Goodbye France

For me reaching the French Riviera and cruising it was a major objective for the trip, so now that we’ve travelled its length what will stay with me?  I guess first the almost dreamlike beauty of our three-day run from Bandol to Juan les Pins, anchoring in quiet bays and swimming off the boat and the tiny chocolate box harbour on Saint Honorat.  Those experiences felt like things that happen to other people, not ordinary Johns like Sue and I.  Not that it was all plain sailing.  Even in calm weather I find the Mediterranean a stressful sea to travel on.  It still feels foreign and the weather treacherous, with the capacity to turn and bite you quite suddenly.  This has made nights at anchor pretty sleepless.

Second, I think I’ve been left with a lasting affection for Antibes.  Graham Greene apparently said it was the one place on the Riviera that still had a soul.  I think I know what he meant, the Old Town with its narrow alleys and Provencal Market still has a human scale and there is a feeling about the place that it is still there for everyone to enjoy, not just the obscenely rich, although Antibes has found a place for them too – a special extension to the harbour for super super yachts - boats without helipads need not apply.

Third, the easy listening sounds of Radio Riviera, an English language station with all the production values and breadth of vision of British provincial local radio, the only real difference being that most of the adverts are for brokers and investment advisers explaining how they can look after wads the size of the Himalayas.  Hearing English language radio again was a bit of a shock, especially the continuous drip feed of international news.  I hadn’t actually missed this for the previous six weeks and yet straight away I felt hooked again, worrying about whether the US will invade Iraq and how close the crisis of international capitalism really is.  Overall, I know I’m happier without this continual noise.  Don’t get me wrong, I do want to know what’s going on in the world, what I don’t want is the never ending ticker tape of bald headlines that add nothing to ones understanding and reduce world events to the status of a soap opera dealing with the fascinating question of whether the World As We Know It is going to last at least until next weekend.

Fourth, the sheer hedonism, wealth and self-indulgence of the Riviera.  The impression is of an industrious playground carefully designed to part the rich, the pretentious and the gullible from their money in as much style as possible.  For me this is probably best characterised by the Eden Roc Hotel on Cap d’Antibes, just a short walk from our marina at Juan les Pins.  Proud of its label as Europe’s most expensive hotel it sits in its own extensive grounds and doesn’t accept credit cards, before booking in you authorise them to transfer the funds to pay the enormous bill direct from your bank account.

Fifth, although this is really a subset of my fourth point, bloody powerboats.  I don’t mean your ordinary little pleasure boat or even quite large and luxurious floating caravans.  No, what I mean are the large sleek penis extensions that look like escape pods from the Starship Enterprise.  The Italian nautical almanac, the “Blue Pages” has an advert in English which seems to sum up exactly what I’m talking about.  It comprises a picture of a streamlined blue and white power boat about twenty five metres long planing across a blue sea and throwing up a stupendous spray.  There is a jet ski sat on the large rear bathing platform and a British flag is flying off the back, stiff as an erection because of the boat’s speed.  Two bimbos are draped around the cockpit along with a slightly chubby bloke of indeterminate age wearing shorts and a blue and white striped top.  The caption reads, and I am not making this up, “The Predator 68 – Why stop wielding power on your day off?” (To my surprise I saw what looked like a Predator  68 in the marina here shortly after writing this – it was ludicrously named “Che Guevara”, which only goes to show that in order to own one you must not only have no taste, but no sense of the ridiculous either). So why do I hate these things so much?  Apart from being ugly devices for burning tanker loads of diesel fuel and creating massive wash all over the Med, they are scary for other boat users.  When one of these things is hurtling towards you at thirty knots on a collision course, for all you know the boat is on the autohelm linked to a sophisticated electronic chart system with its course from St Tropez to Portofino already plotted in while its tanned and paunchy owner is shagging his PA in the Master Cabin. 

Curiously, now that we have been in the Med for a few weeks I feel a little more lonely and confused than on the trip down.  On the way down one is constantly in contact with people doing the same kind of thing and the objective is fairly clear.  When one gets here everyone fans out in different directions, our German friends Thomas and Nicole to Barcelona and John and Chris to Rome (not forgetting Bernie and Sarah in Avignon and heading South last we heard) and there is an almost bewildering choice in terms of the pace, direction and style of one’s travel.  Don’t get me wrong, I am most certainly not complaining, time and again Sue and I find ourselves saying how privileged we feel to be doing what we are.  Our next big choice is where (and if) to stop for winter and if so, for how long.  Rome has its attractions and even Genova, if we could find a mooring that leaves us enough to buy food.  The nice people from “Topolino” (who actually recommended the excellent marina at Juan les Pins, suggested Vibo Valentia, a provincial Italian backwater about fifty miles from the Straights of Messina.  I will keep you posted.