South of France in the age of Terrorism
- rosemcleanwriter
- Sep 11, 2017
- 8 min read
By Rose McLean, TRAVEL WRITER 11thSeptember 2017
It’s the 15th of August 2017, and me and my mother are wandering down towards the Cannes Croisette. Tonight marks the ‘Festival D’art Pyrotechnique’– a public firework display showcasing the talent of international pyro technicians - and the sense of anticipation is irrefutable. The streets of the old town are bustling with life; tourists wilt in the setting, yet still searing sunshine, whilst locals flaunt their toned and terrifically tanned torsos like glorious gazelles. I’ve always found this climatic juxtaposition an indecorous yet endearing aspect of France in the summer months. You can spot a frolicking rouge Brit a mile off.
As we exit the shopping boulevards and approach the bay, my sense of awe transcends into an untoward feeling of concern. The roads are cordoned off by countless black police vans, and armed officers patrol the partnering promenade as if a crisis was imminent. I’m aware these intensified security measures are to reassure; however, they act as a stark reminder of the profuse impact past tragedies have had on France. Just last July in nearby city Nice, a cargo truck deliberately drove into crowds of citizens as they celebrated Bastille Day on the Promenade des Anglais - killing 86 and injuring 458 others. It was the second largest terror attack the country has seen, following the infamousNovember 2015 Paris attacks.
Here, hordes of people are scattered across the walkway like ants infesting a sought-after habitat, children are screaming, parents are flapping, and I feel anxious. Thus, we decide to escape the chaos and retreat back to our inbound hotel, like dogs with tails between their legs. Here marks my biggest regret of our trip.
In hindsight, we probably had a more relaxing experience – we missed the post-show crowds, and perhaps got to bed half an hour earlier than if we’d stayed on the promenade. We watched the fireworks from the secure comfort of our hotel’s rooftop pool, with a bottle of Provence’s finest rose and a lump in our throats as the dazzling explosions filled the Cote D’Azur’s sky. But, it was at this moment when the illuminations were at their breathtaking climax, that I wished I hadn’t left the crowds. I wish I’d stood, with the thousands of others, and defied the fear of violence.
Through scathing terrorist monstrosities in recent years, the fragility of France has been highlighted and its character immeasurably tested. It has been transformed from a romantic tourist hotspot into a vulnerable, notoriously nervy nation. Following the Nice attack, the South of France once seen to be a haven of tranquility with its allure of flamboyant fascination, is now a dangerous stretch of blood-stained sand one may be likely to avoid in the dread of another attack. As a result, from 2015 – 2016, tourist numbers plummeted by 2.2%, meaning the French economy lost a massive 1.3 billion euros - a 6.1% fall in takings since 2015. (Le Figaro)
Yet, despite my anxious exit from the Cannes Festival D’art accentuating the adverse effects terrorism has had, I have a strong yearning to return to this glamourous region and with it, a determination to deter the distress terrorists have bestowed upon such a beautiful area. So, here begins my perilous plea.
Monte Carlo
Call me fanciful, but there’s no better place to escape the relenting realms of reality than Monaco. A sovereign city state with its own principality government, it technically isn’t French. But, situated just East of signpost city Nice, and with an array of glamourous attractions and waterfront hotels, it attracts over 30,000 visitors a year making it one of France’s major tourist playgrounds.
The architecture of Monte Carlo causes a somewhat captivating confusion for my British countryside rooted brain. Amongst the awe-inspiring grey-rugged rock that suspends the whole city, stand stunning contemporary constructions with grand glass surfaces which coruscate in the summer sunshine. Silver studded escalators help ease the treacherous ascent up Monaco’s steep streets, blending urban with rural effortlessly - almost representative of the historical wonder that lays beneath the modern mystique of Monte Carlo.
Situated at the summit of the old town is ‘Le Palais des Princes’, the Princes Palace to us asserting butch Brits. Built in 1191 and home to Prince Albert II and his family, the decadent building is one of the main attractions in the city, and for good reason. Not ones for uphill excursions in 35-degree heat, we took the bus from the Centre Ville up to the dizzy heights of the palace - which set us back €10, each. Ouch. But, once we arrived, it seemed a real coup. The skyline of Monaco twists around the port, where the rich and famous dock their opulently accoutered superyachts, and glass structures rise ravishingly amongst the clusters of green ash trees. In my ear, tourists purr at the prospect of an incredibly likeable Instagram picture. Even I, a self-confessed social media loather, wouldn’t hesitate in double tapping this view.
Mougins
Midway through our week-long trip, we decided to escape the coastline and discover more rustic retreats inland. Travelling back down the dusty, less-than-conventional dirt tracks, it’s difficult to ignore the bucolic vineyards that line the sun-tainted tarmac. Row upon row of perfectly kept plants stand regimented like state guards, ready to fulfil their purpose and provide lip-smacking Provence rose for the thirsty thousands. It is this agricultural charm you find so readily within southern districts of France, that can lure you into mother nature’s captivating clutch and seamlessly help you forget about wider worries.
Mougins is a small town located inbound, just north of the busy bustles of Cannes and Monaco. Aptly nicknamed ‘The Town on the Hill’, winding streets reach up to the ornate brick buildings at the peak of the village - typical of a small French sanctuary. Legs still aching from the long strolls along Monaco’s promenades and boulevards, we staggered up the mounds with stark hope that what would meet us at the top would be worthy. Boy, was it.
Overlooking the hills, breathtaking panoramic views of the countryside filled me with sheer gratitude that I was able to witness such beauty. Vibrant greenery dominates the valley, only interrupted by splatters of orange roofed villas and turquoise pools – I could almost see an artist’s eyes light up at the prospect of a valuable masterpiece. Walking into the main village, charming petite townhouses hug the narrow-cobbled passages, and small, independently-owned shops are tucked beneath the wild lavender that endearingly climbs the brickwork.
As we were staying in Mougins for the day, we decided to fuel for the descent back down the hill which we would embark upon later, and fill our hungering bellies. On the ‘Place du Pastis’ (town square) were a variety of eateries, each serving up local niceties and buzzing with customers basking on the outdoor verandas. One little bistro caught my eye, standing unapologetically with pretty pink pebble dash and crisp white furnishings along with perfectly tended hanging baskets at the entrance. The aromas of fresh mussels and authentic Provence Cassoulet punctuated the air, almost summoning us to the door with immediate effect. How insistent.
The meal in here matched the attraction of its exterior - it was undoubtedly the best I’ve had in a foreign country, and my physique demonstrates that I’ve got extensive culinary experience. I opted for a steak baguette, served pink with fresh sautéed onions and oozing provolone cheese cascading from the sides. The baguette was distinctively fresh, with a crispy golden crust yet light and airy inside, as if Michele Roux had orchestrated it himself with impeccable precision. Despite its Michelin-starred standards, the price of the meal was nothing short of a bargain - of which are few and far between in the South of France.
As we tucked into our baguettes and croque-monsieurs, a different, less edible and more ostentatious monsieur approached our table. Dressed in a lavish-looking navy waistcoat with a particularly placed handkerchief proudly peeking out of the pocket, he introduced himself warmly, as if he were a great admirer. “Welcome, I’m Bernard! How is everything?” he pronounced in wonderfully executed English. Strange, that he knew we were Brits, but as I say, we’re an easily identifiable breed in a region of alluring, model-like beings. Bernard was the proud owner of this particular jaunt, and he made our experience truly special from arrival to departure. The warmhearted nature of himself along with his staff was notable, and in a time where terror threatens to tear this country and its allies apart, pure unadulterated kindness between nationalities is so liberating to see.
Antibes
When INED statistics were released in 2014, it was reported that almost 11 million of the French population were either immigrants or foreigners, accounting for 19% of the total population of the country. Now, seaside town Antibes bears witness to the fluidity of nationalities and ethnicities France has become accustomed to, and the town’s markets are the epitome of such diversity.
Travelling down the A8 motorway, Antibes is a considerable journey from the dainty depths of Mougins, but offers a similar charm and authenticity. The town truly encapsulates the working-class brawn that hides beneath, and has arguably formed the foundation for, the renowned richness of this coveted region. Every day from 6am-1pm, the Centre Ville holds host to the Provencal market, offering an infinite assortment of fresh regional produce. From delicatessen and cheese from the mountains, to spices and bouquets of cut or dried flowers, it demonstrates the fruit of men’s labour and the ethnic diversity that’s so apparent in these waters.
During our stint in Antibes, we explored said markets and sampled some of the delicious offerings. One stand was particularly inviting, decorated with handcrafted fabrics and permeated with aromatic Indian spices. This counter was manned by Adil Fontaine and his wife Munira, who have been ever-presents in the covered hall, working there daily for over 30 years. “There is no better place than Antibes.” Adil enthused, with a smile as wide as the queue of customers his spice stall had accumulated. It seemed Adil would provide the comradery for the clients whilst Munira hustled busily with business matters behind the counter. “Try this”, as he handed me an orangey colored powder in an ornate little brass pestle and mortar. I’ve been taught to evade any offer of obscure substances from strangers, but from the mere 50 seconds I’d known Adil for, I’d built up quite the trust in him. The taste sensation I received was nothing short of exquisite. “Dalchini! It is our own blend of cinnamon and cumin; would you like to buy a bag?” I didn’t hesitate in doing so.
Ethnicity and race, in particular Muslims, like Adil and Munira, are so carelessly derogatorily stereotyped in the wake of terrorism. Recent atrocities on French soil have been claimed by the radical group ISIS, since bringing an air of unjustified Islamophobia to France– In 2016, complaints of anti-muslim threats increased by 223% and the incidence of racist attacks were higher in the month following each terrorist attack (French National Commission on Human Rights). Yet, when immersed in the congenial cozy clutches of the Provencal Market at Antibes, these scaremongering stats seem a distant fallacy. Here, ethnicity and religion are immaterial, and if anything, celebrated.
At the culmination of our holiday, I felt a feeling of fulfilment. We’d dined delightfully, explored the cities, towns and countryside and witnessed simply stunning sights. However, what was most memorable about our journey to the South of France was not the mouth-wateringly delectable cuisine which alone would make me return time and time again. It wasn’t the delicate nooks and crannies, the spectacular landscapes that stretched out before us nor the salubrious sunshine that beats down on all it meets. It was the sheer, wholehearted friendliness of each individual we came across.
In the face of adversity, and in the eyes of damning distress, the Cote d’Azur’s people refuse to stop living. Their lust and enjoyment for life is palpable, and that’s something no number of bombs, schemes or disgustingly twisted ideologies can eradicate. As famous French philosopher Voltaireonce said, “God gave us the gift of life; it is up to us to give ourselves the gift of living well”.
*Unless credited, all images are my own
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