It’s fair to say that after the pandemic we had forgotten how to travel as finally, the trip which should have happened 2 years suddenly became a reality. As we had a horribly early start we decided to have a horribly late night.
Consequently the 5am alarm was somewhat unwelcome. As we left husband wasn’t sure he’d packed everything. Indeed I forgot this book. And on the way we realised we had forgotten to set the alarm on the house - readily solved later via the app.
The journey to Heathrow was remarkably seamless. As was checking in (we had forgotten about advance checking in) - although we did discover that husband’s new knee did set off the security alarms.
Finally we could relax over breakfast and a much needed coffee.
Our waitress was a wonderful, older, slightly sweaty Eastern European woman who was very jolly and understood our need to wake up. As we left we saw that the queue to get in was huge and felt that we had timed our visit rather well.
With now too much time to kill we soon ambled towards our gate. Here it became clear that many of the passengers were also heading to the Monaco Historique Grand Prix and it was a clique crowd. People saw faces they recognised and rushed over for hellos and catch ups. Two ladies were chatting to a young man they knew. One asked after his mother. The man replied that she now lived in Switzerland. ‘Oh that’s why I haven’t seen her at Zumba class’ squealed the enquirer.
Our seats were in the very last row of the plane. Across the aisle two ladies chatted their way to a new friendship right across the man in the middle seat who was just wanting to fly home in relative peace.
If you listened, most of the talk was about drivers and racing. In front of us was a man, his girlfriend and his daughter. I heard him murmur that they might accidentally be flying in to F1. They checked F1 dates and concluded it wasn’t that. Doing further research they hit upon what was afoot. He then commented that a really special event was happening that they had known nothing about. I wondered if they realised how closed down Monaco would be.
Arrive at nice to a bumpy landing. And for the first time, had to queue in the non eu passport line. While in the queue there was momentary panic for Husband as he tried to download his Covid passport which in the event wasn’t needed.
It was sunny and hot. Very hot. The tour arrangers met us and we were escorted to our hotel in Nice.
After quickly unpacking we repaired to the rooftop bar to investigate the pool and have a beer while we planned our attack for the day. Looking over the rooftops of the city and towers of Notre Dame to the sea, there was a steady stream of aircraft taking off at a steep angle from the airport which put into some perspective the shaky landing we had had.
We went for lunch, a sumptuous salad Nicoise in the shadow of Notre Dame which was itself shadowed by a couple of particularly tall palm trees. The cutlery was nearly as hot as a euro.
The overall effect was that we circumnavigated the station, taking the long way to where we would have got if we’d followed the original sign. A couple of trains were due to leave imminently so we scampered to the platform and boarded, taking seats upstairs with a view over the sea and coastal route that we followed. There were many, uncrowded beaches and buildings akin to what you would see on the banks of Lake Como perched on rocky outcrops, jutting into the clear blue sea, through which you could see sand banks, submerged rocks and beds of seaweed.
After a short journey the train arrived at Monaco Monte Carlo station, housed inside a rather impressive tunnel - or mountain.
We had been advised to go down to street level, and dutifully followed a series of escalators down and down, then walked through a long marble corridor before finally emerging outside.
There had been suggestions that the signposting to the grandstands was good. In reality it was fairly minimal and sporadic. However, through a combination of the signs that were available and lashings of common sense we found our way to grandstand V, over looking a corner just after La Rascasse, and watched the latter part of the practice session for F1 cars that raced between 1977 and 1980.
1980s cars, with 1980 loudness. One of them wobbled significantly on a tight corner, at which point we noticed the tyre tracks on the road and marks on the barrier indicating an earlier car had not been so lucky.
As we had an invitation later to join the tour group for a drink we attempted to find how to get to La Rascasse while the roads were closed. And failed. But we did find our way to the paddocks and spent some time meandering among the cars, with their backdrop of multi million pound yachts.
As we were so near grandstand T we went there for the final moments of the final practice - F1 cars from 1981 to 1985 - and then re attempted our assault on Rascasse. Surveying the scene and planning our strategy of attack we espied another bridge, which we had previously discounted and felt this probably was a sensible option. As we neared it, we noted that the signs on the bridge clearly referenced La Rascasse. Finally we were in, and sat with other race goers, furnished with complimentary drinks.
We chatted to a man who turned out to be the father of one of the group organisers, and his bug eyed partner who only had rotten stumps where her teeth must once have been. He was a prolific name dropper and reeled off tales of all the VIP areas he had inveigled his way into, and F1 car parts and memorabilia he had been gifted. He and his girlfriend talked about going to the casino but only using the loos and both of them came out to display to the other the logo’s napkins for drying your hands which they had purloined, expressing how proudly impressed he was that they thought alike. I commented about the similarity in what they chose to steal – they didn’t seem to like it being referred to as stealing and shifted uncomfortably in their seats. During the evening, the man invited himself to a lunch with his son and a business contact at the Hermitage the next day. The invitation did not extend to his girlfriend who was told she needed to fend for herself. He increasingly seemed like a self centred, self obsessed man.
Another, and slightly more interesting couple, included a blonde lady with wonky eyes and her partner – a man with one arm and a lived-in face. He did a lot of motor biking but had in fact lost his arm in a mining accident and only took up biking afterwards.
We watched from the balcony of La Rascasse as security set up the race track for being opened to the public and the searches being undertaken on people. We momentarily feared for the safety of a rather large cake being carried by one pedestrian, which seemed like a very good way to hide anything improper.
As the evening cooled we decided it was time to leave. The way we had come in was now closed, and we were directed downstairs and onto the race circuit, from where we walked on track back to the station and up the escalators to the platform.
My pizza had poivrons on it. We didn’t know what poivrons were and, having eaten the pizza, are none the wiser.
We returned to the hotel for a much needed sleep.
We allowed ourselves to wake naturally the next morning. The bells of basilica Notre Dame alerted us to the morning. We went down for breakfast which included in the buffet a whole honeycomb and an entire wheel of Parmesan.
For this journey, the train was rammed and I was pleased we had had the opportunity to admire the coastal route the previous day.
On arrival, having done our orientation the day before, we set off like pros towards the stand. As we descended the series of escalators and walked through the long tunnel to the outdoors, I wondered how the conversation went with the engineers when there was a decision to have a station, but no outdoor space. There was, however, this handy mountain so could the station be built in that.
It was a cooler day and clouds sat low over the hills around Monaco.
We went to the restaurant commerce (or, as we nicknamed it, merch) district for lunch, during which the cloud lifted, the sun came out and the temperature rose. As did the risk of sun burn. So the cream was liberally applied when we returned to our seats after a somewhat chaotic lunch service.
We were in the second row from the front. A grandfather and bored, crotchety child sat in front of us. From our seats we had a view directly into the cockpit of the cars as they hugged the barrier beneath us to line up the final corner before heading down the start line straight.
The qualifying we particularly wanted to see was the sports racing cars, front engine, from 1952 to 1957. The sports cars gave a satisfying screech as they took the corner, with some unnerving wobbles towards the barrier.
After that session was finished, we headed back to Nice and were both sleepy on the train. Two guards came along to check tickets. One English couple showed theirs, which they hadn’t validated, whereupon they were told there was a fine of 50 euros. Each. The man was staggered and the women exclaimed that they had got tickets. As we were near our stop I got up and explained to the man that he needed to validate the tickets in the machine at the station. He claimed he had tried, but the machine hadn’t worked. The guard asked if I could speak French, sensing this might make his role easier. I told him I didn’t and left them to it. I couldn’t really a see a way out of the situation.
Back at the hotel we scurried up to the pool while there was still a small possibility of sunshine. We were the only ones there. The water was freezing. We had a swim and hastily retreated indoors. After a short nap we walked down to Nice old town, just outside of which was a huge, palisaded square adorned with poles and seated statues on them.
We hunted for dinner in the narrow maze of higgeldy piddlegy streets of the old town, which periodically broke out into open squares. Husband had researched a couple of potential French restaurants, including Les Oiseaux. But it, and virtually everywhere was full. There however a lot of noise from oiseaux overhead.
Eventually we found somewhere to eat in a narrow lively street, our criteria having been altered to little more than could we get a table. Happily it was French rather than Italian (of which there were many). At a table across from us the small dog belonging to one of the diners regularly put it’s paws on her chair begging for titbits, which it did with increased enthusiasm after having been rewarded with some food. Dinner was very tasty. And we liked the chef and pasty chef being named on the menu. For pudding husband ordered Pain Perdu. I saw the millle feuille being delivered to a table behind us. It looked like a panini filled with cream. Like a northerner might have made mille feuille, no messing about with fancy refinement. Deuz feuille was perhaps more accurate.
We walked back. The pole topping statues were now lit up, slowly changing colour. Independently of each other. The city beggars now seemed larger in number, finding places for the night. One of them walked with ram rod straight legs and shoes so large they had to be clown shows.
Back in the room we set the alarm for our early start the next day.
The 6am alarm call was unpleasant. However, we had a train to catch at 7.06. We were first down to breakfast, getting in as soon as they opened.
We arrived in Monaco and were in our seats in good time for the 8am race. It was a warmer day, but the morning cool was yet to lift and our grandstand seats were in the shade and at the top of the stand - open to the harbour behind us and a gentle sea breeze coming off the sea.
The first two races (F1 cars 1961-1965 with F2 cars 1956-1960 and ore was grand prix cars respectively) both resulted in the leader crashing out. The third one (pre 1961 Grand Prix cars) resulted in a diabolical pile up just beyond La Rascasse. Marshals were on the track to get cars out of the way while the race continued around them. It was eventually red flagged with one lap left, and there was some uncertainty about who was third, given the 4 cars that had been variously collected up in the crash.
As we had planned to go over to casino square after those early races we returned to the station, then climbed up the hill, firstly taking steps to the platform level, followed by an escalator, a lift and a further two escalators. TV footage of the circuit just doesn’t make this elevation clear.
It was now baking hot. We walked along Boulevard Princess Charlotte to the top of the gardens and dropped down, trying to find the bridge over the race track into the casino square. We did find the Hermitage and streets of eye wateringly expensive shops and apartments. It felt sterile and unwelcoming. We could see Cafe de Paris and knew that the bridge was near there.
So continued our search. This proved troublesome. We finally found the road we thought it must be at the bottom of. The volunteer helper asked if we had tickets. We said we didn’t but that our understanding was it was free access. He let us through. Next stop was security. He asked for tickets. I fumbled in my bag. Husband remonstrated. He gave in and let us through. It became quickly apparent that we shouldn’t be there. It was sparsely populated and those who were there wore lanyards indicating a level of access we didn’t have. We walked to the terrace of the Cafe de Paris and then towards a bar which gave a view of the casino, but was clearly hospitality access only.
Wanting to avoid being removed, we then left of our own volition and retraced our steps back to the station. We would have happily paused for food and liquid refreshment. But no such hostelry seemed to exist. Despite our height, there were no views out to the sea. Every spare inch had a high rise built on it. I wondered if any of the rich people came over to the other end of the circuit to see the hoi paloi experience. Husband doubted it. There were no portaloos at this end of town. Nor anywhere obvious to sit down for food and drink. Clearly anyone at this end had hospitality or fancy hotels lined up.
We decided that we didn’t really like Monaco as a place. It wasn’t pretty.or interesting. We decided conclusively that if we had the money we wouldn’t live here. We’d rather pay the tax.
Back on home turf in food and merch street we found a place for lunch and had a much needed rest and refreshment.
We returned to the stand to see the 1952-1957 sport racing cars race. As we arrived Charles le Clerc was finishing a couple of demo laps in Nicki Lauder’s Ferrari which he would shortly be racing (and crashed). Our seats were still in shade but much of the stand wasn’t and people were moving backwards, into the shade as they overheated and risked burning.
With that race done, we came back. We took a different route back to the station, climbing the steps to Place D’Armes, a large square with a smattering of food and drink outlets and a pattissier demonstration.
Back at the hotel, we again made for the pool. The water was still freezing, but with warmer weather, it was very busy and pleasant to lie in the sun for a while after our swim. As had happened the previous day, a seagull dropped in for a swim after the humans had got out.
Before we had the opportunity to fall asleep, we went into town for dinner. Sunday was a very different experience. The vibrant alleys were quiet and empty, with only occasional restaurants operating. We were still trying to avoid Italian and finally found a small out of the way French place. The food, however, was average.
Afterwards, we walked to the beach. Youngsters played volleyball on the pitches set up - the only stone free part of the beach. Bizarrely a group of heavily armed soldiers strolled down the promenade as well.
Curious about a monument we could see, we went to explore further. Limited information was available but we later found it was to acknowledge the 150 anniversary of France’s annexation of Nice. Given the ongoing Russia Ukraine war, that suddenly felt a bit uncomfortable.
We returned to hotel bar for whisky nightcap and to watch night set in.
The following day our objective was to kill time until our transfer to the airport. We looked up ‘things to do in Nice’. These all involved sea cruises, river cruises, visiting lavender fields or visiting Monaco. In other words, the best things to do in Nice all involved leaving Nice.
The church bells chimed the hour. And shortly afterwards just kept chiming for no obvious reason. We got up late, packed, breakfasted and walked into town. We perused the old town.
We walked passed an open door inside of which was a stunningly decorative staircase. It transpired this was Palau’s Lascaris and for a small fee we could visit. Which we duly did. In the heavily baroque style rooms was a vast collection of musical instruments and doors hung deliberately wonky to avoid scuffing heavy rugs.
Squares which had previously been filled with restaurant tables were now filled with markets stalls selling what could only be described as a lot of old tat.
We found our way to a series of steps, going up castle hill. As husband rightly said later, I can’t resist a climbing thing. So we climbed them. At the top was a quiet, tree lined road alongside which was a church and cemetery. We approached the way in, that announced this was a cemetery of Israelites. We had a brief wander around, as a trip to France is never really complete until you’ve visited a cemetery.
We carried on, now searching for the cascade. The signs indicated the way. On route there was another series of steps. Which again I wanted to climb, but left Husband at the bottom. However, at the top it was clear that this was going to provide access to the cascade. So I called him up. There were some further steps climb and we were at the base of the waterfall, being cooled in the refreshing spray that emanated from it.
As we were so near the top, we carried on up.
Then the only thing left to do was descend, down the side of the hill on a path reminiscent of Capri. We had come up in different bursts of steps. The descent was a fairly constant set of steps. We paused part way to see Torre Belland and admire the view before continuing on down and diving into the shaded streets of the old town in search of lunch.
After lunch we re traced our steps to
a Jesuit church whose door we had seen was open. It was cool inside and
elaborately decorated. Outside an elderly lady hand fed the birds. We meandered
through the flea market, now very much killing time, and walked along the sun
soaked wide promenade. Girls in bikinis were playing volleyball. We popped into
another church, grateful for the cool and the chance to sit down. This one was
considerably less ornate.
Nearby we were tempted by Moulin a Huile d’Olive, a small shop that smelled fabulously olivey and sold a wide range of olive oil, fresh olives and olive wood implements.
After a final cocktail and some time spent people watching, we returned to the hotel for our airport transfer, which arrived promptly. This was good, because the route he took to the airport was along the seafront. In rush hour. Which was slow. We had come in on the motorway which towered over the city.
However, when we got to the airport there was a large crowd outside. On making some enquiries of those waiting, it transpired that a bag had been left unattended. Consequently the airport had been evacuated. This was 45 minutes ago. I realise that these things take time, but it did somehow feel that this was an event which the French security had not planned for. Hundreds of us waited, right outside the glass fronted building while a helpful chap warned us all that actually the glass would cause more death and injury than any explosion. So that was comforting.
Some flights started to be shown as delayed and a few came up as cancelled. Ours still seemed to be running. After about a 30 minute wait the crew were allowed back in, and soon after, the passengers. A cheer went up as we piled in to a unique situation of chaos. The queue for the check in was immediately massive and we were in the process of being funnelled into the taped queue path. A woman queried whether this was the right line for BA economy. I confirmed it was and added, ‘and don’t you feel economy now’.
Happily, not having hold luggage, when we espied a machine that we could self check in at we made use of it. Armed with boarding passes we sped our way through security. Again husband set off the alarms. Our gate was already listed so, grabbing a quick snack in the main departure lounge, we made our way through a completely empty and unnecessarily long taped queue line. Which only had us in it, pointlessly zig zagging back and forth towards passport control. Our passports were checked (and stamped! Not part of the EU now!) and we could finally relax.
Miraculously we boarded on time. Unsurprisingly there wasn’t enough overhead locker space for the massive and excessive number of bags people had brought on. We were lucky, having got on promptly. But later boarders were walking up and down the plane trying to find space. An air hostesses came to lend a hand. In front of us, she removed a small bag and asked the owner to keep it under the seat. Immediately a woman put a similar sized bag and her hat in the space. The air hostess said it was too small for the locker and she needed to keep it with her, whereupon the lady responded with ‘it’s ok there’, and walked off.
The air hostess, somewhat flabbergasted, stood by the offending luggage. A few minutes later she saw another passenger trying to find space for his bag. Joyously she called out that she had space for his luggage, grabbed the small bag and hat, deposited them unceremoniously back with the woman, and put the man’s case in its space. To a significant peel of laughter from the surrounding passengers.
We took off more or less on time, taking off over the sea, banking sharply to the right as we had seen many planes do during our trip. The flight was freezing, which was good practice for our return to the U.K.
The car was there for when we arrived and soon we were home.
