Yes, Oui, Cannes

I’m not sure what filled me with more dread; the fact that the invitation to the opening ceremony specified a ‘creative chic dress code’ or that it would entail having to walk up the marches du Palais, the epitome of red carpets, possibly in the footsteps of Richard Gere and Michael Fassbender. In true wallflower style, I reverted to my natural nyctinastic state, rueing my decision to visit Cannes during my week along the Côte d’Azur, believing that I’d be safe from all the glitz and glamour, by going before the annual film festival. 

In the end, even the relief of discovering that the timing of my visit meant that I’d skip town the day that the Canneseries Festival would start and therefore, would have to turn down my host’s kind invitation, did nothing to reassure me that I wasn’t making a mistake. Didn’t I wear the fact that I’d never been, almost like a badge of honour, preferring instead to leave the clichés unchallenged? Apologies if I ever dissuaded you from going there, as personally I never gave it a chance, a second thought, a sideways glance.

And so it was that I arrived late one afternoon in April, after visiting the Hotel Cap Eden Roc in nearby Antibes. There, I had been regaled with stories of how, as a guest in the mid-1920s, F. Scott Fitzgerald had written his most famous novels during his stay, and how he regularly visited Cannes, where there were apparently enough wild parties, fountains of champagne and all-night dancing to bury the memories of WWI and fill his pages. Maybe it was because this had put me in the frame of mind of classic flapper glamour, but I liked the city instantly. Sure, La Croisette is lined with luxury boutiques that could rival Monaco and Milan but even as someone who doesn’t get her kicks from Chanel or Louis Vuitton, you have to admire their sheer volume and acknowledge the allure of these brands operating at the top of their game.

Towering above them all is The Carlton. On first sight of this grande dame, I started to wonder about who might stay here (hint: the great and the good) but it’s only when I crossed into the belle epoque lobby did I realise what a tardis it is, absorbing 320+ bedrooms over 6 storeys and the rest, such as a boxing ring, once used by Muhammad Ali for sparring practice. I’m no anthophile, but what really caught my attention were the flowers, which in case you’re wondering are all real and enough to keep 6 full-time florists as busy as bees.

So far so fancy but there’s more to Cannes than La Croisette, as I discovered during an electric bike ride from Californie to Le Suquet, passing beaches and clubs and beachclubs along the way. True, the town is home to a lot of parties. It’s the birthplace of La Môme and when Zuma decided to launch on the Côte d’Azur last year, it was Palm Beach that caught its attention, but with such a lot to celebrate – 300+ days of sunshine, sandy beaches, rainbow-coloured sunsets and an ideal location between Nice and Saint-Tropez – it’s not surprising.

I headed for higher ground in the old town, before the glitter started to rub off on me. But looking out over the bay, at the Lérins, I was hit by the realisation that I should have extended my stay…..not for Michael, Richard et al, but to walk through the eucalyptus forest of St Marguerite, to taste wine from the vineyards on St Honorat and later, to anchor between the two islands, for the best sundowner views of the red, rugged Esterel cliffs. And I was tempted the following morning when shopping at Forville market, to take my socca and pissaladière to-go, to make the 15-minute ferry crossing and spend the day in museums and chapels, learning about masked prisoners and monks. 

Instead, I continued on my way west, confident that my visit had been just the premiere, and that the story was to be continued….