Sud de France - Côte d'Azur

ST TROPEZ

Leaving Provence, we found ourselves on a boring motorway in driving rain. The plan had been to drop in at Aix-en-Provence but, with this miserable context, we made a split decision to divert south and take the coast road. It proved to be a good call. The weather eased off and we enjoyed a scenic drive along the Mediterranean all the way to St Tropez.

 

Famed for its glitz and glamour, St Tropez in mid-winter proved to be a pleasant old fishing port, complete with pretty harbour, stern sea walls to wander along, and great views out across the bay (which, in our case, included a pink blur on the horizon, created by dozens of flamingos gliding across the water at the end of their annual migration). In short, I liked it much more than I expected. The locals we met were friendly and the place had character. This was, though, mid off season. I dread to think what it would be like in high season and plan never to find out.

 

Continuing on, hitting some traffic and tack, we really got a feel of how crammed and over-developed the Cote de Azure is. I am sure it was gorgeous 30 years ago and clearly retains some stunning parts, but it would be way down my list for a summer vacation. Unless you get a kick out of striving for the “it” crowd” – which I find a monumental turn off – I would not recommend it.

CANNES and ANTIBES
 
Talking of the "it" crowd, we ended the day in Cannes, which was to be our base for the next four days. Having said that....we enjoyed Cannes. It has a great aspect of green hills rolling into the Med. The seafront is fun and, if you can ignore the monstrosity of an exhibition centre which splits it in two, attractive. We found the people welcoming and stuffed ourselves with some excellent French cuisine. By far the best thing about the place was, though, where we stayed, the Hotel Ideal Sejour

This small, quirky hotel was most of the way up one of Cannes’ hills, on a ridiculously steep street. Niko’s expression at staying in a room with a massive red 3D dragon jutting out of the walls was priceless. The place was wonderfully chilled and, without any exaggeration, run by one of the warmest people I have met, Nicole. This was her home and she made it abundantly clear that we were welcome, cooking up special dinners when we turned up late soaked through from the rain, playing with our children and doing her best to dig us out of a big hole (more on that in my next post…).

 

My favourite side trip from Cannes was to the fortified port of Antibes. It was great to see all the bobbing boats in the old harbour and venture on to the high sea walls where we found a giant sculpture to scramble all over and amazing views across the bay to Nice. To my surprise, it was even better to pass through the town walls, wander through the medieval streets and end up savouring the produce of a traditional provincial market. The boys loved the tit bits of fromage, pain, et saucissons.

MONACO

We put aside a day to visit the odd historic hangover that is the principality of Monaco. Entering, we received a stark geography lesson as to why this place is so distinct. Monaco is cut off from France by a wall of mountain and the sea. The place is nearly impregnable from the mainland. Driving in from France, our route in necessitated a trip through tunnels and back and forth on sharply twisting roads, before we disappeared into a subterranean car park.

 

Monaco is an undeniably dramatic place. Mountains give way to a forest of high rise apartments greedily clinging to every square inch of half-habitable space left by the shiny, yacht-strewn sea.

 

Don’t get me wrong - it was great to soak up the winter sunshine harbour side and take a peek into the Casino de Monte Carlo, but the place left me somewhat cold. From my admittedly short visit, I got the feeling that scratching beneath the surface would not throw up much I like. Super rich clubs, condos and yacht parties. Tax dodgers and posers. Appearance over substance. Bernie Ecclestone’s heaven.

 

I tried to square this feeling with my positive reaction to Gibraltar. While both are distinct, tax-friendly, geographically secluded hangovers from older times, my gut reaction to each was very different. Gibraltar felt like a pub and it welcomed all in an understated way. Monaco felt like a private members' club. Maybe too much of this is based on one rude encounter with a waiter, but there you go. Life is too short for such places.

All said and done, it was still awesome to drive the formula one circuit in reverse on our way out (semi-exposed tunnel and all), leaning into the corners pretending we were in a formula one car as opposed to a family Renault with two kids in the back.

NICE

Our final planned stop was to Nice. Unlike a number of the aforementioned places, I immediately fell for it. Nice has a fantastic setting, spanning a wide aquamarine bay before crawling up a big chunk of rock which bites into the sea at its eastern side.  It has some grand old buildings, proudly lining the sea front and reaching into the heart of the city. Vitally, it also has that all important edge. Alongside all the culture and beauty, it is a gritty Latin city. It instantly reminded me of South America.

 

I was put in a supremely happy mood by a combination of chucking pebbles with my sons on the beach, quick dip into the chilly Med, strut along the Promenade des Anglais basking in the winter sun and, the piece de resistance, dining with my family on salad Nicoise and ice cold beer in the old market square. Just stunning.

 

We had an ice cream on the promenade and then took the lift to the top of the rock for a final view over the city and surrounds. Reaching the top the view did not disappoint. I took a deep breath, savouring it all… an uneasy feeling gripped me... my head swung round to look and my jaw dropped… SHIT. Where was THE bag. Not any old bag, THE BAG with all our passports, phones, documents…

Sud de France - The Carmargue

To be honest, I had not heard of the Carmague before picking up the guide book in preparation for our trip to the South of France. I read as far as mention of thousands of flamingos and knew we would head in that direction.

Situated to the South West of Provence, the Carmargue is a region and natural park encompassing Western Europe’s largest river delta. It comprises hundreds of square kilometres of briney reed covered marshes, lagoons and low lying fertile land.

Staying in Arles, it was a short hop across the mighty Rhone to enter the Carmargue and then a fair drive south across pancake flat fields before we reached the core to the region. There we found what we had been looking for, hundreds and hundreds of pink greater flamingos. 

This is an ideal habitat for this beautiful, if slightly odd bird, with plenty of minute organisms for them to filter through their bills as they awkwardly strut across the shallows. Visiting a well-managed reserve, we were able to get right up close along the reed banks. Only when next door do you realise how big these birds grow and the boys were mesmerised standing just meters away from dozens of flamingos preening themselves, hooting and filtering their beaks through the water.

Chris and I were, if anything more excited, marching around the lagoon to find more and more angles from which to view the birds. At the far side of the reserve we came across a massive cluster, who whirled around in a coordinated prance before taking to the wing en masse and performing what, from our perspective, was a whirry pink fly past. This was all accompanied by a chorus of deep, throbbing hoots. Such a pre-historic, base noise, it made me think of their dinosaur ancestors.

It was a wonderful surprise to find such flambuoyant wildlife up close. A fantastic experience, topped up with sightings of tree loads of nesting herons and the Carmague’s very own indigenous horse on the way back. I am so glad this type of place still survives in Europe.

Sud de France – En Provence

Prior to this trip, I had never set foot in the South of France. Given that it is such a renowned region and close to home, I find this strange and somewhat of an anomaly in my travels. If I had to give a reason I would point to a combination of family ties to other parts of the Mediterranean and my desire since leaving home to venture as far away from the UK as possible.

Now with small family in toe, while the need to travel has not dimmed, the desire to go so far has momentarily diminished. The South of France therefore seemed a perfect place for a late winter road trip. Marseille to Nice via Provence, the Cote d’Azure and much else besides.

EN PROVENCE

“Provence” has an undeniable ring to it. A name which conjures up images of picture-perfect French villages, lavender and castles. A region of great history. It is this latter string which drew us to base ourselves in the city of Arles. Founded by the Phoenicians, built up by the Romans and finished off by the French.

On completion of a late night flight, confused drive on and off and on and off the same slip road, parking screw up and labouring lug of small children and gear up uphill streets (travel with kids is rewarding but rarely a breeze), we arrived at our guesthouse, knocked out and then awoke in a remarkable place.

The guesthouse was a lovingly restored 16th century town-house - all heavy stonework and hard wood furnishing - situated at the heart of the old town. Stepping out on our first venture, we turned right, up a winding cobbled street and were stopped in our tracks by a near complete Roman amphitheatre. Startling. We headed straight in.

Built in 90 AD with capacity crowd of some 20,000 it is one hell of a structure. Like many an ancient building that has survived to our times, it has done so in large part due to its continued use. To this day, it is a working stadium for the local form of bull fighting. Climbing up the steep steps, we entered the stands and peered down at the sandy stage of bloodshed, past and present. I could only imagine the atmosphere created by the thronging crowds packing this tight, high, almost claustrophobic arena. Climbing up the steps to the parapet, the elevation gave us a wonderful view of Roman remains, medieval town and countryside beyond.

Around the corner resides the remains of the Roman theatre. At first sight little seems to be intact, until a new angle and innovative explanations bring it to life; stage, stands, theatrics and all. I am not certain the toddlers understood the gravity of the place, but certainly enjoyed crawling all over the gallery steps and remnants of the stage.

Arles' Roman structures are a gem, but the town proved to have much more to it. Trips out were sandwiched with walks through the medieval streets to town squares, monasteries and churches, talks with friendly locals and meals at delicious restaurants. Strange as it may sound, I particularly enjoyed an hour spent at the local playground. In the shadow of the Roman defensive walls on a sunny Sunday afternoon, it was wonderful to see the small ones interacting with the local kids and watch the whole scene of local family life unfold.

Quite simply, Arles proved to be one of my favourite places in France.

CHATEAU DES BAUX ET SAN REMY 

We spent a day meandering around the countryside at the heart of Provence. A peaceful, pretty place of gentle hills and agriculture, occasionally punctuated by some unexpected, large French industrial project (I would hazard a guess that French politics includes a fare serving of local pork-barrel politics). We made two main stops, one exceeded our expectations, the other did not.


The former was the castle of Les Baux-de-Provence. Built in the 10th century, expanded through its 16th century heyday and destroyed in the 17th on the orders of Louis XIII, it occupies a towering defensive position atop a rock acropolis which dominates the surrounding countryside. It is a real crawl around ruin, that gets better and better the further you explore. A medieval village clings to its foot, and guides the way up to the front gates. The lower bailey comes complete with replica trebuchet and leads up to the castle proper, all ragged high ruins. Given its dilapidated state, it does a good job of retaining its grandeur and is a top-class climbing frame.

In all this, I should not fail to mention the phenomenal views. Every so often, a break in the wall or high point gave sight of rising, craggy land behind falling away to flat plains in front. A 360 degree panorama of Provence.

Our second stopping place was San Remy de Provence. Drawn by tales of family trips in the 60’s and a famed reputation, it left me feeling a little short changed. The town is pretty enough, with its outer ring of tree lined boulevard and tight-knitted inner old town, but somehow did not catch my imagination. The highlight was watching a game of proper-old man petanque in the town square.

That about sums it up.

AVIGNON

Nestled in a large bend of the river Rhone, Avignon is the most famed site in Provence. It did not disappoint. It is surrounded by formidable 13th century walls. In what looks with hindsight as an act of cultural vandalism, so many cities tore down their walls in the 19th and 20th century to make way for progress and wider roads.  Avignon is a happy exception, providing the visitor with a sense of discovery as you enter through one of the high gates into the streets within. We enjoyed our exploration leading up to some very civilized French dining in a grand square.

The main draw of Avignon is the Palais des Papes, an immense medieval gothic Papal castle and palace in one. It was the seat of the Roman church for much of the fourteenth century and, after the papacy returned to Rome, a couple of anti-Popes as well.

The scale of the place is very impressive, a reminder of the wealth sucked from the masses by the church. So much for living a simple life above the trappings of earthly things. Quite eerily the place is devoid of furnishings, having been stripped out long ago when the Avignon Popes were a thing of the past. This only provides resonance to the echoey shell and more room for small children to run amok in.

We climbed up the winding staircases all the way to the parapets. As was fast becoming a pattern in Provence, we were greeted by more memorable panoramics from the top. The city, bending, wide river and countryside leading out to the barren slopes of Mount Ventoux.

Our final stop was out to the famous medieval bridge across the Rhone. Rather unhelpfully, much of it fell into the river and it now ends part of the way across the mighty flows. This makes it somewhat of an oddity and an interesting place for a stroll. Best of all are the views back across to the city.

PONT DU GARD

Standing proud after nearly 2000 years, the Pont du Gard is exemplary evidence of the ingenuity of the Romans or, to be more specific, its engineers. The crowning glory of a 50 km system which provided constant flowing water to Nimes, the Pont du Gard is a giant bridge and aqueduct in one. It is the largest surviving Roman structure, standing the best part of 50 m high, crossing and dominating a sharp ravine of the Gardon.

Walking up to it, I was gob smacked. Rarely in my life have I seen anything manmade that is so impressive. Like the amphitheatre in Arles, it has survived through its continued usefulness. For centuries it was the main bridge over the river, maintained by those who benefited from the tolls charged to whoever wished to cross over the rushing river.

It was a great feeling to walk onto the bridge, staring up at the rows of arches overhead and drop to the water below. Firmly on my ‘to-do’ list is to return in summer and free swim beneath this lingering throwback to glories past.

This was a fitting finale to our swift tour of Provence. Onto the Carmargue and then the Cote De Azure…

Passion, Festivity and Farce at the RWC 2015

Ever since “winning” tickets to four matches in the draw for the 2015 Rugby World Cup, I had been counting the months until the tournament kicked off. Brushing aside my bitter disappointment at England’s early exit, what follows is a brief account of how thrilling it was to witness those matches first hand.

FRANCE v IRELAND, Twickenham

The excitement began before we had even arrived at Twickenham. On a packed train en route to the stadium, disbelieving noises emerged from many a fan with eyes fixed to their phone. Japan were pushing South Africa close. That was not in the script. Could Japan really pull off the biggest shock in rugby history? As rumour spread, spontaneous updates rang out. Someone found a video link and dozens of fans crowded around a tiny screen with fingers crossed. Japan shunned a kick for the draw, went for broke and perhaps the most famous victory in RWC history. They delivered, the train went mad. Fan hugged fan. We had not even arrived.

Leaving the train, the suburban streets of Twickenham were abuzz with flags, fans, sizzling food and excitement. Entering the stadium, a tingle went down my spine as I took in the scene of 80,000 focusing in on the battle to come. The players ran out to plumes of flame and a raucous reception. Then there was the Marseilles. It might as well have been a home game. The overwhelming majority of the crowd were of French persuasion and raised the roof with a passionate, pulsating rendition of that all too catchy, triumphant tune. The tingle became a shiver and, lost in the moment, I hummed along.

The rugby itself was not much to write home about and therefore I won’t linger. Some huge collisions, many an error and the odd glimpse of brilliance. Despite the fact that the French were wearing red, as the technical away team, wave after wave of “Allez les Bleus, Allez les Bleus” kept up the atmosphere, but the only thing that came close to beating the Marseilles were the French rooster hats. Fortunately, a kindly Frenchman let me borrow his.

Final score – France 32 Italy 10

NEW ZEALAND v NAMIBIA, Olympic stadium

A complete mismatch, but a festive occasion. There was only going to be one winner and this was reflected in the more laid back atmosphere of the crowd and occasion. It was a case of all smiles as the masses filed through the Olympic park beneath a quite spectacular sunset.

Though mostly amateurs, Namibia put up one hell of a brave fight and were rewarded with the biggest cheer of the night for their second-half try. We, though, along with 95% of the crowd, were there to see the mighty All Blacks. The Haka, the expansive game, the legendary black shirts. It was all there, but so was a definite lack of precision. Error after basic error, alongside all the tries.

Unbelievably, Namibia actually won the third quarter, but bloodied and bruised (Shalk Burger’s beaten, swollen features were a sight to behold), they fell by the New Zealand wayside. The crowd cheered themselves with many a Mexican wave and an entertaining if not intense night came to a close.

Final score – NZ 58 Namibia 14

IRELAND v ROMANIA, Wembley

I will never forget the astonished, overwhelmed look on my four year old son’s face as stared out over an 88,000 crowd belting out “IIIIIRRELAND IIIIIIIIRRRELAND, FOREVER STANDING TALL. SHOUUUUULDER, TO SHOUUUULDER, WE’LL ANNNSWER IREEELAND’S CALL”. There was a tear in his wide open eye.

The passion of the crowd was fantastic. The largest ever crowd at a RWC match and they were going to enjoy it. Beer flowed, the crowd sang, swayed and cheered and the players played. Ireland looked very impressive, tearing Romania apart with some expansive rugby and a touch of finesse.

In truth, only part of my focus was on the pitch. We had taken with us our 4, 3 and 1 year olds. In the main, they lapped it up, entertained by the jubilant crowd and severe oddity of the situation. Just when focus was waning, a series of Mexican waves rolled in to bring them back into the occasion. Then try after try raised the crowd to their feet and our small ones to incessant clapping.

It was simply awesome to share the occasion with them.  It was never really a contest, but it never had to be. Alongside the impact of the passionate anthem on my offspring, two moments stood out. Firstly, the look of horror on the man next door to me in the urinal as he took in the sight of a small grinning girl clinging to my back and a small boy dangling from my arms (I was doing my best to point his outgoings in the direction of the receptacle… the joys of parenthood!).

Secondly, and best of all, our farewell. On departing the ground a few minutes early, Chris and I were surprised by a large cheer. This was followed by another and then another. Looking back at the crowd, hundreds of fans were waving us off. It took a moment before we twigged that our little girl had been serially waving goodbye to all her new, half-pissed, green-clad friends, evoking a grande depart from the surrounding crowd. As I already said, awesome!

Final score – largely irrelevant - Ireland 44 Romania 10

SCOTLAND v AUSTRALIA, Quarter-final, Twickenham

For us, the big one. The home side quarter final was not to be, but we still had tickets to a major match at the home of rugby. The only pity was that it was such a mismatch. The form side of the tournament and two-time world champions vs the side who finished bottom in the six nations. On paper, a bit of a non-contest.

Of course, as history will record, it was one hell of a contest. From the go, the Scots played ambitious, brave, hard-hitting rugby. Never a back step, heads never down, always believing. The Aussies, for their part, played an open game, scoring a handful of tries with width, swift-hands and guile. But, every time the Wallabies went ahead and looked to open up breathing space, the Scots would find a way back in. Near perfect kicking, a poorly defended dash to the line from a ruck, charge down score and, at the climax, a breath-taking intercepted try.

Having a majority Scottish heritage (two grandfathers and a bit of a grandmother), I put my dislike of the SNP to one side and bought a ‘Scotland the Brave’ scarf. Nonetheless, given my other half has an Aussie passport and is passionate about such matters, my plan was a tactical low-level support for the Scots. In the end I shouted myself hoarse, caught up in the riveting game and vociferously intense atmosphere.

The Scots crowd were brilliant and bolstered by seemingly ever more “neutrals” transformed into Highlanders for the day (that most of these were Englishmen is something to remind the anti-'south of the border' brigade). As minutes ticked by and Scotland hung to Australia’s coattails, enjoyment at the game being closer than expected “while it lasts”, morphed into excitement at “they couldn’t, could they?”, to disbelief at “they just might you know!”.

Scotland 5 points adrift with 5 minutes to go. The skies opened up with a flash deluge of rain, sheeting down through the headlights and pummelling the pitch. This was greeted by a guttural roar from 80,000 hyped souls. A shared primeval understanding that God had come to play. Next, a slippery ball, misplaced pass, interception and race to the line. As Bennett dived over the line, the stadium erupted, exploded, burst its foundations. I have not experienced an atmosphere remotely close to it.

A conversion later and Scotland were 34-32 up with 3 minutes to go. This was not meant to happen!! Alas, it did not. A dodgy (no, wrong!) refereeing decision at the death gave a very kickable penalty to Australia. All credit to them, they kicked it. The sight of the ball sailing through the post and sealing Scotland’s doom was greeted by a mix of disbelieving groans and hearty boos. By the time the final whistle had blown, this had upped into open hostility at the perceived injustice, so intimidating that the ref plain legged it off the pitch without so much as a handshake.

So ended a remarkable, exhilarating game and our attendance at the 2015 Rugby World Cup. It was brilliant. I just wish I had a ticket to Saturday’s final!

Final score – Scotland 34 Australia 35