knowledgeable.
They are also very proud of their own offerings.
After our noble repast, a visit to Biot is just a few
kilometres away. Biot is situated on a hill and has a centuries old
square with fountains and quaint arcades. We wander about, still very
mellow from lunch and delighted in all the village doings. We follow
signs to the glassworks where the special Biot glass is blown, tinted
glass with minute bubbles. The highlight of our time in Biot is a
visit to the Museé National Fernand Léger.
It has a gold façade
and is visible from miles away. As we approach, the huge murals on
the outside walls are overwhelming. They are in bold yellows, blues
and greens with birds and vague shapes and occasional human features.
Inside is a collection of his paintings and tapestries of similar design
to the murals outside. The building itself is beautiful, modern and
light and airy. We have photographs of each other in front of
a mural that remain such a wonderful memory and record of that happy,
happy time.
What a day! A feast of Picasso and Léger. How
lucky those villagers are to have such great art in their midst.
Time seemed to rush by and we began to see the end of our
idyll approaching. Now, it was time to head inland. We have
visited the walled city of St Paul de Vence on just about every trip to
the South of France and we set out on the well-loved drive again. We
take the A8 and turn off to the D36 at Cagnes sur Mer/Vence. It is
about an hour’s drive depending on traffic and we buzz along happy just
to be doing it again.
Passing Vence and then St Paul, we see the
walls of Saint Paul de Vence looming. First a most anticipated
treat. Just up a small hill is the wonderful Fondation Maeght, one
of the world’s great museums of modern art. Art dealer Aimé
Maeght and his wife founded it in 1964. It is a magnificent structure of
brick, steel and glass and is ideal for showing off the amazing and
precious works. We first reacquaint ourselves with the permanent
collection.
There are many of the great artists of the 20th century
and an extensive sculpture collection of Miros, Arp and Giacomettis. The garden has water features that highlight and capture the essence of
some of these great pieces.
We wander around under the trees
just visiting all our special memories and there is a wonder that some
things never change. They do allow cameras inside, so again we take
pictures of each other in front of some of the sculptures and paintings.
More memories. Sometimes we stumble on a specially mounted
exhibition of some great artist.
A lucky experience was, when on a previous trip, the great
Chagall, near the end of his life, had a showing of his most current work.
It was hauntingly beautiful. A wraith-like figure in many of the paintings
seemed with hindsight, to be a portent of his impending death. On
that day we had lunch at a restaurant in the hotel Colombe d’or on the
outside of the walled city. We found out that Chagall had eaten
there the day before!
As ever, we left reluctantly and headed down the hill to
the feudal city of St Paul de Vence. We passed the wonderful
spectacle of the locals playing boules under the trees opposite the wall
of the city. It is an outdoor bowling game, so beloved of the
French, played with skill and determination. Watching this game is such
fun. The onlookers in their berets and smoking their pungent cigarettes
become very involved, shouting out instructions and taking bets on the
outcome.
We entered the city through an arch.
As we have done so
often before, we roamed the cobbled and narrow walkways, stopping to peer
into the little shops crammed with art and artefacts. We visited the
small cemetery that we had discovered on a previous trip. It is old
and the tombstones weathered. We wandered around reading the
inscriptions and found the grave of the great Escoffier. Somehow it
is not a morbid experience, just a feeling of history and perhaps
disappointment that we were not actually meeting the great man.
Another thing that we find amazing is that people live in
this ancient enclave. We saw apartments with small windows with
flower boxes overflowing with beautiful flowers. How they get their
parcels and possessions up those steep inclines is a mystery. It was
also a surprise to find a beautiful boutique hotel on split- levels within
the city.
Le Saint-Paul at 86, rue Grande has four stars and seems
to cater to very distinguished tourists. It is so funny seeing the
liveried staff, puffing up and down the hills with the guests’ luggage.
We had previously eaten in their restaurant. On fine days they serve
lunch on an outside terrace, but if the weather is inclement, one sits
inside near a warm fire and protected from the elements by the thick,
centuries old walls. The food is remarkable and more delicate than the
robust fare found in the surrounding bistros and restaurants.
On this visit we decided to eat at one of the many
restaurants overlooking the valley. We found one called
‘Marmite,’ which means cooking pot. We had a table at a window
with a view for miles around. Eugene ate grilled sardines and we
shared a pot of fish soup with the most piquant aioli and crisp croutons
and grated cheddar cheese. We drank a wine of the house and really
felt we in heaven. It was memorable.
It is always sad when we leave the charm of the walled
city and return to the vibrations of the modern world.
Back to Mougins. Thoughts surfaced about leaving our
French village and our new friends. A quick visit to Grasse, just
over the hill and a visit to a perfume factory. Sinuses in revolt,
we sniffed away and bought some of the famous essences.
Our month had ended. The packing was done. The
apartment seemed bare and sad. We made a last sortie to Mougins
village to say goodbye to everyone. Amid much gesticulation and
kisses planted on both cheeks, they extracted promises from us to return.
I think they really meant they were sorry that we were leaving even if we
were foreigners.
We knew that some day we would return to them. Au
revoir la belle Mougins, a bientôt.
See
Part One
©
Leslie Back
