excursion!

Without the advice of someone from the tourist office, my plans for the day are shaped by the train schedule. Where can I go that's close by and new for me? I still haven't done the local hikes around La Napoule, but today I want to do big things. There's plenty of sunshine and the temperatures are climbing. Aim high!

I decide on a trip to Grasse. It's so easy! A ten minute train ride to Cannes and change there for a twenty-two minute ride to Grasse. As a benefit, on the way back I can finally stick that toe in the city that I've avoided all these years. I don't know Cannes at all. I think I visited it when I was thirteen years old, but at this point, if you asked me what I associate with Cannes, I'll say -- the May film festival and glitzy shops, people and boats. To me, it represents "the Riviera" side of the shoreline here and I don't mean that as a complement.

The train that will connect to Grasse leaves Mandelieu-La Napoule at 9:47. That gives me plenty of time to get a good cafe breakfast.

But is that what I want? The sun is streaming into the apartment, the terrace looks so inviting!

I go out to the bakery, purchase a small croissant, a small pain au chocolat and a half a baguette...






...and take my breakfast out to the balcony.






The view is toward the marina across the street. I almost don't want to leave.






Alright alright alright. Off I go!

Are you asking what's in Grasse? Okay, let me pump you with some basic information about the place. It's in the hills, away from the shore a bit. The hills protect it from prevailing winds and they create a micro climate that is extremely suitable for growing flowers. Grasse is known as the perfume capital of the world. It produces over two thirds of France's natural aromas used in perfume, body care products and foods (it's the food flavorings that saved the town from stagnation ofter many of the perfume companies were bought by international conglomerates, who then took the industry elsewhere and, too, began to rely on synthetic chemicals for many of the scents you'll now find at least in part and especially in the less expensive perfumes). Grasse has been in the business of creating natural scents for several centuries. If you deal in perfume, you'll know about Grasse.

A town with such a long history of scent production is going to be big: Grasse has a population of over 50,000. I have a mild interest in seeing this perfume aspect of Grasse and I know, too, that it has a very pretty medieval old town. Initially, I thought it may also offer some hikes into the hills, but that proved to be false, so I concentrated my walk on the old town.

I start, of course, at the train station. If there is one thing that has been elusive for me on this trip it's the reliable Tourist Office. I need maps! I need information! Can anyone tell me where it is? No they cannot. One person (wrongly) tells me it's in the center of the old town. Well great! It's where I'm heading! Which way is the old town?
Take the bus.
But I want to walk!
There are many steps.

Each time I asked for directions,  I hear the same words -- there are many steps.

On this point, everyone is so right.

I am the only one using them going up and I can so understand why. There are many steps!

But the old town is really pretty! Yes, much of it looks especially beautiful against that blue sky -- I'm in Provence after all and the building colors are a perfect match to it.






I do still need my maps and information, but this part of the walk is already good!






The Tourist Office seems to have moved fairly recently and so I cross virtually the whole old town before I find it and therefore I only half listen to the agent's explanation of where I should walk and how I should go about discovering Grasse. I feel I've already plenty discovered it. And I really like what I see.






Still, the perfume aspect of it is eluding me so I decide to pause for a while at the museum of perfume.

I don't regret it, but nor do I especially benefit much from it. Yes, scent has been important for human development since ancient times. Yes, over the centuries aromas have contributed to everything from hiding body odor to creating religious rites and developing a sophisticated cuisine. But it's not until I reach the part of the exhibit that explains how Grasse's industry flourished that I really begin reading what's posted on the walls.

(On this particular wall there is a mirror. I put it to good use.)






And I like the little terrace with the orange trees and the blooming rose.











You would think that I'd be all museumed out after this, but less than a block away there is the museum of Fragonard - a leading perfume maker in France -- and that museum is free, so perhaps I should peek in there as well? Here's the building, against the panorama looking down to the sea. (It's funny: when you are in the hills and mountains, you relish the distant view of the sea. When you are by the sea, you get excited by the sight of mountains in the background.)






I do an even faster walk through there and I skip the factory tour because I would have to wait quite a bit for it. (I do peek at the vats where the maceration of the flowers takes place. No photo needed: they look like big vats for processing wine or whiskey or any other liquid.)

And I do pause in their basement shop because it's fascinating to see this world of scents translated into the retailing of perfumes. I've stopped using any perfumes since I met Ed (though lotions are another story). Not even eau de toilette. He thinks that stuff is weird.  I don't necessarily agree, but it's not as if I have any use for it at all at the farmette. It just doesn't fit with planting flowers, tending chickens and looking after my granddaughter. Ah, but I have two daughters! And so I linger. And sure enough, I make the purchase. I am a sucker for a good sales pitch. All the images of jasmine (Fragonard's "flower of 2015")? Right to my head. Out comes the credit card.

After the second museum, I don't linger. I've seen the two interesting sides to Grasse. I can catch the train back to Cannes.


Ah, Cannes. Nothing like having low expectations to make you actually feel quite good about your visit to a place!

It start on the right foot: a poke into an exquisite patisserie, lured less by the sight of beautiful pastries...






...and more by the sight of my beloved macarons. I purchase six.





I also go to the Galeries Lafayette (France's leading department store) and purchase a pair of polka dot slippers  -- I need them for the apartment and will use them at the farmhouse -- and too, several delightful girlie things for my granddaughter back home. Think: summer in sundresses with strawberries and playsuits with orange poppies.

A bit loaded down with bags, I nonetheless persevere with a sight seeing agenda. I find the tourist office (finally! the requisite brochures, maps and schedules!) and I learn about hikes near La Napoule (there are plenty!). And I get directions for a walking tour of Cannes. I do "part one" this afternoon -- of the old town. I take few photos, in part because I'm loaded down and in part because I have the old town for you from Grasse and I feel there are only so many scenes of yellow shuttered buildings against blue skies that you can take in one sitting.

But I will put up one pic of a typical cafe scene along the grander boulevards.





Lots of women with very yellow hair and expensive handbags, just as I imagined Cannes would have.

Still, the old town is quiet. The blocks wind up a steep hill and there are almost no people on them. Just the occasional person enjoying the warm air. In Wisconsin, he'd be in shorts. I've long discarded my jacket! Warm climate people get cold easily!






The castle up on top is closed today (perhaps this explains the almost complete emptiness of the area),  but the views from here are magnificent! Of Cannes below...






There's a stone wall, so I can do a time-release selfie!






And facing west, you see the more hilly, rugged area just west of La Napoule.






And now just a few more minutes of strolling the streets -- I have a 5:03 pm train to catch for the ten minute ride to La Napoule.


Dinner? I go back to my first night's place -- La Neapolis. Yes, there are other choices, but honestly, this one is just crowded with people and I like that. And the food is more than fine -- I take a pasta dish with gambas and thin slivers of zucchini. Delicious!






At home, I open the bottle Jean-Paul and Martine left for me -- of an Alsatian Cremant (bubbly). It is superb, especially when paired with my macarons!






I upped the walking hours today. I'm happily tired. And full of plans for the week ahead.

Sunday in La Napoule

Suddenly, my days have become very relaxed. I know this part of the Mediterranean coast from my Nice visits and I feel no urgent need to explore. Yes, I'll go back to Nice. And I'll head for the hills. And I'll set (a reluctant) foot in Cannes. But not today.

For one thing, I wake up to a drizzle. I know it will end and I know that in the week I'm here I'll have plenty of sunny days and so I ignore it. I unpack, I throw a week's worth of laundry into the machine and I settle in.

But I also notice a small puddle somewhere in the vicinity of the brand new (well every single thing in the apartment is brand new) washing machine.

Now, Jean-Paul and Martine were so concerned about leaving me alone in the south that they had planned on remaining in the hotel next door for a few days, making sure that all worked well and that I would have in them a resource for anything I needed.

I shoo them away. They'd already pretested the apartment by living in it for a few days.
But you don't know the area! What if you need advice?
I nearly roll my eyes. It's not all that new to me and you've given  me plenty of advice!
Jean-Paul hesitates, but I insiste. Martine misses her dog up in Alsace. They've been away from their home for a while and the drive back is long (8-9 hours).

Go! I repeat this (multiple times) when they come this morning, even after showing them the puddle. Jean-Paul calls Mr. le Plumber and tells me he'll be here in a half hour.
Go! I can handle Mr. le Plumber!

And so we say our good byes and they drive off.

I turn on their lovely preprogrammed classical music on their exquisite sound system and settle in to wait.

Mr. le Plumber comes promptly. He dismantles everything in the bathroom. He needs a part.
I will return! He assures me. I tell him I'll wait to buzz him in.
He returns.
He sweats.
He tries to turn down the heat. Me, I'm just enjoying the warmth after all those blistery walks along the English coast (even though it's wet today, the temps are in the upper fifties F).  But, I feel sorry for Mr. le Plumber who is stuck in a very warm space between the washer and a wall. I turn down the heat.

After a while I notice that it is approaching 11. I ask him if he minds if I pop out for a breakfast. I have visions of the last croissant disappearing. Good bread products must be taken seriously and I know that only one bakery is open today.
But I need to get another part!  He, who speaks little if any English, knows the name of the part in my language. Joint! he says proudly. C'est le joint!

Well that's okay. I'll go out and get my coveted bread product and return to eat it here. The apartment has a Nespresso machine. It has butter. It has milk. In other words, it has a good foundation for a breakfast at home.

I pick up the essentials.



(see all those guy jeans? Another French tradition: send your man out to get the bread)


A baguette, an almond croissant at the bakery and then strawberries and wild strawberry preserves and eggs at the cute little food store and I go back home and Mr. le Plumber gets his part and I set out my breakfast and this is how one could say that I ate my first breakfast in France (well, it is noon, so really brunch) with Mr. le Plumber.





After he leaves, I turn the heat back on and relax. I seem to be very good at that here.

Do I get ambitious in the afternoon? Here's a surprise: what I do is I iron my freshly washed and dried pants. I never iron anything back home, but I feel disheveled enough in France (as compared to the perfectly groomed French woman) without having to add wrinkles in my pants to my appearance. And so I iron.

Popping out for a quick exploration is not particularly attractive as it starts to drizzle just as I step outside. I admire the tiny little beach right across the street and wonder if Snowdrop would enjoy it.



(It's raked every night which I think is quaint in the off season...)


I watch hardy types sit outside at a cafe-restaurant and enjoy an afternoon refreshment...





... against the backdrop of bobbing boats.






Back at home, I again get too comfortable on that lovely sofa. This wont do!

The rain has stopped and I decide to go to the Tourist Office. The walk is by the river, inland and I estimate it to be 45 minutes each way. (That would put me at 1.5 hours of brisk walking for the day -- I must arrest this downward trend!) I want to stock up on information about the area.

La Napoule, for me, isn't really a destination in an of itself. Like Sorede where Ed and I stayed so many times, it doesn't offer sights per se (though it does have a crumbling old castle, so perhaps it has one over Sorede), but it's pretty, it looks out to the sea and it even has a small beach for those who need that time on the sand. Its greatest virtue though is that it's an extraordinary base from which I can explore the area. Unlike so much of the crowded and spoiled Mediterranean coastal towns, La Napoule offers calm and serenity. It has great eating choices and everything is at your fingertips: good bakeries, a train station -- all just around the corner. The train station especially makes this place pretty perfect. In most other seaside towns and cities, the station is removed from the waterfront or anywhere you're likely to stay and so going somewhere becomes more of an effort. Here, I can be on a train five minutes after leaving the apartment. Jean-Paul and Martine have truly discovered a Mediterranean jewel. (And the reason they found it is that she had remembered coming here as a little girl for a summer with her aunt.)

But on a cloudy Sunday afternoon, I don't want to head out anywhere and so I use this day to simply collect information. Or I mean to do that.

I am not the only one walking the river walk. This is such a French (and Polish!) thing to do: eat a big meal then go out for a walk.



(this is where the river meets the sea; choppy waters today!)





(women talk, men talk; just not with each other)


And so I am glad I rejoin humanity out here among the flowering pear trees.






But since this is the off off season, the tourist office is closed (Sunday closures continue until the end of March), so that you could say the goal was a bit of a fizzle, except that I did step into a bakery, just to look and I happen to catch the moment when the baker is taking out a fresh batch of baguettes with the most heavenly aroma. (Another French tradition: to buy your bread for the evening in the late afternoon, so it is as fresh as it can be.)






The walk back is even better because I can appreciate its nicer twists and turns and all that this path has to offer.
















...which includes, every once in a while, views onto to the tip of the Alpine range to the north.







Dinner, well, it appears that I have picked a place (Le Tire Bouchon) where good looking young people go. I am definitely twice as old as nearly everyone there. Maybe they have left their babies with grandma. Maybe they're just thinking about whether to start a family. [France has one of the higher fertility rates in Europe at 2.01 per woman, but the mean age for starting a family is also high at 29.9 years for the mother. Compare that to the States: 1.88 births per woman, with a mean age of first birth for the mom at 25.4.]


 


It's thought to be a tapas wine bar and I see that many simply order charcuterie trays of meats and cheeses. Perhaps they had their main Sunday meal with families, in the afternoon.

The food is exceptionally good. Consider this gambas tempura -- delicate, with an intense dipping sauce.






The French around me is rapid and intense. It's as if the young people here are loaded with a verbal energy that cannot be tamed.

I finish and walk slowly to my little apartment by the sea. The moon, new and thin, is nonetheless shining brightly over the Napoule  rooftops. The clouds are chased away. It's going to be a sunny Monday here, in southern France.

Saturday

I can see the draw. Brighton has a bit of London in it. That part where tattoo parlors mix with boutiques and bars, coffee shops and doodads and flea markets. It's perhaps not as edgy, and surely not as pricey. It's gay friendly and pink hair friendly and if you've had enough of the little shops in little streets, you can go to the pebble beach and throw rocks into the water.

I think I was right in viewing it as a coastal town where perhaps the coast doesn't set the tone for most days for most residents, except for the weather it brings with it. The sea is to Brighton as Lake Michigan is to Chicago. Yes, in the summer, the beaches may be crowded with big city people looking for a day's (or several days') outing, but there are a heck of a lot of people who live here claiming they love to live by the sea but who never pay it much heed except to look out occasionally and note that it's still there.

At least that's my guess, because Brighton was busy today, it being a weekend day, but there weren't many strollers on the beach (which, by the way, does not lend itself to strolling because of all those big pebbles and because the "boardwalk" along the edge is asphalt, right by the road no less and therefore not especially inviting).






I did not give Brighton much time because even though I was up at 6, writing a post took a while and I lingered, too, over breakfast, which was lovely and prepared exactly to my liking. Again I passed on the croissants and other delicious extras. The time for carb heavy breakfasts is just around the corner. For now, I'm enjoying the English take on the morning meal.






My map of Brighton got lost in the shuffle and so I haven't the detail I'd like for this post, but I'll walk you through my half day, or half of half day and you should know that my walk is the one recommended by my hosts and so I think it captures the heart of this place reasonably well.



(I start at the guest house -- the building with the yellow sign)





(plenty of narrow lanes with sweet shops)





(pedestrian zones offering more shopping opportunities)


A major attraction in Brighton is the Royal Pavilion. In fact, it put Brighton on the map even before the rail came here. It is the place that was built for the pleasures of Prince Regent George IV and if you think it looks a little Indian in design, that's because there is that influence, at least on the outside.






I did not visit it on the inside because I did not want to spend the hour on it and besides, I was too distracted by the flowers in the garden and the appearance of a young fox. No one seems to know why he is here and how he came here. Maybe he considers this his summer home now, not unlike many who operate out of here especially in the summer months, finding that to be a more lucrative time for business.






More walking along pedestrian funky streets, reminding me also a little of our own State Street in Madison, though without the students that tend to populate our own place of eclectic shops and eateries.











I did go into two stores -- one called Bebe something -- with kid clothes of course and one that is very London, also displaying at least a small section of children's attire.








(that's me, handing over the credit card)


I think my granddaughter will be ready for a summer play-suit and a summer dress and matching pants and hoodie. I sort of cannot imagine her entering the three month range, but indeed, when I get back, she'll be just a few days short of three which is in my mind quite amazing.

More strolling, more taking it in...



(this is probably my favorite block)




(lots of original store names)







And by noon I'm done. I pick up my suitcase from the lovely and perfectly tended guest house ("we thought we'd relax after doing the major renovation eight years ago, but there is always something that needs updating, fixing, refreshing") and I walk the long way to the station, allowing myself even more views of street scenes that seem to be the essence of this interesting city. I think I gave you the best parts of it. (There are large sections of Brighton that are less interesting.)



(my last England photo has to have a Fish and Chips sign!)


Now comes the time to take the 13:03 to Gatwick Airport, where I catch the 5:05pm Easy Jet (discount airline) to Nice,  arriving there a little tardy at 8:30pm (this also reflects France's continental time zone which runs an hour ahead of the U.K.).

I'm not staying in Nice. I'm staying in La Napoule, just west of Cannes (a half hour drive or train trip from Nice).

Do you remember the movie (or book) "A Room with a View?" In it, Charlotte the chaperone to Lucy goes on incessantly about the absence of a view in their set of rooms at a Florence Pensione, despite the promise of one in the correspondence leading up to the reservation. I love that scene! Charlotte, of course, appears a bit batty, but I understand her point. Each one of us has something that they want from their rooms away from home (except for Ed who just wants to be left alone to create his little mess around him and not be told to clean up because the maid needs space to walk around the bed). When this something is missing, you feel lost.

On this trip I am achieving that rare miracle of 100% satisfaction. I could not improve on the places where I stayed and I am just entering another gem -- this one predictably so, because it's the newest apartment renovation and rental effort on the part of the renovators extraordinaire -- Jean Paul and Martine Krebs.

Maybe you'll recall how happy I was in my little apartment in Alsace in October? I met Jean-Paul the owner then and we got chatting and I found out about his exciting venture into the south and I told him I'd be his first guest there and, well, they got it ready in time for my visit and here I am -- their first and very excited guest.

They, too, are excited, or very kind, or both because Jean-Paul picks me up at Nice airport, saving me the train trip to La Napoule and he not only shows off the new place for me, but he and Martine take me out to dinner at the Neapolis -- one of the many restaurants open year-round here.

A quick pic of the apartment, also called La Napoule...






And of the wonderful dinner...


 



...where I choose pizza because I miss a good pizza so much and this one is absolutely perfect and with so much sea food that it really puts me in the mood for being on the coast.






The dessert choice? There's not even a question.






I'll write more on all the wonderfulness that I find here in my next post. As it is, considering the terrifically fun dinner, the food eaten, the wine consumed, the stories told, it isn't until midnight when I finally turn off the lights and lose myself in the comfort of a heavenly bed.