Postcard From Cannes
In April 2008 we went with Mark [with whom we also went to Rheims] to Cannes. He wrote of his experiences... It’s always a pleasure to fly into Nice airport; the plane has to approach from the Mediterranean, to avoid the mountains, and the sweep of the Cote D’Azur provides a lovely view. However, I can report that the pleasure is greatly increased when the flight hasn’t cost a penny.
It’s a quick trip from Southampton, too. From take off to Goodwood takes no more than fifteen minutes, then it’s out over the sea to Brighton and a right turn to cross the French coast near Dieppe ten minutes later. Paris slips past on the left as the drinks trolley comes round – tragically, they were out of champagne and I had to settle for JackDanielswithnoiceinit. After Lyon, the hills start jumping up, readying themselves to become Alps, and on the horizon, one or two snow-topped mountains can be seen. As the steward collects the empty glasses, there’s the first suggestion of sea in the distance, then suddenly it’s "Cabin crew, ten minutes to landing", a gentle bank to the left, gosh, that’s Antibes, been there, and we’re down, the jet having accomplished in sixty minutes what it took Paul and me three days to do by car a few years ago.
Right, airport to Cannes, then, where I’m meeting up with Jenny and Mark. They’ve already texted me, having arrived a few hours earlier – "Bus 210 from airport to Cannes good". It is, too, and a bargain as well, the fare being just one euro. There’s a taxi rank right next to the bus stop at the other end, and a Mercedes limousine delivers me in perfect style to the Carlton Hotel, probably the best place in town.
Yes, I know… I can’t afford it, can I? Certainly, I can’t afford to have Jenny and Mark as my guests for the weekend. I mean, the rooms start at 230 euros a night.
Ah, but these rooms are as expensive as my flight, costing me zero pence. How come? Holiday Inn Priority Club and Flybe loyalty scheme, that’s how. I have enough Flybe points for several flights, and as for the Holiday Inn points – well, the Carlton offers standard 230 euro rooms for 40,000 points. And I’ve got half a million of ‘em. More than enough for a couple of rooms for three days.
Boy, is this one hell of a hotel. As the Merc stops outside, two porters step forward, grab my bags and drop them off at Reception. There’s a big welcome at the desk; even though the rooms are free, there’s no drop in service. It’s a good room, too, even if it doesn’t have a sea view and a balcony as I’d hoped, but all of those bedrooms are taken by the great and the good of Sony, who are in town for the World Photo Competition.
Having found Jenny and Mark, there’s just one thing that’s missing – Coke (the drink, of course!) I get through vast quantities of the stuff, and I haven’ t passed any open shops. The concierge is excellent. In response to an enquiry, he reckons that the nearest place that sells a big bottle of Coke is a kebab place three streets away, whips out a tourist map, marks the Carlton, marks the kebab shop and draws a line to show me which street to walk down. Hmm, I haven’t eaten, either (Jenny and Mark have)… well, says the concierge, the kebabs are very good, too.
So it proves, because not ten minutes later, we’re sitting outside the snack bar, I’m eating a smashing kebab – "Garlic sauce or chilli, monsieur? Or both? – we’re drinking cans of Kronenbourg, the kebab chef is chatting to us as if we’re old friends, and man, oh man, I’m back in France. The written word can’t possibly express the joy and the deep satisfaction that typing those words gives me.
How about some coffee? Oh yes, un café cognac would be just the thing, and Jenny knows a place. She leads us along the Rue D’Antibes, apparently *the* place to shop in Cannes, dropping down a couple of side streets (and past a shop called "Video Sex", indicating that the salubrity of the Cannes shopping experience plummets quite sharply once off the main drag), and there’s the very place - the ubiquitous French bar, with chairs and tables outside.
One tiny coffee and one huge brandy later, we return to the hotel, I fire up the iTunes, a bottle of something nice is opened and, with a tiny pop, all thoughts of DfID, chilly East Kilbride and bloody civil servants fly from my thoughts.
Next morning, the bottle of niceness is now mainly emptiness and I’m needing coffee in a big way. Jenny, Mark and I stroll down the promenade and into a restaurant, where trois grande tasse de café put the day into perspective. It’s already shaping up to be a good day; the sun is shining in a cloudless sky, and I’m regretting putting my raincoat in my rucksack. It’s clearly not going to rain, so I’ll be lugging it around all day.
We walk on, past the harbour and the yachts that we could never afford, checking out the restaurants, because it’s my birthday tomorrow and I’d like to find somewhere a little bit special. This is Cannes, though, where what’s special are the prices. Like 190 euros for turbot… I mean, for that, I’d want the whole fish. On a gold plate. With knives and forks made out of diamond.
The vegetarian option is asparagus with Bearnaise sauce, for 69 euros. Yes, some fifty of your English pounds for a clutch of spears that go for three euros at the local greengrocers.
Luckily, there are a few reasonable places, too, and making a mental note, we turn for the market. A real Provencal covered market, with stalls selling flowers, vegetables, fruit, cheese, fish, herbs, meat, honey, olives, spices, oils and more. There’s a huge choice of everything, from the round courgettes that I’d never seen before, to the somewhat gloomy-looking octopus on the fish stall. Oh, it’s all going on here… there’s someone handing round slivers of melon, to tempt us to buy from her stall, the flower sellers are putting together bouquets of all sizes to suit all pockets and all colour schemes, the cheese man is gravely explaining the difference between one of his many specialities and another, the butcher is enthusiastically chopping a leg of lamb in half, the baker is cutting a big lump from a massive loaf, while exhorting customers to try any of the thirty or so varieties on the stall, olives are being ladled, pineapples are being inspected, huge knobbly tomatoes are split to display the quality of the fruit within, someone’s making up a complicated spice mix, dried mushrooms are being picked over, business is being conducted in that very French volume that can only be described as a friendly yell, and over everything there is a smell hanging… a smell that simply screams "Fresh Today!"
You know, all this looking at food is making me hungry. What about looking at some shops full of things we can’t afford and then looking at a plate of lunch? That’s a good idea, is the general feeling, so we set off to find the Rue D’Antibes – only to fetch up, half a kilometre later, at another market. Well, you can’t have too much of markets, you never know when you’re going to see something you’ve never seen before, like a circular courgette. Anyway, this one sells clothes, too, and as we’re wandering round, I do, indeed see something I’ve never seen before. Fur coats. Well, yes, I have seen fur coats before, but never a rail of them in a market. They’re real fur, too, and priced accordingly, but here we are, walking around an open-air market on a hot day (and it’s beginning to be seriously hot), and there’ s a hopeful stallholder with a rail of minks, reckoning that someone with many hundreds of euros burning a hole in their pocket will happen along and exclaim, "Ah! I knew I left something off my shopping list! The fur coat!"
No, this is all getting too silly, I need a drink. All markets have cafes nearby, and Jenny has spotted an asparagus salad that exactly fits her lunchtime expectations. Lunch it is, then, waitress, bring on the Ricard!
We sit outside, of course, because there’s precious few chances to sit outside and lunch in this life, and every opportunity should be embraced as an old and very welcome friend. Yes, a salad appeals to me, too, as does a bottle of Cote Du Rhone.
My salade Nicoise is made from the standard French recipe that seems to start with "Take one lettuce. Arrange on a plate." I’ve remarked in previous posts that the French do salad on a huge scale, so I’m prepared for the mound of tuna, anchovy, boiled eggs, tomato, pepper and assorted greenery that arrives. I had to leave half the lettuce, though; I’m not joking about that recipe.
We’re having pud down the street, I’ve warned Jenny and Mark, because I’ve seen an ice cream shop. All home made, many of surprising or exotic flavour, the whole collection presided over by a very patient man. Well, it’s so hard to choose, isn’t it? Many minutes later, having made difficult decisions, we emerge, Mark with a scoop of nut and a scoop of coffee, Jenny with Tiramisu and pineapple scoops, and I with a cone that’s red berry on one side and chestnut on the other. I know! Chestnut!
Look, this rucksack’s getting very heavy, my raincoat was a stupid idea, it’s so hot that my denim jacket has joined the raincoat, I’ve bought two litres of Coke, some champagne for tomorrow, some lovely French rum… let’s go back to the hotel and drop it all off. Then we can find out how to get onto the part of the beach that the Carlton owns.
Uh huh, Mr Concierge… so that would be thirty three euros to go on the beach, would it? And that’s each, is it? And you think that it’s full, but we can go and check? I think maybe we won’t. I think we’ll walk a few hundred yards down the promenade and go to la plage municipal, thanks. Thirty three euros? I mean, that’s a couple of bottles of wine! (Truth be told, with my taste in wine, it’s more like fifteen bottles.)
I’m determined to get my feet wet, though; I’m not coming to the Mediterranean just to watch it. Accordingly, I take my shoes off, bugger the jeans, they’ll just have to get damp, and advance on the incoming tide.
By the cringe, that’s cold isn’t it? Definitely too cold for swimming, we all agree, expertly disguising collective relief. Nearly too cold for paddling, really, but I can stand it for a minute or two more, especially with this weather and this view. It’s very hot, 73F, and the curve of the bay that Cannes sits on is very attractive, with the tail of a mountain range dipping into the sea in the distance.
With feet encrusted with fine sand, we return to the Carlton for an hour or two’s relax before dinner. It’s a hard life sometimes, ain’t it?
I’m in my room, ready for a good relax, when the muse hits me, the damned annoying old biddy, so I write for a couple of hours. "Writing" makes it sound like I’m pounding the keyboard, of course, whereas most of the time is more truthfully spend wondering whether a) salubrity is a real word and b) I’ve used it in its proper context.
Three pages later, with most of my text underlined in green or red by an ever- helpful MS Word, I rejoin Jenny and Mark and we go for a "travelling hopefully" wander that ought to bring us to an undiscovered gem of a restaurant. As it eventually does, but not before we’ve taken in DJ Lyric cranking out some banging beats at a bar on the beach. Enjoy that last sentence, because it goes out of fashion in about five minutes. He’s accompanied by Saxophone Man, who’s grooving on the beats. (Sentence found in the "beyond sell-by date" skip.) We listen from the cheap seats, i.e. the promenade, before turning toward a road that looks like it ought to be busy with bars, cafes and good places to eat.
Fifteen studied, rejected menus later and with nearly a kilometre between us and the prom, we find a place that has "un plat vegetaraine" – fettucine with a selection of vegetables. That sounds good to Jenny and Mark, so in we go, three kirs, s’il vous plais, while we study the menu.
Mmm, I’d quite like a steak with Roquefort cheese sauce, but it’s a bit pricy. There are burgers, though, and I’m always happy to settle for a burger. Especially as one can "double up" for a small extra charge, so I order a double burger with "sauce piquant" and frites. The kirs arrive, as does a plate of crudités, a basket of crisps and a large ramekin of yoghurt infused with a selection of chopped herbs. Yum. That keeps us busy until the meal is served, whereupon it appears that I have ordered a giant tower of burgers. The sesame’d top of the bun leans some eight inches above the plate. I get it, it’s a challenge, then, is it? (See, this is why Weight Watchers have got a contract out on me.)
As we’re finishing our meal, Jenny and Mark explain that tonight and tomorrow’s meal is on them, what with me giving them the room for the weekend. It’s a most generous and unexpected gesture, and I’m quite overwhelmed. I mean, what can you say? What I say is that I should have had that steak, but never mind.
Right, coffee ho! A few streets away we come across the usual bar/café, order coffee, brandy and chocolate for Jenny on automatic pilot, then take stock of the place. Mmm, well, it’s unusual – it seems to be a cross between a bar on one side, and a betting shop on the other. The customers are buying some kind of ticket from a booth in one corner, then watching horses racing in that trotting style that is, I believe, popular in the States. Nobody seems to win, nobody obviously loses. At one point, a young woman in a studded leather jacket walks in and does that continental round of being welcomed, shaking hands and kissing people, then settles down to watch the race. We finish our drinks and leave.
Walking back down the promenade to the Carlton, we realise that the beach is deserted. Time to get thirty-three euros worth, then! Ninety-nine, in fact, there being three of us. The Carlton beach boasts a long pontoon, or very short pier, where tables are put during the day, in order to enhance the dining experience by making it seem like you are eating some few metres out to sea. At the end of the pontoon is a platform for swimmers, and we walk to it and do a bit of general gazing out to sea. It’s when we turn to go back that there is a collective gasp of "Oh! Isn’t that pretty!"
The Carlton is impressive enough by day, but by night, it’s like something out of
a fairy tale. Floodlit, and with palm trees either side of its distinguished
entrance, it’s a sight that commands respect, and not a little envy. It
is, if anything, slightly understated in its grandeur; it’s Bentley rather
than Rolls-Royce. I determine to use my new camcorder to capture the sight
tomorrow evening. For now, though, there’s wine and another bottle of loveliness
waiting in my room, so we’d best hurry…
As I lay in bed the next morning, looking at the cloudless sky from the
luxury of Room 461, I reflect that I'm finally where I've always wanted to
be, the place I go on a November Friday night when I've presented a complex
training session to unenthusiastic people, it's raining and I've got a
hundred miles to drive home. That's when my mind drifts to the South of
France, and hot weather. It's only taken me fifty-three years to get here...
Time to rise, though, there's a train to catch! Where would I like to lunch on my birthday? Monaco, that's where. SNCF Cannes is ten minutes walk away, or twenty minutes on legs that are still complaining about walking all yesterday. At the station, I offer to get the tickets, because I've noticed that my French is once again improving. The key point is that when I speak French, French people no longer reply in English. Also, either the French population has taken a collective decision to slow down their spoken delivery, or I'm understanding more. And all through watching French TV at the weekends, folks!
All goes well at the ticket window, until we hit my linguistic weakness - numbers. I've got three return tickets to the right station in Monaco, but when the smiling woman behind the glass tells me the price, I haven't got a clue how much she wants. With Jenny's help, it turns out to be 46 euros, which seems to compare well with public transport back in Britain.
We find the right platform, the train arrives, and whoopee! It's a double-decker. Upstairs, then, because I've had a look at the route, and it should be a picturesque one.
Actually, it's spectacular. The track runs along the coastline, sometimes right next to the beach, and the journey offers glimpses of typically orange-yellow Provencal style villas, pretty coves that are just starting to fill with sunbathers, villages that cling to the side of the steep hills that border the Cote D'Azur, olive groves, citrus trees and much more. The view is only spoiled occasionally in towns where the train runs behind graffiti-decorated blocks of flats, but you can't have everything.
Monaco Monte Carlo station is possibly the most futuristic transport hub I've ever seen. It's inside a huge tunnel, and seems to be mainly made of marble, glass and steel. This doesn't entirely come as a surprise to me; after all, it's the only place I know where they have a chandelier in a multi-storey car park. The only problem with the station is that it's a bit difficult to work out which exit to take. There are maps, but it's not immediately obvious which end of the very long platform contains the door we want. After a few minutes, a consensus is agreed, and we leave the station high above the town. A flight of steps leads downwards, so many that my heart sinks when I think of having to climb them later.
There's a charming church at the bottom, and gracious, I know where I am! We're at turn one, the starting grid is just down there, up that hill is Casino Square where there's a jink to the left, then a big right. Yes, anywhere in Monaco, if I can find a section of racetrack, I know exactly where I am. It's better than any map.
Within ten minutes I'm lost.
See, when I planned this day, I took the F1 race into account. Monaco on F1 weekend is crazy, huge areas of the Principality are blocked off, partly for the safety of spectators, partly to stop damfool drivers taking a wrong turn and collecting a sudden Raikkenen in the towing hook (and, worse, accidentally winning the race), but mainly to ensure that anyone who hasn't bought a ticket cannot possibly catch even a glimpse of a F1 car. The Automobile Club de Monaco begin to build the track two weeks beforehand, and that's when the barriers start going up. This year's race is on 25th May, so I reckoned we'd have no problems.
I'd forgotten about the Historic F1 Race that takes place on the 11th, which is why we can't cross the road to look at the harbour because there's a chain link fence in the way, and why we can't see the grid markings painted into the road as we pass the start point. Never mind, here's the Rasscafe (tight right and left that has to be driven perfectly, because the only real passing opportunity is immediately next) and here's a dithering driver who's not sure that he wants to turn off at this point, reverses without looking - on the very Monaco track that hundreds of tourists want to drive around, for goodness sake - and collides gently with a car behind. Oh, there's entertainment here.
As blows seem unlikely to be exchanged, we move on, inspecting the yachts that have moored here at a cost slightly in excess of a suite at the Carlton. Some of them, if fitted with enough ordnance and painted grey, could pass for small destroyers. I remind myself that yachts of this size are conservatively priced at £10,000 per metre, unfurnished, and require a year-round crew. For any nautically-inclined FUGger now thinking "Ah, but if I won the lottery." - forget it. £50m might just get you into this game, but most of your time would be spent memorizing the advice contained in Kerry Katona's latest book, "Coping With Sneering".
A waterbus takes us across the harbour, to stairs up to the road that leads to The Tunnel (get it badly wrong here and you'll be spreading carbon fibre shards across the breadth of it, red flags immediately, if not black flags, get the exit even slightly wrong and you'll be on the marbles with little chance of getting The Chicane right, and that'll be at least one wheel snapped off) where there are more stairs down to a marble-lined subway. The subway leads to lifts that rise to the Opera House gardens, and more chain link fencing. We're trying to get to Casino Square, the true heart of Monte Carlo, and the reason why so many wealthy people desperately want to live here. No, not because they want to gamble, but because the publicly-owned Casino makes so much profit that His Serene Highness Prince Albert II does not feel the need to levy any income tax on his subjects.
As we walk through the gardens, enjoying the sunshine and Jenny's rapid identification of flowers that I'd previously only known as "plants", I remark that we're strolling around some of the world's most expensive building land. The number of parks and open spaces are an indication of how wealthy the principality of Monaco is.
"Gosh, there's something going on!" says Jenny when we emerge from the gardens. There certainly is. Casino Square is going on. There's a constant stream of cars moving slowly through it on their tour of the F1 circuit, none of them apparently likely to beat Paul and my time of 10 minutes 12.4 seconds, while some are stopping to discharge hopeful gamblers. Uniformed casino staff are opening doors and ushering people up the red-carpeted stairs, as crowds throng the square, cameras at the ready in case some celebrity should happen by. There's as much going on as there is at a West End film premiere, but the difference here is that it doesn't stop. It's like this all weekend, and nearly like this all week, too.
Time for lunch, I feel. There's always somewhere reasonable to eat, tucked down a side street between the designer-label shops, because shop staff have to eat as often as billionaires do, and they can't all afford turbot and asparagus.
Later, having eaten both well and cheaply in a small café, Jenny and Mark want to visit Casino Square again, because they can't quite believe that the madness continues all day long. I wouldn't mind going back, either, because I have fond memories of an ice-cream shop there. Accordingly, we retrace our steps and while Jenny finds several places where she can take photos, Mark and I admire the cars parked outside and around the Casino. We've already lost count of the Aston Martins that have passed us, but here are Rolls Royces, large Mercedes, Ferraris, Porches, Bentleys and my personal favourite marque, a trident-badged Maserati. I'm greatly pleased to note, though, that the car which is attracting the most attention, the one that people are being photographed beside, is British. It's a blue Morgan Aero 8, its flowing old-fashioned lines setting it apart from the hundreds of thousands of pounds of assorted luxury conveyances on display.
Well, we've seen a lot of what Monaco has to offer, it's hot, it's crowded and our feet hurt. Maybe we should get an ice-cream and head back to the station? Well, why not. After all, there's all those stairs to climb, and that's not something that's going to be accomplished without complaint.
In fact, sharp-eyed Jenny spots a lift near the pretty church, so our return to the station is much easier than the descent. Then it's back onto a double-decker train and fifty minutes of "I want to live right *there*", "Wow, look at that place!", "Oh, that's pretty, isn't it?", "Look, there's hardly anyone on that beach, yet it's so handy for those villas" and "OK, Mark, we get it. You want to live on the Cote D'Azur."
Back at the Carlton, we have an hour or two to relax, and in my case, take a bath. There's a selection of exciting bath products to try out, and a Carlton Hotel Cannes bathrobe to wear.
Look, we've got a few minutes; let me show you round my room/s. There's no need to knock on the door, just touch the doorbell and I'll be with you as soon as I've tied this bathrobe a little more securely. The front door opens onto a marble-flagged passage. The first door on your left is the toilet, equipped with a phone for those important film deals that occur at the most inconvenient time. Next on the left is the shower room with two showers - the usual over the head variety and the flexible hose kind, no doubt for reaching those parts other showers can't. At the end of the passage is the bathroom, with washbasin complete with clever mixer-tap arrangement, large mirror above it, shaving mirror extension, and the big, deep bath that fills in what seems like seconds from taps that, when turned on, appear to have been holding back the mighty rushing oceans.
OK, back up, because on the right of the passage is the bedroom. There's a 30-channel TV, a minibar that gives me the shudders every time I look at the price list, a drawer full of glasses and a corkscrew - handy, that - and a wardrobe that contains an iron, an ironing board, and the raincoat that I foolishly brought with me. A full-length window provides a view of the back of the hotel, and much-welcomed fresh air when opened. There's a very comfortable bed that Keira Knightley could have slept in during a previous film festival (hey, a boy can dream.) and a desk where the paraphernalia of my laptop entertainment centre is spread out.
Oh, and here's the room service menu. It seems that pretty much anything can be ordered at almost any time, from a simple cheese sandwich to a modest banquet. I'm not joking, the menu is many pages long, and if there was anything I really wanted to steal from the room, it was that menu. Yes, even more than the gold-embroidered bathrobe, I desired that menu and wanted it as my very own. Maybe I'll write to the manager of the Carlton and ask for one when they replace them with new menus.
Right, that's the 50 cent tour, now off you go, I have a small party to host. Mark and Jenny arrive, dressed to the nines, while I've changed into the off-white linen suit I bought especially for wearing in France. The champagne is opened and toasts are proposed - ideally, this should have been on my balcony overlooking the sea, but never mind, eh?
It's seven o'clock, a restaurant awaits, and I believe that a little sauntering is called for. Suitably refreshed by the champagne, we saunter toward the harbour, passing the place where Napoleon came ashore during his journey from Elba to Paris, while certain jolie filles whisper in my wake "Cette homme, c'est le vrai Jacques la galette!" Or so I imagine.
We're not committed to any of the restaurants around the harbour, so we're still checking menus as we go, and that's how we find La Potiniere (Fondee en 1948). Hang on, this place has all we need, and it's closer to the Carlton, being opposite the Palais des Festivals. We enter - "Un table pour trios, monsieur?" "Oui, et trios Kirs." - study the menu further, and Jenny and Mark wonder whether the dishes that seem to be vegetarian might have had some meat product sneaked into them. Well, let's check, because Sandra's here, keen as anything to take our order. "Mes amis sont vegetariane." I start, and Sandra is happy to point out all the choices available. When she turns to me, I fix here with a beady eye and point out firmly "Moi - je suis carnivore." With a huge grin, she says in a conspiratorial manner "Moi, aussi". As is so often my choice of birthday dinner, I order a blue steak and chips, sadly not proper frites, but thick-cut chips. To my annoyance, as I write this, I cannot remember what Jenny and Mark chose, but Jenny opens an initial negotiation regarding her consumption of several of my chips "that haven't touched the steak, and before you cut into the steak and blood goes everywhere". I briefly wonder whether the chips are cooked in any form of lard or dripping, but decide not to spoil her pleasure.
A bottle of Cote de Rhone appears, and shortly afterwards, so does the food. It's very simple and very nice indeed. The steak is exactly right, although it doesn't bleed when cut. Pud? Oh, alright then, I could be persuaded towards something made with chocolate. Ah, says Sandra, if it's chocolate I like then there is just one choice possible; there are several desserts with chocolate, but for the full chocolate experience, I should go with her recommendation.
God bless her cotton socks, she's right. Ignore, if you will, that she's picked up that it's my birthday and pushed a lit candle in the top of the pud, the plate she places in front of me contains a chocolate fondant, a shot glass of liquid chocolate and a ball of ice-cream that, oh mama, is flavoured with thyme. Chocolate and thyme is a remarkable combination, and if the genius who devised this dish were handy, I would wring his hand in silent emotion. Silent, because my gob's full, obviously.
Coffee and brandy are not a choice, they're a necessity, but I want a cigarette too. Leaving Mark to place the order, I slip outside and light up. La Potiniere is in the Square Merimee, set back a little from the promenade, and I have a little quiet moment to myself. Lord, but this is the life. I really could be supremely happy around here, the weather is lovely, the people are super-friendly, with a market like we saw yesterday I'd become an even better cook, there are lots of little villages nearby where property isn't truly expensive, I love the café culture attitude of the French, and, truth be told, I really love the unhidden emotion that's everywhere, the joy of life that causes people to shake hands and kiss each other when they arrive in a bar, a shop, the office. If I were a better writer (better as in being able to sell this sort of thing) I'd live here, eat salad for lunch and grilled fish for dinner, and become slim and sylph-like in months. Ah, but I like the wine, so cancel that sylph-like image. For now, though, it's a glorious night, I'm in France, and tomorrow I'll still be in France. It may be difficult for others to understand this, but it truly never gets any better than right now, especially as there seems to be plenty of right now available.
I join Jenny and Mark to be told that Sandra won't serve coffee until I've returned, and shortly she bustles up with cups and glasses. Jenny has ordered peppermint tea, and Sandra lifts the lid of the pot to show that there are leaves of fresh mint swirling around inside. Knowing that I'll never remember the name of the restaurant, I ask for a card, and Mark would like one too. Sandra returns in seconds with cards for us both, but "for the smoker" she also has a box of matches. She really is very observant, I was standing in shadow.
Bill paid (thanks again, Jenny and Mark), we start back up the promenade, some of us averting our eyes from easily the most horrible vehicle I've seen all weekend, a stretch HumVee. We walk through a little park next to the promenade, where there's a double-decker roundabout and other entertainment for children, then on down the prom. There's one thing I haven't mentioned; the pavement is illuminated by lights hidden in the promenade wall, so we're strolling along a pink pathway. until, a few minutes later, the lights fade to blue. It's a striking and very enjoyable effect.
Out on the pontoon again, to take the planned photos and video. The Carlton is looking as gorgeous as ever, and I'm pleased and surprised that my camcorder seems to be happy to capture the view. Maybe you'll see the finished film one day, once I've got some editing software and learned how to use it.
Hmm, I could go another coffee and cognac, anyone feel like joining me? Yes, Mark does, although Jenny would prefer to go back to the room, so it's just the two of us who return to the café we enjoyed on Thursday night. Being boring business owners, we talk about a couple of projects we might be able to collaborate on, a conversation that continues back in my room over a bottle of something nice...
Well, I’ve got a hangover as I regretfully pack, but outside the sunshine is confirming that the good weather continues. We have to check out by twelve, but the concierge has confirmed that the hotel will gladly look after our bags until we leave for the airport later that afternoon. “Just leave them in the room, someone will bring them down”, so that’s what I do, having checked around the rooms that I haven’t left anything behind. No, there’s nothing forgotten, and I’ve pinched everything that could be considered disposable, like the embroidered Carlton slippers that were in the bathroom, all the bath products and the big bar of expensive-smelling soap. I briefly consider the bathrobe, but the management have my address, and my credit card number. A pot of tea here costs ten euros, heaven knows what an exclusive bathrobe goes for.
I can’t really afford to upset anyone here, either – because I’m coming back. Oh, yes, I’ll be back this time next year, a decision that imposed itself during the fag break outside the restaurant last night. Anyway, I promised Sandra I’d be back. A couple of rooms for the weekend have cost me 240,000 points, and I have more than that left in my account, so the points for next year are now ring-fenced. In fact, I may book the rooms as soon as I get back to my desk at work.
I need coffee like Paris Hilton needs brain cells, so, meeting Jenny and Mark in Reception, we turn for today’s destination, the Old Town, and a café on the way. Maybe La Potiniere serves coffee? Sadly, no, says Sandra, who is busy laying up for lunch. No matter, there are cafes a-plenty on the way, and I’m soon provided with une grande tasse de heart-starter.
The Old Town lies to the west of Cannes, and several hundred feet above it. Hmm, several hundred feet of walking in the direction of up, with a hangover? OK… the sun is shining, we’re in France, we’ve had coffee, I have a full pack of cigarettes – hit it!
There are charming houses on the road to the top of the Old Town, and a good few restaurants, too. I can’t resist reading a menu or several on the way, and the prices drop with every step. Wealth being mainly the preserve of the older person, I’m guessing that the aged rich rarely attempt the initially steep, cobbled road; and if they do, they pause at the first bistro and casually remark that this looks alright, doesn’t it, Tallulah,
We’re not sure how to get to the top, so I’m using my brilliant ploy of taking any road that goes Up, figuring that when we run out of Up we’ll have reached the summit. It’s logic like this, of course, that has contributed to the death rate amongst mountaineers, but in this case it works. We emerge onto a car park outside a church, and, peering in, we see that a very well-attended service is in progress. I recognise the setting, too – Charpentier, a fine French composer of sacred music. We maintain a respectful silence, despite the arrival of un petit train (see St Malo adventures) and a discharge of gabbling tourists.
Moving on, past the gentleman begging for alms (and should he ever read this, here’s a hint – losing the open bottle of red wine in your fist may increase revenue), we walk to a terrace and gaze over the edge. All of Cannes is displayed below us, from the curve of the palm-backed beach to the hills that tower behind the town. Using the zoom function of the camcorder, I peer at the villas that sit on the slopes…
“That’s my house…”
“Which one?”
“The one that’s peeping out from behind the trees.”
“Yes, but which one?”
“Any of them…”
The sky is a brilliant blue, almost exactly the same colour I painted my house so that it would look cheerful even on the dullest day, and I’m beginning to get a fine suntan. Out to sea, there are a couple of islands where I suspect prices are even more astronomical than Cannes. We’re starting to notice the heat, tell you what, let’s go around to the back of the church and take advantage of the trees there. Another fine view greets us there – the continuing sweep of the Cote D’Azur to the west, terminated by a mountain range that’s run out of steam and is rolling down to the sea. Here’s one more fine place to be, standing under pine trees, gazing over gentle waves and across to baby mountains, and I hear someone sighing “It’s just so… beautiful…” Yes, it was me.
Let’s not get too carried away, though, because plans for lunch ought to be made. It’s too late, though, the laid-back South of France approach to life has infected us. “Well… shall we just have a wander, and see what we find?” Yes. Yes, what I really want on this sunny Sunday morning is a really good wander, it suits my mood perfectly. So we wander back down the steps that we should to have taken on the way up, discussing the merits of owning an ocean-going yacht as opposed to renting one. It’s that kind of day, when getting the detail right, should any of us win the lottery, is fairly important.
Once down at the harbour again, via a decent souvenir shop (no T-shirts with “Cannes” on them, lots of lavender products and olivewood kitchen accessories), with the yacht problem unresolved, we’re diverted by the side of a house that has a remarkable trompe d’oil across it. It’s an hommage to the film industry, with stars old and new leaning out and waving, posing on balconies, and generally doing what they do. Laurel and Hardy are having an accident behind one window, Tarzan is swinging on a rope secured to a drainpipe, Mickey Mouse looks particularly pleased to see us, the pod from 2001 is menacing R2D2… you could spend ten minutes just looking. As we do.
Shall we go this way, it’s a street we haven’t walked up? We shall. What’s more, Mark knows which way we’re going, and where this street will take us, which is why he suggests lunch at the market café we ate at several weeks ago last Friday. Oh, yes, an enormous French salad will be just the thing… because my dinner will be eaten in Portsmouth.
There’s a bittersweet element to the last hours of a holiday… yes, I’m walking down a lovely boulevard (it may be a rue, I’m not that expert at French yet. Come to think of it, it could always be an avenue…), the sun’s shining, it’s summer here, ooh, a Sunday market of local handicraft stalls to look at, lovely, there’s a good-natured bustle along the street, my mind taking snaps that I can see in detail even a week later, a local chap in a light sweater for goodness sake, carrying two freshly-baked baguettes, another chap, noting my gaze into the restaurant where he sits, raising his glass and smiling – “If you’re looking for lunch, this place is alright, mate” – and yet… it’s becoming too transient. In hours, I’ll be home. Tomorrow, I’ll be in Glasgow.
The supply of right now… is running out.
I’ve been in this place many times, and I know that time is for using, not for looking towards with regret. I may not have much right now left, but I’ve got some now, so let’s make now count. Allons, mes amis! And you, madame waitress, can bring us three kirs as quick as you like, especially as you’ve let all the tables outside your café go, and we’re having to eat inside.
One large chef’s salad (ham, cheese, egg, tuna, tomato, olives, sweetcorn, cucumber, three entire lettuces, mouth-watering dressing) arrives, and so does a bottle of Cote du Rhone. Mmm, that’s France on a plate as far as I’m concerned. The freshest food, simply served, with as little done to it as possible. And all the ingredients found within five miles of this establishment. Yes, I choose to believe that tuna swim in the Mediterranean, OK?
We sip our coffee slowly, knowing that there’s only one road to take once the bill is paid, and that’s back to the Carlton. We take our last steps towards a place in Cannes, rather than towards a place out of Cannes, arrive on the promenade, turn left, walk past the Cartier shop that featured in “French Kiss” (Kevin Kline, Meg Ryan, Jean Reno, oh, you must have seen it, and if you haven’t, you should), and shortly arrive at the concierge desk.
Yes, they have our luggage, would we care to step outside, as it will be delivered there? Of course… because that’s where the car will pull up. Except that we have no car to pull up, because Jenny and Mark are determined to walk the promenade one last time, to the harbour where the airport bus stops.
There’s a small lift set into the wall to one side of the entrance to the Carlton, and it transports luggage from some secure chamber. As the doormen reveal my bag and backpack, I bless the porter who collected them… then checked all the drawers and the wardrobe, in case I’d left anything behind. My cheap, unneeded, and completely forgotten raincoat lies on top of the bags. The service here is exemplary.
This has been an experience that everyone should have. The Carlton is one of the great hotels of the world, and even if we haven’t had the money to fully immerse ourselves in the facilities on offer – the beach restaurant, the champagne and lobster brunch, the padded loungers at the waters edge, the cocktail bar where a young Grace Kelly was introduced to Prince Rainier of Monaco, tea on the terrace – even if we haven’t entirely lived the high life, it’s been wonderful to visit.
The service is breathtaking, but then it has to be said that every member of staff is absolutely at the top of their game. The Carlton is the flagship hotel of the company that own it, you don’t get to work here unless you’ve worked your way up through other hotels in the group. The concierge is the best concierge the company has. Every porter has served elsewhere, quite possibly as Head Porter. The waiters will have proved their skill at some other hotel in the chain. The Head Chef, by virtue of his position alone, will be recognised as one of the finest chefs in France. The manager of the Carlton is the de facto top manager of all the hotel managers that are employed by the Four Seasons Group. Every single member of staff has had to deliver faultless work just to get through the back door of this hotel.
That’s why they provide such remarkable service with quiet satisfaction, because they know they’re the best. They can go no higher within this company; they’ve made it to the top. And if they want to work at any of the other great hotels of the world, the words “Carlton, Cannes” on their CV are pure gold.
It has been truly enjoyable to watch these professionals at work, wonderful to enjoy the trappings of luxury for a brief few days, life-enhancing and renewing simply to stay in this part of France… Oh, everyone should have opportunities like this.
And yet…
As the bags are handed over, we become ex-residents of the Carlton. So… not much else to do but catch the bus, eh? Which we do, having a last gawp at the town as the bus – truthfully, a coach – travels ever upwards to the hills, where it joins a motorway. We get a brief view of the sea and the bay before they’re hidden by olive trees.
Nice airport is reached in good time, and that’s where Jenny, Mark and I part, as their plane to Norwich leaves from Terminal 2, while my plane departs from Terminal 1. I’m mildly amused by the area reserved for motorists who are dropping off passengers; it’s called “Kiss and Fly”. Then, though, I’m into airport mode – find a seat, read a book, drink coffee and wait for the check-in counter to open. When it does, I ask for a seat on the right-hand side of the plane, so that I can take one final look at the coastline. Then I step outside for a last cigarette, take a mental snap of more palm tress, return and go through Security to queue at the gate.
Walking to the plane, I note that it’s becoming another lovely evening, with a slight mist forming over the upper slopes of the hills in the distance. Then it’s onto the plane, and dammit, the idiot check-in man has given me a seat on the left side. Hmmph, that means all I’ll see is the Mediterranean on the way out… Still, it’s not a bad old sea to look at, and goodness knows, there’s worse views.
The plane takes off, swings to climb along the coast, I get my expected view of the Med, then we bank to the right to head north, and oh, my goodness!
There’s Cannes below me! There’s the line of the beach, I can see the row of green that must be the palm trees, the plage municipal must be at the eastern end of the curve, there’s the harbour to the west, there’s the Old Town… and there, I fancy, even though I can’t see it clearly, must be the Carlton. The lights are just coming on, people will be walking down the promenade looking for a spot of dinner, the pavement cafes will be starting to fill, there seems to be the usual mad rush of cars along the road… I hold the view as long as I can, thinking “I’ll be back, oh, yes, I’ll be back, I told Sandra I’ll be back, so I’ll be back…” - and a part of me is already there.
The last drops of right now drain from the weekend as the turbines rumble and the plane climbs higher into the purpling sky. It accelerates away until it becomes nothing but a dot… then disappears from view.
As Monsieur Le Mark was typing up his thoughts of the weekend even while we were there. I have let him tell you about the bulk of the weekend.
It started a while ago with a phone call of - you know I have been in Glasgow all these weeks - well - do you fancy a trip to the south of France? After some phone calls, quite a few hours on websites we managed to organise a trip to the south of France heading out on Thursday and returning on Sunday the day after a certain persons birthday.
We set off for Stansted early on Thursday morning - not having frequent flying points we had to be there several hours before hand. We had got the car parking organised and there was a bus waiting to take us from the car park to the terminal building. We then had to book in and go through various tedious bits of security. I found a bar ready for a glass of wine before the flight. We then settled in for the flight. Jenny was by the window so was looking out to see all that she could see 30,000 feet or so below us. We then crossed the coast of the Mediterranean Sea and swung round seeing Monte Carlo as we came into land from the south - very odd when you have flown from the north!
When we landed at Nice airport, the very helpful people at the information desk said 'Oh go outside to the bus cabin, buy a ticket and you can get a bus to Cannes. So on we hopped and then seemed to go round in circles in the one way system to get onto the main road to Cannes. The bus stopped outside the Hotel de Ville which is by the port and we walked by the sea to the hotel.
Oh this is rather nice isn't it ! Sun and palm trees and it is only April. We arrive at the hotel and stop to get out paperwork ready before crossing the threshold. Before you can blink there is someone asking if we are going to be staying here and has given us a ticket for our case and he is off. We check in and 30 seconds after we are in our room there is a knock at the door and our case arrives. No need to panic that we have only large Euro notes, as he is gone before a tip can be offered.
We text Mark with details of our rooms and which is a good bus from the airport. We then go in search of food and drink. Walking down Le Croisette we hear some great music and stop to listen. DJ Lyric and his sax and putting together some really good trance tunes - just right for the time of day as the sun goes down over the bay. We head off for a pavement café for a drink, followed by pizza. There is quite a bit of pasta dishes around. Well we are not that far away from Italy.
We then head off to meet the next bus in from Nice. It is early, so Jenny heads back to the hotel and I wait at the bus stop for a while just in case we have got the timing wrong. Obviously not so I walk back to the hotel see Jenny, turn round and see this chap we know chatting to the concierge. It was Monsieur Le Mark :-) . We will let him carry on from here.
On the Sunday we left Monsieur Le Mark on the bus to go to the other terminal. We went inside and did the usual airport things like check in, security, buy fags for the neighbour who had fed the cats and hang about waiting for stuff to happen. We watched a lot of people standing up and waiting for queues to move as if doing that will get the plane to take off any earlier - err no there is a little truck on over there with our luggage on and it has to be loaded yet so we ain't gonna be moving that quickly.
We were able to see the Alps sticking out through the clouds as we flew north. Then as we were back over the UK we saw London, the dome and the Thames and then it was back to land with a bump. Then it was queue to get back into the country. Immigration seemed to take forever and then the bags to find and then a bus journey back to the car park and find the car, and so to the mundane things like driving up the M11 to home.
What a weekend with loads of memories to savour. Now we know where the record store is we will be going there with plenty of time to check out what cd's are available. Since we have got back we obviously brought the weather with us as we have been able to have suppers in the courtyard and you don't feel silly having plenty of salads with that French feel. Till the next trip of note ....
