Part One: Juan-Les-Pins–Comic Books, Cold Chicken, and the Hotel Juana
The summer vacation that I was fortunate enough to experience, one school term prior to passing through the hallowed portals of study at Eton College, Windsor, Bucks., I remember fondly as one of the jewels set tight over the gateway of my early adolescence.
On holiday from school, as I was at the time, I was still sufficiently young and idle to dive into comic books of an evening—after spending the larger part of the day diving off a busy jetty into the clear shallows at the beach.
French television in 1959 was struggling to nurse a babe in arms into maturity. This meant that a Côte d’Azur holiday evening for a 12-year-old, independent, tranquil choirboy would either involve entertainment courtesy of Spirou et Fantasio—my favourite animated, youthful pair of Belgian cartoon characters, written and drawn as if they lived in France, who left poor Tintin well behind, resembling a village idiot—while sprawled on my bed with an exceptional room service delivery of cold chicken salad, globe artichokes or fat green asparagus; a cheeseboard of Brie, Port Salut, Pont-l’Évêque, and Bel Paese—along with wild strawberries, culled from nearby Alpine hillside forests when the hotel had them—all washed down with a fizzy bottle of the unfortunately named Pschitt Orange or Citron, promoted with the contemporarily fashionable French devotion to onomatopoeia via Les Pieds Nickelés.
Or, alternatively, it was off to the amusement arcade across the pinede (pine grove), overflowing with hostile dodgem cars to the rear of the bustling hall. Not rolling in money, but subbed by a knowing Mum during each of the two allocated weeks, there was always enough for occasional nights of pinball and primary video games.
I was a terrible snob. To begin with, I was fully aware of the existence of Monaco’s Hôtel de Paris—next to the Casino—where, two years earlier, I had sung “Around the World I Searched for You”, fronting the band at a dinner gathering in the crowded restaurant, merely to impress my girlfriend, the lovely Caroline Abrahams.
Following that, there was the Old Beach Hotel in Monte Carlo, where I had stayed in a room directly overlooking the shoreline that, in retrospect, became my all-time memorable Riviera cushion—especially since it provided a grandstand view of the magnificent annual 14th July evening firework display, spraying up from the Monte Carlo Beach Club just a kilometre up the coast, with the castle and the hanging Monaco aquarium acting as ancient backdrops.
On the English prom in Nice loomed the renownedly luxurious—if slightly sinister—Negresco, which I sincerely believe my racist parents avoided intently due to the name alone. Many years later, I ventured to stay one night—though I found it gloomy and too noisy, not only from the clattering traffic outside but from the in-house refurbishments no one had thought to warn us about when I made the booking for my wife and me.
The topless, solar-lounging Negresco girls who sunbathed on Nice’s pebble beach below the promenade were, on the other hand, spectacular—dripping in bling and oblivious to everything except their next cocktail and the designer labels sewn into their respective beachwear.
Back in Monaco, perched on the central hilltop dominating the harbour, rises the Hôtel Hermitage—which I’ve never visited, though it must be pretty snazzy inside, as my grandfather usually stayed there when in Monaco. A man who had sometimes been deemed by the press to be the richest man in Britain at the time.
The most glamorous of the local luxury hotel collection dominated its own parkland of some 50 acres on the Cap d’Antibes and was—and still is—simply known as the Hôtel du Cap. Set back from the seashore, it boasted its own beach club, pool, and restaurant perched on a promontory at the sea end of the park—an area which the management had named Eden Roc. A group of us lunched there the last time, off-season, in about 2001 and found it still well-maintained, comfortable, and welcoming. But since that could also be said about Butlin’s, Bognor Regis, the distinct lack of celebrity juice on the site provided a mild sense of abandonment.
My own particular preference, however, stood at the far end of the tiny harbour of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. It was the charming Voile d’Or, and to this day I find its enchantment difficult to assess. It’s delightfully decorated, for sure. The food is classically appetising. The setting appropriate and natural. But it supplies no “wow” factor—though frankly, if it did, the overall effect would be spoiled. For enchanting it is, to the extent where one is content to sit and enjoy the sights and sounds of dusk closing in from your balcony above the boats—instead of dashing off to some wild rave party, held aboard a rocking gin-palace.
Used to wallowing through joint parental holidays in such luxurious circumstances, imagine my concern when informed by my dear Mama—following the well-publicised Ednam separation—that our destination for the coming summer could be readily interpreted as more frugal in prospect. I had never heard of the Hotel Juana, but when sent the brochure I found myself looking at what appeared to be a 1930s chalet with no sea views.
The chalet was half-hidden behind the widespread stand of pines that gives the town its name. It could just as easily have stood as a collection of apartments in a Leeds suburb or a prosperous village in Asturias.
Once there, for a few hours my spoilt, immature prejudices seethed silently. Although, as I began to nose around the district and discover items like the games arcade, prospects didn’t seem at all bad. On the very next corner, for example, on an alfresco stage, the resident house band for the summer were France’s first rockers—Les Chaussettes Noires (Black Socks), complete with Eddy Barclay up front—the very foundation stone of French electric rock. Their music invariably flowed up from next door to my residency, and on into the clear evening skies.
But it wasn’t until we sat down for food that I understood my mother’s good sense. Had she wanted a sea view from a period property in the same area, there was the nearby 19th-century villa—by then a hotel—where F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote The Great Gatsby. But the Juana had been obtaining rave reviews for her kitchens and, in recent years, had been hiding the light of her dainty dishes under the bushel of her modernist appearance.
So the consistent quality of meals for the coming stay would invariably be automatic and unquestionable. And, apparently, Juan-les-Pins was somewhere a 12-year-old might fill his boots without tripping over in them afterwards and breaking his neck.
Part Two: Vallauris—Bullfights and Blushes in Picasso’s Village
My companions for the first fortnight of the holiday were twofold. If you had imagined my dear Mama had planned to leave her golden boy alone—at the mercy of Sciroccos and Tramontanas—while she sailed the coastline of Italy with her paramour, you were much mistaken. I remained in the care and company of her new ladies’ maid: a young, beautiful Spanish girl named Elvira. She became quite popular, disappearing each night with a different beau in various flashy sports cars. But this didn’t bother me or leave me feeling abandoned, because shortly after the parental love boat sailed, a schoolfriend arrived from London to stir up some extra giggles and join in on late-night expeditions.
His name was Johnny Kratovil. His family had emigrated to Britain from Czechoslovakia before the war to avoid Nazi persecution. He was two or three months younger than I, but—being an only child—far more enterprising, and I valued his presence keenly, if warily.
We bought comic albums and French-made metal racing cars. We explored shops and markets. We gorged on chocolate éclairs, cupcakes and profiteroles. We played cards and gamboled under the hot sun. We flirted with girls at the arcade and shared dodgems for extra weight and greater impact against unsuspecting opponents.
Elvira kept her distance. She had discovered her own bustling social summer and was loving it. I promised to spend a little more time with her after John had left and before the boss returned.
One evening—late in his stay—John insisted we embark on an extensive after-dark adventure. We’d both noticed a poster advertising a football match between Cannes and Zaragoza. We agreed it was to be our target of choice. And our method of transport? Shanks’s pony. Not even a bicycle to help us cover the five or so miles between the two towns. So, to arrive on time, it was essential to make an early start. At 5 p.m., we set off, yomping enthusiastically down the pavement of the maritime causeway, with unobstructed views of the Mediterranean horizon stretching out to our left.
Cannes football stadium is far from ginormous, but it’s easily large enough to create emotional atmosphere. Our seats were almost at ground level, near the dugouts. Watching two foreign teams compete was an education—markedly distinct in their styles from those seen at Highbury. The proximity of the crowd and the modest attendance reminded me more of spectating at a polo match. I’ve always preferred the continental style of football—an admirer of players such as Riquelme, Gianola and Gianni Rivera—except when marred by violence. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case here. It had, after all, been agreed as a friendly.
After the match, we sought refreshments and struck up conversation with a couple of French girls outside—one eighteen, the other fourteen. Unfortunately, we couldn’t even invite them to dinner, as the week was winding down and JK needed a safety net for his flight home. They kindly offered to pay for us, but we thought that wouldn’t be fair. And after swimming in the morning, trekking all afternoon, and now facing the long walk back to Juan-les-Pins, we reckoned it was time to call it a night… innit.
So we left and returned to the hotel just as the sun was rising, in time for coffee and croissants.
Johnny had to depart the next day to spend the rest of the summer with his parents, so he caught the beach-parasol coastal train to Nice airport. In the meantime—with a view to a complete change of scene—I’d noticed some fliers on a wall for a village bullfight to be held in honour of Pablo Picasso. Furthermore, it was Pablo’s intention to attend. I contemplated keeping my promise to the ravishing Elvira.
The great man was a part-time resident of a pretty little village, set slightly back from the Riviera coastline, called Vallauris. It was a centre for studio potters, and that day—at the behest of Monsieur le Maire—the population was doing its best to repay the maestro for the thousands of designs he’d added to ceramics of all shapes and sizes supplied by locals. Naturally, this had the effect of publicising and promoting a number of new potters still working independently at the time, who could now expect a bright future.
Vallauris is no more than an ornate village in size and regularly overflows with flowering plants—but that day, it boasted an exuberant display of additional climbers in full bloom and hanging baskets that added lush adornment for the occasion. In villages too small to house a bullring, the Spanish tradition had always been to fence off the principal town square.
The principal square at Vallauris in 1960 was about the size of a tennis court. As we arrived, the preliminary scuffles between man and beast were already under way. Whether the bulls had been selected to suit the area—or merely to match the paltry levels of courage displayed by the three diestros picked to represent mankind that afternoon (in honour of a thunderous artist!)—remains open to conjecture. But the bulls were fresh out of their cradles, their horns wrapped in what amounted to taurine airbags. Six disguised Scooby-Doos would have had the same impact.
But a baby bull brings its own challenges: it can pivot on a peseta. If your legs are as long as those of torero Jesulín de Ubrique, it can run between them and make you look ridiculous. You watch, half expecting it to plead with a paw or roll over and play dead.
Then, suddenly, none of this seemed to matter—for there, just a few empty seats ahead, sat the great man himself—and he was ogling Elvira! At least, he might have been, had he not noticed her youthful chaperone in attendance. His feminine retinue, in any case, surrounded him like a picket fence.
Still, I was determined that the lovely Elvira should earn a more fulfilling tale to tell, so I harangued her into moving closer, occupying our rightful seats nearby.
Before us in the square, the mayhem continued. But Pablo sat impassively while bulls skidded and men squealed—wearing a half-smile born of all the attention, as his squat, macho outline dug deep into the soft wood beneath his buttocks. He looked just fine.
The display in his honour, on the other hand, was shameful. The matadors danced as if stepping on hot coals; the bulls mocked them like a pack of hyena-hecklers quoting from Ken Dodd joke books. Monsieur le Maire hung his head in disgrace, and David Ward began to formulate plans for a swift escape. You could see the maestro’s damp smirk slowly drying.
I have no recollection of any brightly dressed, swarthy protagonists attempting to stick sharp instruments into living creatures, thankfully—though that may be due merely to my advancing years. However, according to the personally archived visual evidence of the repeated melees that took place, I can state unhesitatingly that ours was not the dominant species of the day.
Eventually, the picket fence enclosure stirred with restlessness. All at once, the pace of the spectacle slowed—as if vinyl were dropping from 45 to 33 RPM. Pablo rose from his bench. I half expected him to offer a Roman Emperor’s thumbs-up or thumbs-down. Instead, he simply nodded his head graciously and silently expressed gentle appreciation for the efforts of these misguided foreign nationals in reproducing a limp facsimile of the torturous customs of Helvetia.
And though it had come across as a version of Thermopylae reimagined by the Guild of Undersized Court Jesters, as an afternoon’s strobic view of Elvira’s blushes, it had its charm. Though henceforth, the maestro’s devotion to Vallauris artwork surely featured a slight reduction in its future place in the history of Mediterranean ceramics.
Part Three: St. Tropez—Nudity, Vinyl, and the Birth of Cool
My dear Mama duly returned from her maritime foray along the Ligurian coast, accompanied by the man who was replacing my father on her delicate arm.
Jaime Barberia, Marquis of Campoflorido, was as skint as a church mouse. His precursors had invested in vast tracts of Cuban cane plantations that had recently witnessed Fidel confiscating the job lot. Baby Ednam, on the other hand, had sufficient funds for both of them. You could have drawn a relatively sleazy image based on these two premises alone, if it hadn’t been for the obvious common-ground harmony that spilled out between their integrated mutualities.
When it came down to his assessment of members of the passing public, he applied cruel twists of tongue that would have her in stitches. This remains my major recollection of their field of activity: sitting at a cafeteria or restaurant dining-room table, close up together, eager for a new target of his vituperative critiques to sidle their way into range.
Sometimes I laughed too. No sycophancy intended, but he was always sincerely kind to me and called me his “Principino”. I also believed he genuinely liked me—which helped.
Spain under the Generalissimo could be regarded back then as commercially moribund. Package tourism was in its infancy, and an introduction to the Common Market lay way over a distant future horizon. In any case, the Galician dictator had eschewed any centralised grandiose schemes in support of ex-Republican provinces from the Civil War, out of sheer vindictive spite. But both Church and aristocracy clung to him and his cohorts for everyday protection, and continued to live an enormously privileged—if disorganised—existence, with little to turn their hands to other than regular merry social intercourse.
Jaime turned his hand to dealing in antiques that mostly hailed from abroad, and which he bought personally in bulk on trips to neighbouring nations and went on to sell from a location to be found on the smart Madrid shopping avenue of Velasquez—an “objets” boutique known as Mrs. Magpie. He had a refined and androgynous eye, which I’d had more than one occasion to witness first-hand in action on his visits to London.
Ironically, the couple’s sea vessel, which they had chosen to adopt for the summer, belonged to my father. It was a pre-war 15-metre cabin cruiser, pulling about 12 knots, sleeping 4–6, with a brace of crew housed in the bow.
My poor father, who longed to be taken for a total wag, had named the boat by reversing his title and ending up—tiresomely—with “Mande”. Supposedly, he knew nothing of her clandestine voyages, but, though I was not party to details, I’m convinced he was having the boat watched, as I believe it played a part later in a divorce settlement where he fought to preserve his assets against the legal disadvantages presented by a pregnant girlfriend (soon to become my stepmother).
Whatever backstage skulduggery was under way, and despite it casting me as the summer’s complete gooseberry, a fresh proposal had been submitted to me by the in loco parental voyagers that pleased me well. Would I care to join them on a boat journey westwards, this time, to the very limits of the Côte d’Azur, where Alpes-Maritimes became the Var and the shoreline development rose as rarely as a Bridlington sun-trap? Though I was yet to uncover it, I was standing on the brink of reviewing a brand-new, unique geographical concept—a perfect blend of wilderness and luxury housing.
Apart from the attraction of Elvira’s shapely curves (she enjoyed allowing me to perv over her exposed, tanned form as she dressed for her evening date), that I assumed would promptly be winging their way back to London, and a family of Americans of approximately my own age, with parents known to dear Mama, with whom I had shared energetic beach games, there were no others sufficiently known to me to deter me from instant consent. It would be my first overnight cabin cruiser experience.
The evening before departure saw us attending an open-air crooner concert supplied by a current French celebrity vocalist, Gilbert Bécaud. I thought the plan sounded so dull. It wasn’t.
Held in a large open-air restaurant a little way around the tall parasol pines, while supper was in full swing and plates and cutlery clicked and crackled, Bécaud foot-tapped his way artfully through his set. French standard popular compositions delivered with assurance and command. I was impressed at how relaxed it all was. I was impressed at the seamlessness of presentation. Mostly, it bode well for the journey ahead, for I knew the loving lounge lizards had brought back a stack of 45s from the recent San Remo Festival collection, and I couldn’t wait to give them a run-through once we were under way, in Jaime’s newly-invented Grundig acquisition—a 45 player with in-built springs that permitted scratch-free wave-hopping to the average, avid, pop fan—out on the high seas at the dawn of Beatlemania and the Motown Sound.
Aznavour, naturally. Gigliola Cinquetti. Piaf. A glorious samba in deference to Bardot (the winning song at the carnival that year)—and, my particular favourite: Jean-Claude Pascal singing “Nous, les amoureux”. These had been some of Jaime’s Italian choices, and I warmed to the Castilian David Niven lookalike for the lateral appeal that encouraged his own distancing from rinsing classically clichéd Flamenco or some pompous military march.
So, with only these limited resources to hand, I was elected ship’s D.J., and as we sailed into St. Tropez, Brigitte’s townsfolk were treated by a volume pump to the rhythms of Rio de Janeiro’s recently submitted opinion of her sublime attractions.
For this had quickly become her querencia, as it would remain for decades — ever since Vadim introduced her to it for the shooting of And God Created Woman. Pulling in stern-first to the harbour wall, you instantly felt part of the new wave of French cultural contributors: Jeanne Moreau, Jean-Luc Godard, Johnny Hallyday, François Truffaut, Francis Cabrel, Louis Malle, Sylvie Vartan, Françoise Hardy. And in those days, you could find a space at the harbour wall — even at the height of the season. The ship’s gangplank became your introduction to the hub of cool.
We sat for dinner at a restaurant on the quay, slightly apart from the Mande and her crew. And after ordering the meal, my dear Mama took me shopping to the boutique next door.
The reputation of the newly opened Choses (“Things”) had already bolted from St. Trop and landed it on lists of the planet’s most speedily successful enterprises. Quintessentially French, the internal layout of this modern boutique nonetheless owed a debt to California — for in the 1950s, the aesthetics of Hollywood still reigned supreme. But in Choses, the themes were soft pastel shades and light Madras stripes and checks.
For the first time in my life, I was interested in what I was about to wear. And my mother kindly stood back and allowed me to select — and conquer. And it felt good.
The next morning, our Italian crew took the Mande out, around the headland, and into a bay where a stretch of pure white, fluffy sand — soon to become the most renowned water’s edge in the country — lay in still, hypnotic quiet.
It was a wide area, whose rare and limited total residences were visually restricted behind twisted low trees, prickly pears, and rising sand dunes layering back from the shoreline.
As I swam to shore, I noted with curiosity that the first sands from the waterline were hardly occupied. Even the few colourful parasols were mostly planted up among the dune bankings.
It wasn’t long after settling down in full sun — dreaming of the lunchtime rice and deliciously greasy sardines to come — that the mystery was revealed by the following occurrence: a tall, slender young woman rose from a dune, glided across the sand, and slipped into the water, wearing nothing more than a light chain around her waist and dark glasses.
It came as a pleasant shock to observe such freedom of spirit. Within minutes, the exercise was repeated by a variety of forms, until what had seemed surreal adopted a completely natural condition. Indeed, the normality of it seemed to increase in direct proportion to the number of participants.
I turned to check on the occupants of our boat. The adults who had risen for a late breakfast were now freestyling towards where I had flopped. As they emerged in costumes from a sparkly sea, several naked forms at the water’s edge now required visual avoidance. But my companions, placing themselves beside me, showed no signs of disapproval or displeasure. I figured it wasn’t the first time.
I smiled shyly, as if seeking guidance, but Jaime merely teased me by asking if I planned to conform. I was of an age where the confusions of puberty were at a premium, so my reply was a negative.
Dear Mama, however, removed her bikini top and lay back in the sun. The lack of tan lines told the story of Portofino’s seaside dress code — but evidently, it only applied when out of sight from our crew.
Nudity on a seashore, as a question of comfort — or even of morality — presents a debate for both sexes, and one that provoked careful and due reflection in me over later years. There’s no doubt that it’s very agreeable once the fresh skin fits. And it is definitely to be included in the ongoing contemporary backlash against labeling everything unacceptable that any sensitive individual might claim to be offended by, in today’s stand against wokeism.
There exist nations, such as Romania, where nudity is a natural feature of beach recreation anywhere you may care to park yourself. And I believe it worth remembering how societies that are most intolerant of corporeal exposure are usually the most brutally cruel, violent, and repressive. But coastlines worldwide still retain enough space, in linear kilometres, to separate several dozen human philosophies. It’s only a matter of someone sensible deciding where specific rules begin — and where they end.
Our final objective to be attained west of the star creative homeland district was a set of three islands lying off the south coast, known as the Porquerolles.
The largest island — the central one — is approximately the same size as the other two combined. Upon it stands a village, centuries old. A second island plays host to a minor military base and a quirky gathering of legitimate nudist homes, set around a rocky cove. The third — Port-Cros — carries the quietest harbour moorage, and skippers of larger leisure craft prefer it among the three for spending the night. Vehicles on all three are limited to residents only: thus the environmental condition of the archipelago is particularly peaceful and historic.
Since it lies only a few miles from the mainland, both sides of the water remain visible to each other under normal climatic conditions. The stretch of mainland coastline facing the islands — including the harbour villages of Le Lavandou and Bormes-les-Mimosas — could arguably be accepted as the most charming of the entire Côte d’Azur, sitting as it does at the modest end.
A good skipper selects his overnight moorage according to forecast wind speed and direction.
That night, the most sheltered anchorage spots were closer to the mainland, according to reports. So, late in the afternoon, we crossed the water on a northerly heading and came to rest near a large, state-owned medieval edifice — where repeated past French presidents had once spent their summers. There, accompanied by a small flotilla of similar concluders, we dropped anchor.
Lying at anchor just 50 metres offshore — along a shoreline pedestrian walkway — I requested some shore leave (away from DJ duties) to explore. This was granted on condition I return for supper in less than an hour.
Clambering out of the tender, armed with 100 francs, I had a sudden joyful sense of the prospective freedom involved in growing up. But my expedition had a motive. While we were parking the boat, I’d noticed a fairground stall a short way along the shoreline toward Le Lavandou. It held a large slot-racing car circuit — space for eight vehicles competing side by side, with a participation fee and prizes to be won. Soit-disant, a prototype giant Scalextric set.
A group of gentle souls stood nearby, with some interest and intent to compete, as I did. Among them: a young couple I had followed strolling down the walkway just ahead of me.
He — a youthful Marine in dark blue uniform with white hems, bright chestnut curls, and dumpy as a bubbly hobbit — had his arm slung around the shoulders of his teenage date. She was the epitome of Gallic insouciance, enraptured by the warm, sunny evening — and, for those brief moments, perhaps the ideal representation of what life had to offer a Frenchman with limited means but boundless prospects.
A study in lightness of being, to be captured on canvas by a Degas or Cézanne.
A life once bracketed by Prussian menace, but now, in 1959, completed by gestures copied from Cagney, Clift, or Dean — screen-mimicry for life’s cadets, in the hunt for utopian satisfaction and peace of mind.
And the arrival at certain impressions in a day — minor epiphanies, if you will — may be locked away in memory until the scent of the moment sweeps by and out of reach, and we’re left to trudge some more — or swim — to complete the long journey home.
Such is arguably the elusive purpose of human life, revealed sometimes in moments of mental repose or low anxiety. Channelled from West or East, the approaches may differ. But despite its historical and geographic variations, it is the universal nature of the beast that remains philosophically irrefutable. Once its existence is acknowledged, a profound investigation may begin.
And among those who have made such a persistent study, no failures exist.
Author’s note: This piece makes no attempt at self-concealment. There are no pseudonyms, no name-changes, no protective fictions. It offers no formal introduction either—only a sequence of remembered scenes, stitched together in the spirit of autobiography by accumulation rather than design.
