Les Dos and Don’ts When Vacancing en Provence

BY VERITY DOUGLAS

Picture Provence and one conjures images of sunflowers and lavender; old men playing Pétanque in the evening, sporting berets and lighting one cigarette from the end of another. However, whilst this Provence can still be found if you know where to look, the Côte d’Azur is home to a very different breed of frenchman, where berets and Gauloises are replaced with Speedos and mega yachts.

In other words, the French Riviera is the home of excess. Or, in even more words; a recessionista’s worst nightmare. I thought I’d done well by remembering to paint my toenails ‘Rouge Noir’ until I realised that head to toe Chanel is de rigeur and my vintage jumpsuit drew the sort of pitying expressions usually reserved for orphans and the illiterate. I was a North Sea fish in some almost tropical water and it was time to up the ante…

This is my guide to navigating the world’s sartorial minefield and not looking like you’ve strayed too far from your goldfish bowl…

• Don’t drive a crap car

Driving in France is like the Wacky Races, so unless you’re Penelope Pitstop you’ll be run off the road by Dick Dastardly before you can shout “Merde!” Plus, judging by the state of the average native Renault, cars on the continent are not treasured the way they are en Angleterre. Vehicles compete to squeeze through gaps a pedestrian would balk at so steel yourself for honking, cursing, gesticulating and sadly, a myriad of minor accidents and lost wing-mirrors.

Alas, with little choice in the matter, I arrived in Nice to meet my seven-seater  Citroën, complete with British number plate and right-hand drive. Hooray! – I thought, somewhat prematurely, failing to realise that one thing French drivers hate more than other French drivers; is English drivers. My (massive) Citroën was a red rag to some already impatient bulls; a state that was further aggravated at toll booths and ticket barriers, where I examined currency and squirmed over the passenger seat, before wrangling with my not-so-electric windows. It would seem no-one likes queuing as much as we do.

My advice? Get a yacht, or at least blag your way aboard one. Which brings me on to…

• Don’t go to St. Tropez

…unless you’re a) in possession of A-list transportation (anything independent of terra firma) or b) can think of nothing better than melting all over the seat of your car in a traffic jam that’s more of a compote.

From Le Trayas, I calculated that the journey should take me forty minutes max. so come 11 a.m. on a Tuesday I elected not to heed the advice of my pessimistic French neighbour and soldier on in the face of adversity. “Trois heures!” she exclaimed with an expression that read “What are you doing, you obstinate girl?!” but what could she possibly know that I didn’t?

The road follows the coast through St. Raphaël and Frejus, with scenery a lot like the west coast of America. Craggy red rocks descend into water the colour of Powerade, with villas perched precipitously hither and thither. It’s pretty; but not so enthralling that I felt compelled to tear my eyes from the road and risk ploughing into one of the over-enthusiastic cyclists with a death wish. I wove my way through towns and villages, making good time and listening intermittently to Riviera Radio, where James Morrison appeared to be flavour of the month. Apparently, “You can’t play on broken strings.” Old James doesn’t miss a trick…

Unfortunately, in the midst of my harmonising with Nelly Furtado, my journey came to an abrupt halt, caused by what I initially thought to be a caravan, until it dawned on me that the traffic afore the snail trail was going nowhere fast.  I soon grew tired of pretending to be the first female presenter of Top Gear and succumbed to boredom, then dabbled with frustration before settling on good old fashioned road rage. The cacophony of car horns was doing nothing to improve my humour so I sought respite in Port Grimaud, the Venice of the Riviera.

While this little town has little to rave about, it is certainly charming and well worth visiting for some holiday snaps. The multi-coloured houses look like something you’d expect to find ‘through the looking glass’ and offer a striking backdrop to the yachts that line the harbour. Plus, along with looking like a picture postcard, Port Grimaud offers the perfect bolt hole for those who opt to give St. Tropez a miss and save themselves from dissolving into something reminiscent of a Picasso.

Sadly, what goes up, must come down. Or, in this case, what goes to must come from. Cue one abandoned attempt at attaining St. Tropez and one painfully slow return journey. In future, heed the advice of the locals and stay at home.

• Don’t miss Cannes on Saturday.

On Saturdays, those in the know flock to Cannes for the weekly flea market, where the waterfront is lined with stalls selling all manner of jumble from rare antiquities to vintage fashions. Throngs of locals and tourists alike, congregate for a good rummage and the thrill of negotiating a bargain. Glass topped drawers are filled with everything from silver cutlery to ivory ornaments and diamond rings are buried amongst costume jewels and rusty old keys. Chanel handbags dangle from the arms of traditional wooden mannequins and boxes are stuffed to capacity with postcards from the last hundred years, complete with stamps and stories in beautifully written French.

The star attraction for me however was a stall selling original posters from the fifties and sixties, artfully displayed by a delightful frenchman with no English whatsoever. To say that our conversation was stunted would be an understatement, mine consisting of ‘oui’ et ‘non’ and his consisting of everything I didn’t understand. However, I managed to glean enough to realise that some of the posters on offer were original promotional artworks for Matisse and Chagall exhibitions – perfectly preserved and highly collectible. Especially when the answer to my “Combien?” was a hefty “Sept cent euro”. “Ah. Trés bien mais non merci.” was my hasty reply.

Which raises another issue…

•  Don’t even try to be thrifty.

It’s not worth it. We’re talking about the type of territory where a café au lait will set you back €5. Which is not to say that cheap and cheerful can’t be found if you have hours and a gastric band, but it’s an exception to a strictly adhered to rule.

Backpackers are as elusive as ‘Where’s Wally” – virtually impossible to spot amidst the glamazonian women who drape themselves artfully on the arms of semi-naked demi-gods. “Dress to impress” is the mantra that these people abide by, so an Eastpak and Havaianas won’t begin to cut the Dijon. Nor will anything, for that matter, that doesn’t scream excess. Think Donatella Versace on a big night out and you’ll have a good idea of what to wear when you hit the supermarché.

Don’t be a shrinking violet.

…and now for the ‘do’s’…

SLEEP. Blow the budget and get some much needed R&R at Le Saint Paul, a hotel and restaurant in the tiny mediaeval village of St. Paul de Vence. A world away from the excesses of the Riviera, this quirky town is perched precariously on a hilltop and is home to a wealth of ateliers,  boutiques and restaurants.

Traffic won’t disturb you as the village is entirely pedestrianised, however, you may be rudely awoken by the women who congregate on their doorsteps to exchange gossip and swap crude jokes over their morning coffee. But don’t let this put you off as it adds to the magic of the place, which has scarcely changed for centuries and boasts that feeling of intimacy which is all too rare in our modern times.

EAT. Aïoli, a traditional Provencal dish. This typical french lunch may sound far from appetising but is actually a hearty equivalent to our Sunday Roast. A selection of boiled vegetables are served alongside boiled eggs and fish, complete with the obligatory Aïoli itself – a garlic mayonnaise completely unlike anything you’d find in McDonalds.

I sampled Aïoli at La Fontaine, a wonderfully off-beat restaurant in the heart of St. Paul. Panama hats were provided for al fresco diners and in place of table numbers, seating was colour coded and clashing.

La Fontaine, 10,  de la Castre, 06570 Saint Paul. Tel: +33 (0) 4 93 32 80 29

DRINK. Vin d’Orange. It’s a traditional aperitif in the South of France and is more of a liqueur than a wine – so don’t go pouring yourself a 250ml glass unless you want to write off the whole of the next day.

PACK. A mosquito net. Contrary to my belief that mosquitos were confined to Africa and could fly no further, Provence is a hotbed of waspish activity and so, although I escaped virtually unscathed, they made a bee-line (HA!) for my significant other, who after 24 hours was barely recognisable beneath welts the size of golf balls.

SEE. The Musée Picasso in Antibes, which is home to 23 paintings and 44 drawings, all of which were produced by the artist during his stay in the town in 1946. Perfect for art aficionados.

READ: Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald