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.

to Brighton!

I leave St. Ives on an eery morning, initially of just fog, then of receding fog and a receding sun as well. My hosts tell me we are to have an almost full solar eclipse  (94% in Cornwall).

Should I look up? Should I take note? Will it burn my retina, even if there are wisps of fog passing before it?

I haven't the time to research any of it. I have an early train to catch.

After the completely delicious breakfast of porridge (and fruits and nuts and yogurts and, were I to be a complete piglet -- croissants and breads and jams and eggs and, well, you get the idea)...



(an appetizer before the porridge)


I say good bye to my wonderfully talented and energetic hosts and make my way to the train station, from where I do look up and around -- first, toward St. Ives which is cast now in shadows, even as the sky is nearly blue...


 



... then eastward, toward the sun and the cove, which is cast in the eery glow of a most unusual light, darkened in part by the foggy clouds (which actually made it possible for me to look and take a photo) and in part by the near full disappearance of the sun (here, it's still 10 minutes away from its peak moment)...







...one more glance up at the hills and just momentarily, at the nearly hidden sun (as the birds flew in circles, perhaps thrown off by the intense light and non-light).







And then I catch the little train to St. Erth. One last look at the sands -- this time showing signs of a receding tide and, too, looking desolate in the strange light of the eclipse:


 



Not daring to miss my connection, I have given myself too long of a layover in St. Erth, but no matter: there is a small gift shop-cafe and I spend my time admiring copies of old posters that used to advertise rail service to Cornwall. The woman who works here is a retired school teacher and what's more, after asking me where I was from,  she informs me that not only does she know where Wisconsin is but that she actually visited the state some forty years ago, on a lark, for a friend's wedding. She remembers nothing of it except that it was very green. I'm thinking she did not visit it in March. As I leave, she waves a cheery hand and tells me -- give my love to Wisconsin!



(outside, a passenger looks up, the safe way)



My five hour ride to London is an exact replica of my five hour ride to Cornwall, except that I'm less exhausted and the Internet is even less functional and of course, it is in reverse. Remembering the words of the first conductor, I make sure to take in the landscape.






In London, I must change not only trains, but also train stations. Will I see London differently now that the sun is out and the air is a good ten degrees warmer?






Not really. I am again in the same area of park and indifferent blocks and I have only 65 minutes between trains (and google maps tells me it's a 41 minute walk, without the burden of a little suitcase) and so I do not pause and take only the rare photo.



(taking your horse out to the park on a sunny afternoon)





(walking your daughter home from school)





(pretty, but so inferior to Cornwall!)


I am in such a hurry and so suspicious of Google's estimate (do they account for red lights? or uphill routes? Do they time you to the periphery of a station or the heart of it?) that I really put the motor on. As I enter Victoria...





...I hear the announcement of the last call for the Brighton train. But it's the earlier train! I've cut ten minutes from the walk and I can run for the 16:07! And I make it just as the doors close behind me. (Why rush? Well, why hang around a train station when I can have a few more daylight minutes in a new place and one that's by the sea?)

The train ride to Brighton is on a speedy link, with limited stops: a mere fifty-eight minutes for the eighty miles.

Oh, the rail surely had an impact on the development of this coastal town! It came here in 1841 and from then on, Brighton became a seaside destination for Londoners. It joins other towns along the coast just south of London in forming a block of watering holes for the harried and hassled northeners in search of fresh sea air. Brighton's population is 160,000, but if you link the nearby coastal towns to it, we're talking closer to half a million. There is a beach: miles and miles of pebble rock line the sea (or more accurately, the English Channel) and you can imagine how crowded it gets during the summer months.

St. Ives seems a world away.

I'm here for only one night. I needed a place to stay that isn't too far from Gatwick Airport and that would offer an interesting set of hours before my afternoon flight on Saturday.

I walk the twenty five minute walk to my guest house. It is an uninteresting walk, but I am not completely surprised. Most cities have a seedier commercial face around major stations. I very few photos. Here's one of tweens, after school, at a bus stop. I think this has to be the toughest age for girls. Here, they're downing soda almost as if in defiance (there is a campaign in the U.K. to fight soda consumption and snacking; given the number of times the snack trolly rolled down the train carriage, I'm not sure it's all that successful).


 



And thisnext  picture tells me that Poles are here in great numbers. (My innkeepers say that you wouldn't move to Brighton to start a family -- it's not geared for that. Jobs are in the food and hotel industries which, traditionally pay less. So it makes sense to me that unskilled workers from Poland would migrate here.)






Still with suitcase, I detour to the shore, just to take a look. Brighton is known for its pier -- one that has some of the Jersey like concessions and amusements.






It's not especially a draw now. Looking west, in the strange yellow light of an almost setting sun, I see the remains of the second pier which burned sometime ago and has never been restored.






Perhaps this detour to the waterside was a mistake. It's as if I allow that to define my image of Brighton. And it isn't a sparkling image.

But I'm keeping an open mind. Why? Because the Bournemouth inn keeping couple I met in St Ives loved this place so much. And they spoke so highly of my guest house owners.

As well they might! I walk up now past interesting blocks of homes and guest houses spilling out toward the waterfront.






And I come to the lovely front door of mine -- called simply The Twenty One. (It's just a few houses from the shore, but I'm not certain if the shore is crucial to your well being in Brighton. It's as if it creates the space and expanse, but the pleasure of life has seeped into other Brighton areas.)






My hosts upgrade me. I had booked the cheap single, I got the lovely double on an upper floor.






With a mirror facing the bed.






It's certainly different that the St Ives accommodation but it is absolutely deserving of its gushing Tripadvisor reviews. The room is quiet, lovely and well stocked. I could not ask for more.

I had written my hosts asking for a restaurant suggestion, given that it's my last night in England. I told them that I wanted fresh and honest and somewhat British. I was told to try the Ginger Dog.

It is absolutely the right suggestion: informal and good, with a more modern pub fare.



(see trout with kale)




(informal dining; also the only place I will have seen sheep close up on this trip)


I made friends here: the couple next to me are foodie types and the amount of words they exchange on the wine alone (these are all fairly inexpensive wines) makes me smile. And so we talk. About why they chose to live here (like my innkeepers, one guy followed the other who wanted sea air and an easy commute to London), about England, about food, about Brighton, about America. They had a lot to say about America, since they'd traveled there numerous times.

I walk home past shops that do remind me I am in England. Who back home would call their liquor store The Boozy Cow?





Still, Brighton, to me, is different than your average English town. I get that from my hotel hosts and from my "friends" at the pub. I think I know what to look for tomorrow. I don't have a full day here, but I'm really energized. There's a lot to be said for Brighton. You'll see. Tomorrow.