La Ciotat

La Ciotat is a charming spot, the Old Port is full of yachts and fishing boats and is surrounded by shops and cafes on three sides and by the massive cranes of a shipyard that builds and repairs oil tankers on the other.  After Chris and John left, Sue and I strolled around the port taking in the almost too perfect harbour atmosphere – quiet cafes, strolling couples, the reflection of street lights rippling across the water of the harbour.  We settled down at one of the cafes where I tucked into moules frites.  Inside were a party from “Topolino” a British yacht we had first met in Avignon – two crusty old blokes and the charming partner of one of them, who clearly makes sure that the old blokes survive and have clean underpants.  Outside, where we were sitting, three young Brits and Antipodeans were at a nearby table, the “Topolino” people explained that they were carrying out work on a boat in the harbour.  Also outside a party of two French thirty-something couples were sharing an enormous Bouillabaisse which the two young guys who ran the restaurant had carefully presented and shared among the four diners.  As the thirty-somethings started dismantling their Bouillabaisse a small woman with blond dyed hair in, I guess, her seventies began to serenade the outside tables, while a man of similar age, holding her bag containing sheet music, looked on.  It was dark now and she sang what sounded to me like French cabaret and traditional songs with what was clearly a trained voice.  The performance was rendered both pathetic and heart-rending by her style of delivery – that of a young Chanteuse and her seeming failure to have any idea that this style no longer fitted her age, her looks, or her failing voice, creating the impression of a person chronically deluded.  Her breast rose and sank with the effort of the songs and the emotion of their delivery.  The thirty-somethings and the Brit lads tried hard to stifle their laughter and the guys who ran the restaurant, to their total credit, were indulgent and polite.  The old man looked at her and from time to time at us diners with an expression that said, “I am here because I love her, I’ve done my best to stop her doing this, but I cannot and so I must give her my support”.  The performance was excruciating, but not long enough to be tedious as after a few songs she passed her hat round before disappearing with her partner to another restaurant.

Next morning at about eight o’clock we awoke to the unmistakable sound of a prat in charge of a public address system within feet of our mooring -  “un, deux, trois” (sound of blowing followed by fragment of Europop), “un, deux, trois” etc, etc.  Sticking my head bleary eyed out of the hatch I was actually rather relieved to find that we were right in the middle of the preparations for the La Ciotat town fete which was clearly about to take place.  All around the harbour stalls were being erected representing every club and society active in the town, from the folk music society to the radio controlled model sailing yacht club.  Later Sue and I strolled around the stalls and followed the local brass band as it tromboned and trumpeted its way around the harbour.  In the late morning we set off from the harbour for a leisurely sail to Bandol, a few miles down the coast and I have to say I was sorry to leave, for me La Ciotat has the unpretentious charm of a working port and is probably the first place we have come to where I could seriously think about living longer term.

Bandol was our first real Mediterranean resort, it is on the Cote Bleu, not the Cote d’Azure, doubtless a marketing invention for a coast that doesn’t quite have the cachet of the real French Riviera – rather more Marks and Spencer than Prada.  We stayed a couple of days in the town Marina, pleased to find that out of season (July, August and to a lesser extent September) berths are not too hard to find and prices are actually rather cheaper than in the UK.