With few sites in Nice for large MOHOs, our decision to make a stand on a principal, could have come back to bite us in the nether region.
Fortunately we manage to find another local site that could accommodate us. Camping l’Hippodrome is a typical town site. Small pitches squeeze everyone into line, like soldiers on parade. All similarly different. All pitched up in their own unique style. Chalk and cheeses side by side. It’s all about being outside the box. Regardless. Some, like us, with basic table and chairs. Others lay down what could pass for a living room carpet. Table cloth, candle and flowers all adding to the illusion of “home sweet home”.
Earlier, we had arrived and booked in at another site. As we were being shown to our pitch, it came to light that Beastie was pregnant with little scoot. “Oh, that will be an extra €2.50 per night, monsieur”. We looked at one another, heads shaking like a couple of dystonian divas. What if we don’t use scoot? “It will still be charged for, monsieur”. But it won’t be using the toilet facilities or taking a shower. “It doesn’t matter, monsieur, it will still be charged for”. Oh, no it won’t!
Following day we scoot up to see a Posh n Becks villa, the other side (east) of Nice. It’s at the top end of a hilly Sandbanks style penninsula – Saint Jean-Cap-Ferrat. Pretty amazing place inside and out. Yet another Rothschild stunner. Almost ten out of ten. The twee Disney-like musical fountains so unnecessary.
Talking of Disney. If you’ve ever seen what’s now a cult 80s film called Tron, then you’ll have some idea of how the scooters move around the Nice roads. The Tron machines and riders become one entity. It’s the same here. It’s nothing short of scootmania in Scoot City. Up to now we’ve been used to scooting hither and thither like a couple of old sedated seniors. Indicating one way and going another. Can’t do that here. No time to indicate. You see a gap and you make it yours. It’s not the cars you have to be wary of. Scoots rule OK! They go where they can, when they can. Regardless. They duck and dive, weave and jive in and out of the traffic faster than Ali. Up the inside. Down the middle. Round the outside – Mclaren-esque. Or all three in one sweet shift. We get hemmed in on all sides. We’re made to look seriously static, along with the cars. Not for long though. It’s infectious. We’ve got all the time in the world, but we can’t hang around any longer. Besides we’ve got to keep the Brits’ end up. Narrow streets. Traffic both ways. We’re dodging with the best of them.Why isn’t that oncoming concertina bus not slowing down . . . phew that was too, too close for comfort. Great fun for the driver – not so for the passenger!
Maybe we’ve been away from city-life for too long now. This is a culture shock of a different sort. Not sure that we like it much. Exchange a few WhatsApps with Laura and she points us to more salubrious quarters of the old city. Ah, that’s more like it.
Most of the long coastline here is all shingle. Large pebbles actually. That comes as a surprise. We resist the urge to imprint our derrières with mirrored fractals and scoot to Antibes for an am mooch. Then on into Cannes to find out what’s in the tin. Antibes we love. There are some seriously large vessels moored up. If it wasn’t for the fact that I get sea-sick just taking a bath then I may have been going green with envy.
Luckily, dinner is organised by Laura, who liaises between us and Ann. We haven’t seen her and her daughter Laora for eight years. We round the day off with an evening of Franglais fun on her balcony overlooking Nice Tennis Club.
