Nine Summers Page 10

  In spite of the cool breeze, I was in a bath of sweat. While we waited, a gaggle of women in miniskirts, stiletto patent boots and thick masks of paint roared into the bar and distributed themselves among the tables. Some sat on the men’s laps, others made for high stools at the bar. The men stopped staring at us and now focused on the girls. It was after 10.

  Our pizzas arrived. ‘What if they’re laced?’ I wasn’t hungry.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Felix looked starved.

  ‘How long are we going to wait?’

  ‘We’ll just eat the pizzas and then leave.’

  By the time we finished it was 10.30 and the young man still hadn’t come. We paid. The waiter looked relieved when he saw us walk out the door.

  We walked in silence back to the marina. The restaurants were busy, and there was frenetic activity all around. Lights blazed along the quay, yachts rocked, booms swayed, rigging chimed, but few people were around. Almost everyone was ashore.

  We climbed on board.

  ‘Thank God we can go to bed. Let’s leave at the crack of dawn.’

  ‘Don’t turn,’ Felix whispered, ‘but I think the guy is at the end of this pier with his back to us.’ He put the key into the lock of the washboard.

  ‘Someone’s been tampering with the lock. Look at the scratches, the lock’s bent! I can’t get the key in. I’ll need a screwdriver and pliers.’

  My stomach sank. ‘Maybe we forgot to lock the workshop from the inside.’

  We were in luck. We raised the cockpit seat. Felix climbed in and came out with a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, and opened the lock.

  ‘I can’t believe we were such idiots. We’ve just fallen for the oldest con in the book!’ Felix said with a smile.

  I insisted we lock ourselves in.

  Early the next morning we went to the marina office to pay.

  ‘You want to go to Cassis with your boat? But c’est impossible to go in…too many people…’ the official at the Vieux Port capitainerie insisted.

  ‘Maybe we’ll be lucky.’ Felix resisted telling him that our greatest concern was to get out of Marseilles as fast as we could.

  ****

  It was already afternoon when we approached the lighthouse at Cassis, not a good time to find a spot on the marina. Nevertheless, I radioed the capitainerie. Some minutes later I called out to Felix, ‘Yes, they know about us. They’ll send someone to the entrance to give us a hand. They said it’s really crowded but they’ll squeeze us in somewhere. God bless Captain Alain.’

  At the entrance a young man gesticulated instructions. We had furled the sails, turned on the engine, and were moving slowly in the direction of the quay where hulls were glued cheek to cheek.

  ‘You’re jolly lucky to come in before the Mistral hits,’ an English voice from the boat alongside greeted us.

  It was a tight fit on the marina, the fenders between the boats groaned. We were squeezed between a Scandinavian and a chatty Englishman. When we told him how concerned we were about finding a place to winter Galatea, he said, ‘You should’ve arranged a wintering spot at least three months ago. If I were you, I’d try and find a spot on the hard instead of leaving her in the water on a marina. Around Marseilles pilfering and robbing is a standard occupation. Much safer to be on the dry in a fenced and guarded compound. If you like, I’ll give you the phone number of the Port Sec at Martigues where I’m leaving my boat.’

  We were grateful for the advice, phoned the following morning and secured a wintering spot from the first week in October.

  Towards evening, we walked past the commotion of the quay and the restaurants into a quiet area, where an old world atmosphere pervaded a tiny park. With geometric flowerbeds of red geraniums, white chrysanthemums, yellow marigolds and daisies, the scene was a Renoir vignette. An aged couple bent over a stone table were playing cards, a grey-haired woman sat on a bench embroidering a tablecloth, children clutching twigs chased each other on gravel paths. This was not the tourists’ Cassis. That centred on the quay, and in the restaurants.

  Monet, Matisse, Dufy, Vlaminck and Derain had all fallen in love with Cassis, a village nestling at the end of a bay where escarpments sweep down to the sea. When the painters had come here, it was a fishing community.

  That evening the Mistral hit with a vengeance. At the entrance to the port the sea was angry, and the wind whistled, but our corner was relatively still. It was good to get into our bunks. We took out our eiderdowns, and the next morning breakfasted on porridge with brown sugar for the first time. We had come to France in early spring, spent the summer there, and now we were well into autumn.

  ‘If the Mistral is going to blow for a few days, we could pick up the car and visit wineries, go to Aix-en-Provence and other places.’ When he wasn’t exhausted, Felix needed to keep moving. Perhaps this was a way of proving to himself that he still had the energy, that he was almost back to normal.

  By the time we had caught two buses and one train, it had taken us over eight hours to bring our car from La Grande Motte to Cassis.

  On the following day, armed with a Michelin Green Guide, a Michelin Red Guide, Hugh Johnson’s Wine Atlas of France, and maps of Provence and the Côte d’Azur, we set off well after midday, the time of day when Felix, like Proust, felt he could face the world. I wore a big straw hat, not only to cover my hair but also to cut down the number of migraines that plagued me. When I wore my large red number, people at the marina christened me ‘la dame au chapeau rouge’.

  Our first excursion was along the coastal road between Cassis and Ciotat — a steep, winding road overlooking the water and villages below. The sea and sky were a moving kaleidoscope in shades of blues, greens, greys and whites. The countryside was autumnal. Trees were heavy with fruit and leaves were turning gold. The vintage was in full swing. We drove along narrow byways overgrown with branches, past hidden road signs (frequently pointing in the wrong direction) to Moulin des Costes near La Cadière d’Azur. Felix wanted to talk about French wines, but the vignerons wanted to discuss Australian ones. They looked astonished when we told them that we had no home address, and that the wines we bought would be stored in the bilge of our boat. After a short silence, they refilled our glasses and said, ‘C’est vraiment formidable, we are jealous!’

  ‘I never knew there were so many people in the world who’d like to live on a boat but don’t,’ I said to Felix as we lugged two boxes into the boot. We drove on to Domaine de Pibarnon, bought another dozen reds and then climbed to Le Castellet, a quaint village nestled on a peak with a panoramic vista over the plain below.

  ‘Ah, how Cezanne loved this place!’ The restaurateur told us.

  It was still blowing a gale when we set off to Aix-en-Provence and parked off the boulevard in the centre of town. Cours Mirabeau is a wide boulevard, lined with cafés and rows of massive plane trees planted three centuries ago.

  ‘There’s a café in the shade, it looks like a university campus eatery, let’s go there,’ I said. It was packed, but a young man invited us to sit with him and his friend. ‘The advantage of looking old,’ I muttered to Felix.

  It didn’t take long to start a conversation. They spoke fluent English, German and French. The two were a contrast in looks and manner. Reinhardt, the younger of the two, was fair-haired, cheerful, slight and gregarious. Werner was tall, dark, heavy and formal. He pulled out a chair for me and we shook hands.

  Reinhardt was happy to tell us what they were doing in Aixen-Provence. ‘We’re both law students from Munich, studying European and international law here. That’s going to be very important in the future. We’re studying here because it’ll improve our French and also we’ll learn legalese French. It won’t be easy to combine all the various national systems into a European one.

  That’s why we’re encouraged to study in other countries, not just in Germany. We’ve been here a year and we’ll stay another year. Provence is a great place. A bit like a holiday really.’

  Werner was more anxious t
o tell us what we should see in Aix-en-Provence: ‘…you must see Cezanne’s Atelier, it’s open till 6…and of course you must walk through Old Aix. It’s a place with boulevards, squares, museums, a sprawling university housed in old buildings, Gothic and Renaissance architecture, cafés, good food and a long history.’

  Cezanne’s Studio, a house and garden at the top of a steep hill, was just as it had been when he died in 1906. We were the only visitors that day. To see the blue vase, the water jug, the plaster cupid — all items we’d seen in his paintings — was a moving experience. I touched the easel and imagined I smelt his paint.

  After the Mistral had blown itself out, we continued on to St Tropez for several days. In early October we bid Galatea a sad farewell on the dry at Martigues and drove through a golden French autumn to London. We were looking forward to seeing our two granddaughters, who were going to spend their school holidays with us.

  ‘Well, that’s the end of our first summer!’

  ‘Quite a summer,’ Felix replied.

  ‘Yes, and we’ll have a great winter in London. Renting a flat near Swiss Cottage tube station will be handy. Think of all the concerts and theatres and galleries…and taking the girls out, I can’t wait.’

  ‘We’ll also have to find out what 9- and 12-year-old girls enjoy doing.’

  chapter four

  Hi Kids!

  It’s April, and we’re in France on our way south at the start of our second summer. You should see us! Our car is packed to the roof. New mattresses for the saloon, more nautical technology, books and tapes, and we’re making our way slowly to Galatea.

  We’re well, the spring countryside is as magnificent as these enclosed photos but you’re lucky the smell doesn’t come with them. We keep the car windows closed. Dad’s convinced we’ve run over a cow or two and that’s why we can’t get away from it.

  But we are definitely eating and drinking our way south. Dinner yesterday: asparagus soufflé, quenelles de brochet (pike), ham with mushroom cream sauce, raspberry soufflé. But we pay for this bliss with my nightly rashes. Dad’s eyes have improved, but he can’t use a pen so he’ll write when he gets to the computer.

  We loved John Ardagh’s Writers’ France. It’s a wonderful guide to the homes and places where famous writers lived or spent time. It was especially thrilling to visit the house where Marcel Proust had that famous incident of the madeleine soaked in tea (now that we’ve both finished his three tomes). Of course as soon as we shut the front gate, we rushed to the nearest café to have madeleines, but can you believe, they gave us coffee instead of tea!

  We drove on through the Beuce, Émile Zola’s territory, and finally to the Château de Saché where Balzac spent most of his time writing in bed. It’s a great way to amble through the French countryside in spring.

  We miss getting letters from you, but we’ll phone when we get to Martigues and Galatea. Hope you’re all well.

  Lots of love and hugs from us both

  It was good to arrive in Martigues, put Galatea into the water and sleep in a familiar environment. After a week spent getting her shipshape, we moved from port to port along the coast to Villefranche and St Jean Cap Ferrat. We picked up the car from Martigues, and while we waited for David to pass through on his way to a conference, we familiarised ourselves with the coast and hinterland of this part of France.

  We drove several times to the Fondation Maeght, a wonderful gallery on the way to our favourite, St Paul de Vence, where Chagall spent the last 30 years of his life. We visited the Chagall Museum, the Picasso Museum in Antibes, Matisse’s Chapel in Vence…We celebrated our 40th wedding anniversary with David in Juan-les-Pins, where we dined on a nine-course degustation menu and drank innumerable toasts.

  ‘Let’s have a family celebration here for our 50th wedding anniversary,’ I said, and crossed my fingers. At midnight we needed a taxi to get back to Galatea.

  On the French Riviera we met an Englishman who had lived there for many years. He was a tall, lanky man in his 60s with a handlebar moustache, thinning, mottled grey hair, a smart upright gait and clipped upper crust accent. In an earlier era he would have felt at home in India, spent his leisure time at the officers’ club, and eventually retired to Tunbridge Wells. Indeed, he reminded us of the quintessential British expat portrayed in books about India. But of course, he was much too young to have been one. Still, he invariably assumed an air of superiority whenever he alluded to non-Brits.

  We first met Alistair on the marina in Beaulieu, where he spent much of his time trolling for novices, preferably those planning to cross to Calvi for the first time, with whom he could share his extensive knowledge of Corsica, where he had a house. He took pleasure in visiting us almost daily during the weeks we spent on marinas in, or close to, Beaulieu. If we wanted to have a day to ourselves we moved out of the marina and anchored in one of the bays, such as Villefranche, or more often, drove off inland, and on occasion, to Italy for the day. We found it strange that, in all the time he’d lived in the South of France, he had never ventured further than Corsica.

  Alistair admitted on a number of occasions that he didn’t like France or the French, yet never offered a reason why he lived there, other than admitting that ‘…the weather is so damn good’. He didn’t like Corsicans either (although he loved Corsica), and he never missed an occasion to warn us about their ‘perfidious habits’.

  ‘Buy a Corsican flag and fly it!’ he advised us. We did — a ‘Tête de Maure, a Moor’s Head’ flag, originally used by the Aragonese during the Crusades and later adopted by Corsican patriots. Alistair had stayed in all the ‘anses’ (bays and inlets), on the west coast of Corsica, which, he assured us, was far more picturesque than the east coast. He also knew a great deal about the British who lived on the French Riviera, and advised them on buying property in the South of France.

  ‘There’s an entire colony of British who are permanent residents here, and we mingle primarily among ourselves…’ We never met Alistair’s wife, although he professed to have one. She played a lot of bridge, he said.

  It was the longest day of the year, with a full silver moon, the day we cast off from the marina of Beaulieu. On Alistair’s advice we left at 2 in the afternoon to ensure sighting Punta Revellata lighthouse at dawn. This was the first time we were leaving a coastline and crossing a stretch of water. Although I knew that in a storm it was safer to be out at sea than close to land, I felt more secure hugging a coast.

  Our flags hung limp and the engine purred as we waved Alistair goodbye. The sun was burning deep orange and yellow, and along the coast there was frenetic activity. By sunset, however, we felt an evening breeze and switched off the engine.

  ‘What’s for dinner? I’m starved, we must open an appropriate wine for the occasion.’

  ‘A cheese soufflé and a baguette. Something light for the crossing,’ I said. ‘And raspberries with nougat gelato to follow.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  The sky was cloudless, a full moon had slipped above the horizon, but the occasion was too emotional for our bravura singalong. By 10 o’clock it was dark, the moon was high, stars glittered, and we drifted on in silence. We stayed in the cockpit all night; neither of us contemplated going to bed.

  ‘We should see the Revellata light soon.’

  I drifted off to sleep in the cockpit and woke with a start when Felix announced, ‘There’s the light! Earlier than I thought, it’s just after 3.’

  ‘And all we did was point the autohelm to 138 degrees and we’re almost in Corsica!’

  Just then two yachts crossed our path on their way north, and in the distance a cruise ship, lit up like a carnival ball, was making its way towards the Italian coast.

  Gradually, the mist enveloping the Corsican coast lifted, and an outline of the Calvi citadel appeared. Built by the Genoese in the thirteenth century, it sits perched on a tall escarpment at the entrance to Calvi harbour. We entered the port at 5.30. Not a soul was in sight. At about 7, the place came t
o life. Set among palms, the bars and cafés opened, and people started to step ashore from boats.

  The port was noisy and busy, its dominant feature the view of the citadel above. In the evenings, the restaurants and bars were packed when uniformed Foreign Legion conscripts came down from the citadel for a night’s entertainment with the local girls.

  The atmosphere in Calvi — its sounds and smells, the whitewashed houses with their bright-coloured doors and flowerpots — is more Italian than French. The ancient town, which has a 600-year history, is perched up on the citadel. It was eerily still and silent when we climbed the steep walk to see it. The houses that had once been whitewashed looked forlorn and uninhabited, yet that couldn’t be. The Foreign Legion had barracks there, but we didn’t see any of the conscripts. We only saw an old woman on a stool in front of an open door, her head tilted back, sunning herself, and a cat curled at her feet. The smell of cooking drifted into the air.

  We hired a car and drove inland. Much of the landscape is harsh and rugged, and according to guide books, not lacking in banditi: ‘…never stare or get involved in anything that seems strange or unusual.’ On the Route de Bavella — famous for its spectacular needle peaks, known as Aiguilles de Bavella — pine and chestnut trees, wild pigs and boars abound. Large expanses are covered with aromatic herbs and shrubs (maquis), and when the wind blows off the land, exotic scents sweep as far as 20 miles out to sea.

  The island has been described as ‘a scented granite mountain surrounded by anchorages’. The west coast, from Calvi to Ajaccio, is mountainous, with deep, steep-sided bays and inlets. Most have small beaches and crystal water with shimmering kaleidoscope colours, perfect for anchoring and peaceful interludes. Many resemble alpine lakes surrounded by mountains. The names are mostly Italian — Girolata, Propriano, Campo Moro, Tizzano, Roccapina. Ruins of towers, citadels and small settlements sprinkle the coastline. Some look like villages, but are in fact mausoleums that look like housing estates. One had a golden cupola, a small version of St Peter’s Basilica. It was built over 100 years ago by a Corsican who had migrated to South America. His descendants are still brought here for burial. These edifices — like lighthouses, forts and other remarkable features in the landscape — are marked on naval charts.