Cannes (part 3)

(Originally written 8/5/2008)

Well, I've got a hangover as I regretfully pack, but outside the sunshine is confirming that the good weather continues. We have to check out by twelve, but the concierge has confirmed that the hotel will gladly look after our bags until we leave for the airport later that afternoon. "Just leave them in the room, someone will bring them down", so that's what I do, having checked around the rooms that I haven't left anything behind. No, there's nothing forgotten, and I've pinched everything that could be considered disposable, like the embroidered Carlton slippers that were in the bathroom, all the bath products and the big bar of expensive-smelling soap. I briefly consider the bathrobe, but the management have my address, and my credit card number. A pot of tea here costs ten euros, heaven knows what an exclusive bathrobe goes for.

I can't really afford to upset anyone here, either - because I'm coming back. Oh, yes, I'll be back this time next year, a decision that imposed itself during the fag break outside the restaurant last night. Anyway, I promised Sandra I'd be back. A couple of rooms for the weekend have cost me 240,000 points, and I have more than that left in my account, so the points for next year are now ring-fenced. In fact, I may book the rooms as soon as I get back to my desk at work.

I need coffee like Paris Hilton needs brain cells, so, meeting Jenny and Mark in Reception, we turn for today's destination, the Old Town, and a café on the way. Maybe La Potiniere serves coffee? Sadly, no, says Sandra, who is busy laying up for lunch. No matter, there are cafes a-plenty on the way, and I'm soon provided with une grande tasse de heart-starter.

The Old Town lies to the west of Cannes, and several hundred feet above it. Hmm, several hundred feet of walking in the direction of Up, with a hangover? OK. the sun is shining, we're in France, we've had coffee, I have a full pack of cigarettes - hit it!

There are charming houses on the road to the top of the Old Town, and a good few restaurants, too. I can't resist reading a menu or several on the way, and the prices drop with every step. Wealth being mainly the preserve of the older person, I'm guessing that the aged rich rarely attempt the initially steep, cobbled road; and if they do, they pause at the first bistro and casually remark that this looks alright, doesn't it, Tallulah, <wheeze> let's eat here.

We're not sure how to get to the top, so I'm using my brilliant ploy of taking any road that goes Up, figuring that when we run out of Up we'll have reached the summit. It's logic like this, of course, that has contributed to the death rate amongst mountaineers, but in this case it works. We emerge onto a car park outside a church, and, peering in, we see that a very well-attended service is in progress. I recognise the setting, too - Charpentier, a fine French composer of sacred music. We maintain a respectful silence, despite the arrival of un petit train and a discharge of gabbling tourists.

Moving on, past the gentleman begging for alms (and should he ever read this, here's a hint - losing the open bottle of red wine in your fist may increase revenue), we walk to a terrace and gaze over the edge. All of Cannes is displayed below us, from the curve of the palm-backed beach to the hills that tower behind the town. Using the zoom function of the camcorder, I peer at the villas that sit on the slopes.

"That's my house."

"Which one?"

"The one that's peeping out from behind the trees."

"Yes, but which one?"

"Any of them."

The sky is a brilliant blue, almost exactly the same colour I painted my house so that it would look cheerful even on the dullest day, and I'm beginning to get a fine suntan. Out to sea, there are a couple of islands where I suspect prices are even more astronomical than Cannes. We're starting to notice the heat, tell you what, let's go around to the back of the church and take advantage of the trees there. Another fine view greets us there - the continuing sweep of the Cote D'Azur to the west, terminated by a mountain range that's run out of steam and is rolling down to the sea. Here's one more fine place to be, standing under pine trees, gazing over gentle waves and across to baby mountains, and I hear someone sighing "It's just so beautiful." Yes, it was me.

Let's not get too carried away, though, because plans for lunch ought to be made. It's too late, though, the laid-back South of France approach to life has infected us. "Well. shall we just have a wander, and see what we find?" Yes. Yes, what I really want on this sunny Sunday morning is a really good wander, it suits my mood perfectly. So we wander back down the steps that we should to have taken on the way up, discussing the merits of owning an ocean-going yacht as opposed to renting one. It's that kind of day, when getting the detail right, should any of us win the lottery, is fairly important.

Once down at the harbour again, via a decent souvenir shop (no T-shirts with "Cannes" on them, lots of lavender products and olivewood kitchen accessories), with the yacht problem unresolved, we're diverted by the side of a house that has a remarkable trompe d'oil across it. It's an hommage to the film industry, with stars old and new leaning out and waving, posing on balconies, and generally doing what they do. Laurel and Hardy are slapsticking behind one window, Tarzan is swinging on a rope secured to a drainpipe, Mickey Mouse looks particularly pleased to see us, the pod from 2001 is menacing R2D2. You could spend ten minutes just looking. As we do.

Shall we go this way, it's a street we haven't walked up? We shall. What's more, Mark knows which way we're going, and where this street will take us, which is why he suggests lunch at the market café we ate at several weeks ago last Friday. Oh, yes, an enormous French salad will be just the thing. because my dinner will be eaten in Portsmouth.

There's a bittersweet element to the last hours of a holiday. Yes, I'm walking down a lovely boulevard (it may be a rue, I'm not that expert at French yet. Come to think of it, it could always be an avenue), the sun's shining, it's summer here, ooh, a Sunday market of local handicraft stalls to look at, lovely, there's a good-natured bustle along the street, my mind taking snaps that I can see in detail even a week later, a local chap in a light sweater for goodness sake, carrying two freshly-baked baguettes, another chap, noting my gaze into the restaurant where he sits, raising his glass and smiling - "If you're looking for lunch, this place is alright, mate" - and yet. it's becoming too transient. In hours, I'll be home. Tomorrow, I'll be in Glasgow.

The supply of right now... is running out.

I've been in this place many times, and I know that time is for using, not for looking towards with regret. I may not have much right now left, but I've got some now, so let's make now count. Allons, mes amis! And you, madame waitress, can bring us three kirs as quick as you like, especially as you've let all the tables outside your café go, and we're having to eat inside.

One large chef's salad (ham, cheese, egg, tuna, tomato, olives, sweetcorn, cucumber, three entire lettuces, mouth-watering dressing) arrives, and so does a bottle of Cote du Rhone. Mmm, that's France on a plate as far as I'm concerned. The freshest food, simply served, with as little done to it as possible. And all the ingredients found within five miles of this establishment. Yes, I choose to believe that tuna swim in the Mediterranean, OK?

We sip our coffee slowly, knowing that there's only one road to take once the bill is paid, and that's back to the Carlton. We take our last steps towards a place in Cannes, rather than towards a place out of Cannes, arrive on the promenade, turn left, walk past the Cartier shop that featured in "French Kiss" (Kevin Kline, Meg Ryan, Jean Reno, oh, you must have seen it, and if you haven't, you should), and shortly arrive at the concierge desk.

Yes, they have our luggage, would we care to step outside, as it will be delivered there? Of course... because that's where the car will pull up. Except that we have no car to pull up, because Jenny and Mark are determined to walk the promenade one last time, to the harbour where the airport bus stops.

There's a small lift set into the wall to one side of the entrance to the Carlton, and it transports luggage from some secure chamber. As the doormen reveal my bag and backpack, I bless the porter who collected them. then checked all the drawers and the wardrobe, in case I'd left anything behind. My cheap, unneeded, and completely forgotten raincoat lies on top of the bags. The service here is exemplary.

This has been an experience that everyone should have. The Carlton is one of the great hotels of the world, and even if we haven't had the money to fully immerse ourselves in the facilities on offer - the beach restaurant, the champagne and lobster brunch, the padded loungers at the waters edge, the cocktail bar where a young Grace Kelly was introduced to Prince Rainier of Monaco, tea on the terrace - even if we haven't entirely lived the high life, it's been wonderful to visit.

The service is breathtaking, but then it has to be said that every member of staff is absolutely at the top of their game. The Carlton is the flagship hotel of the company that own it, you don't get to work here unless you've worked your way up through other hotels in the group. The concierge is the best concierge the company has. Every porter has served elsewhere, quite possibly as Head Porter. The waiters will have proved their skill at some other hotel in the chain. The Head Chef, by virtue of his position alone, will be recognised as one of the finest chefs in France. The manager of the Carlton is the de facto top manager of all the hotel managers that are employed by the Four Seasons Group. Every single member of staff has had to deliver faultless work just to get through the back door of this hotel.

That's why they provide such remarkable service with quiet satisfaction, because they know they're the best. They can go no higher within this company; they've made it to the top. And if they want to work at any of the other great hotels of the world, the words "Carlton, Cannes" on their CV are pure gold.

It has been truly enjoyable to watch these professionals at work, wonderful to enjoy the trappings of luxury for a brief few days, life-enhancing and renewing simply to stay in this part of France. Oh, everyone should have opportunities like this.

And yet...

As the bags are handed over, we become ex-residents of the Carlton. So... not much else to do but catch the bus, eh? Which we do, having a last gawp at the town as the bus - truthfully, a coach - travels ever upwards to the hills, where it joins a motorway. We get a brief view of the sea and the bay before they're hidden by olive trees.

Nice airport is reached in good time, and that's where Jenny, Mark and I part, as their plane to Norwich leaves from Terminal 2, while my plane departs from Terminal 1. I'm mildly amused by the area reserved for motorists who are dropping off passengers; it's called "Kiss and Fly". Then, though, I'm into airport mode - find a seat, read a book, drink coffee and wait for the check-in counter to open. When it does, I ask for a seat on the right-hand side of the plane, so that I can take one final look at the coastline. Then I step outside for a last cigarette, take a mental snap of more palm trees, return and go through Security to queue at the gate.

Walking to the plane, I note that it's becoming another lovely evening, with a slight mist forming over the upper slopes of the hills in the distance. Then it's onto the plane, and dammit, the idiot check-in man has given me a seat on the left side. Hmmph, that means all I'll see is the Mediterranean on the way out. Still, it's not a bad old sea to look at, and goodness knows, there's worse views.

The plane takes off, swings to climb along the coast, I get my expected view of the Med, then we bank to the right to head north, and oh, my goodness!

There's Cannes below me! There's the line of the beach, I can see the row of green that must be the palm trees, the plage municipal must be at the eastern end of the curve, there's the harbour to the west, there's the Old Town... and there, I fancy, even though I can't see it clearly, must be the Carlton. The lights are just coming on, people will be walking down the promenade looking for a spot of dinner, the pavement cafes will be starting to fill, there seems to be the usual mad rush of cars along the road. I hold the view as long as I can, thinking "I'll be back, oh, yes, I'll be back, I told Sandra I'll be back, so I'll be back."  - and a part of me is already there.

The last drops of right now drain from the weekend as the turbines rumble and the plane climbs higher into the purpling sky. It accelerates away until it becomes nothing but a dot... then disappears from view.