Look beyond the glitz and glamour of the French Riviera to find medieval towns along a coastal bus route, spectacular walks through history and nature, and street food delights which don’t cost the earth.
‘We get 300 days of sun on the French Riviera’, Michel tells us, ‘the perfect weather for making wine.’ My tour group have formed a semi-circle around the vinter who goes on to describe the life cycle of the leafy green Chardonnay vines covering the southside of the vineyard. I am at Chateau de Bellet winery, a short bus ride inland from Nice. At 300 meters above sea level, the chateau sits between the coastline and snow-capped mountains of the French Alps. On the hilltop, we are exposed to a brisk wind, but the sunshine is glorious.
Easter weekend falls mid-April this year; when western Europe starts to feel a seasonal shift and promise of summer with longer days and rising temperatures. Along Nice promenade, it is easy to separate the visitors from the locals based on how hard they embrace the warmer climate. The former are sandal-clad with limbs on show whilst the latter sport ribbed outdoor coats and oversized sunglasses. Some bolder beach-goers brave the Mediterranean Sea, still icy from the winter months, though the majority remain ashore, seated on blankets or beach-bar deckchairs. Collectively, pomeranians, dachshunds and chihuahuas outnumber humans. The French Riviera undoubtedly lives up to its reputation as a glamorous hotspot for the fabulously wealthy, but with medieval towns along a coastal bus route, spectacular walks through history and nature, and street food delights which don’t cost the earth, it is far from exclusive.
A self-guided walking tour of Nice Old Town
Although Nice is the second largest city on the Côte d’Azur, it is walkable with the main attractions easily coverable on foot within a day. I begin my own self-guided walking tour at the Old Port of Nice, or Port Lympia, named for the valley which existed here before construction began in 1745. The ‘Old Port’ sounds industrious, but it is far from it. Vibrant pastel-coloured houses surround the port, an architectural blend of Italian Renaissance and Baroque, a stunning contrast against the rocky, green backdrop of Castle Hill. The water, deep blue beneath a cloudless sky, now houses more yachts than it does fishing boats. I walk the path which snakes around the port, the ocean coming up on my left with the old quarry cliffs to the right. Tucked inside is a white brick monument, a giant urn within a niche. On both sides are high reliefs; sculpted scenes portraying war on the left and peace on the right. The Monument aux Morts commemorates the 3,665 Nice citizens who died during World War I; the structured white brick and intricate design work striking against the rugged quarry rock of Castle Hill. I turn the corner and stumble upon a less impressive sculpture: giant red, white and blue letters spelling ‘#iloveNICE’, wrapped in long-limbed teenagers kicking their legs up for the group pic of Nice promenade.
Down the seafront, I turn right to reorient back towards the old town where I come across Cours Saleya, the long-standing outdoor market with offerings of delectable delicacies and rows of picked and potted flowers, like rainbows lining the walkway. Deli spreads, homemade pastries and cakes and olives the size of apricots are sheltered from the midday sun by striped overhangs, preserving a sweet aroma which is part yeasty and part floral. Friendly vendors smile invitingly, giving off a calm and easy energy, a quiet confidence they don’t need to hustle too hard to make a sale at this local institution.
The winding alleyways of Nice Old Town are like an extension of the market square, with delis, restaurants, boutiques and bars, alongside open-front brick and mortar stores selling snacks, crafts and fresh produce. I pass barrels of bath salts in all shades and scents, seafood which is quite literally still alive and gigantic frying pans of socca bread. Accustomed to consuming socca – or gram flour pancakes – with avo and hummus in London cafes, I am ignorant to its Mediterranean origins and am surprised to hear from a vendor it is in fact ‘the original street food snack of Nice’. Socca is fried in a black shallow pan before it is cut into pizza-slice triangles, sprinkled with salt and pepper and served to a growing queue of hungry customers. At three euros a wedge, it’s really quite dangerous.
I burn off socca and lunch Pinot with an ascent of Castle Hill’s wide cobblestone staircase, bringing me to the highest point in Nice. I walk the parameter of the park at the hill’s summit, passing a yoga group as they move into a synchronized warrior two, their fingertips reaching out to sea. I dodge a hoard of joggers with focus in their frowns, and swerve a miniature playground where children shout and swing higher. Between the castle ruins, old cemetery and Cascade Dijon waterfall, is daily life. I pause briefly before my descent down the far side of the hill, drinking in a view of Port Lympia, my starting point a speck in the distance.
Discovering the many faces of Monaco
It is not uncommon for residents of Monaco to travel the 20kms from Nice by helicopter. My own less than stylish arrival to the playground of the rich and famous is via the 602x bus which, after nearly 40 minutes of meandering down winding coastal roads, has left me feeling queasy. Monaco is the world’s smallest city after the Vatican, but it is more built up than other towns on the French Riveria. Hotel blocks and skyscrapers tower above coloured terraces. The Grand Prix racing track, which lines the Bay of Monaco, is like a concrete barrier between the ocean and the Alps. It looks architecturally crowded, and it is. At just over two square kilometers, with 26,000 people in each, Monaco is not just the second smallest but also the more densely populated country in the world. It’s like everyone wants a little piece of tax haven. Interestingly, the streets are quiet.
I disband the bus at random on a hill north of the bay, between the Tourist Office and Jardins de la Petite Afrique. I walk through the gardens, passing ponds and palm trees, until I arrive at the infamous Monte Carlo Casino. Beige outer walls, which alone could be considered plain, are combined with spires and pale blue caryatids, oozing elegance like a whisper of wealth. Out front is a palm-clad island garden with a fountain in the centre and parking bays surrounding it. Other visitors seem more interested in the carpark than the casino itself. I watch an excited teenage boy holding his smartphone up to a red Ferrari and note the same voyeuristic curiosity that brought me to Monte Carlo. As the owners of the eye-catching vehicles are nowhere to be seen, reason would stand they are inside the casino. This scene tells a story of how much foreign money is in Monaco. Citizens – which now make up around one fifth of the country’s population – have been banned from gambling in the casinos since they were established in the 1850s.
I make my way to Monaco-Ville, the Old Town quarter which sits on a cape extending out to sea. At 200 meters tall, ‘the Rock’ is the highest point in Monaco. I follow Le Rampe de la Major, a red paved walkway which meanders 3km upwards to the city wall; the entranceway to the stronghold of the Grimaldi family, the long reigning rulers of Monaco. During the 13th century, this walkway was the sole means of communication between the district and the Prince’s Palace in Old Town Square. As a result of Monaco’s overcrowding, the Grimaldi’s – unlike most other European royals – have kept the same palace as their official residence for 700 years.
I skip the crowds of Old Town Square, where visitors flock to see the changing of the palace guard at 11.55am on the dot, and walk along the edge of The Rock. On the southwest side of the cape, I arrive at the entrance to St. Martin’s Gardens. A metal plaque tells me that Monaco’s first public garden was constructed on an abandoned plot in the early 19th century, to provide work for residents during a famine. With images of allotments and community gardens in mind, I enter an oasis of oaks, myrtles and pistachio trees; spring buds bursting into colour. Pathways twist between the garden’s inhabitants, down to the edge of the rock where carefully concealed wooden benches offer a spectacular view across the sea.
As I make my way back down Le Rampe de la Major and towards the bus stop, I am stopped in my tracks. A parade of monks and school children are slowly making their way up The Rock, singing hymns at the top of their lungs. At the centre, a monk carrying a giant wooden cross. I think for the first time that it is Easter Sunday. ‘The Way of the Cross’ ceremony is tradition in Monaco, which is 80% Roman Catholic. I am stuck for what to do for a moment; I cannot walk through the oncoming crowd, nor do I want to turn around and power walk some distance back up The Rock. In the end I flatten myself against a stone wall and allow myself to be engulfed. I observe the procession – the modest brown robes, hymns in high notes, the fortress up ahead – it is like a scene from a bygone era.
Hiking the Nietzsche Path to Eze Village
Arriving at Eze sur Mer, hallway between Monaco and Nice, one could assume that ‘the hike to Eze Village’ is as laidback and leisurely as this sleepy seaside town. A main road runs parallel to a railway line, separating the beach from a hillside of bungalows and holiday homes. There is one lone restaurant, La Vielle Maison, serving up the catch of the day on roadside tables to guests to hikers in shorts, vests and padded socks, filling their boots before the journey ahead. The Nietzche path connects Eze beach to the medieval Eze Village 1400 feet up the hill. It is named after Friedrich Nietzsche, the renowned German philosopher who allegedly found inspiration for his works whilst hiking this trail between mountain and sea. Earlier still, it was a mule path where donkeys would transport goods between the beach and the hilltop.
Although the climb takes an hour at a steady pace, the incline is steep and there are many steps in various stages of dilapidation along with the occasional sheer drop. The pathway proves popular, also with families, meaning there are small children with not quite enough spatial awareness to make it a fully relaxing experience. I start to understand where Nietzsche’s nihilism comes from. The views make up for what the physical pathway leaves to be desired. As I meander up the limestone rock with the Mediterranean to my back, I only need to glance over my shoulder for a spectacular view of the coastline.
Eze Village has been known as ‘the Eagle’s Nest’ on account of its clifftop vantage point, which offers a bird’s eye view over the Cote d’Azur. But there are few homebirds in the ‘museum village’ which visibly caters to tourism. Bougie hotels, up-market lunch spots and art galleries now occupy former dwellings which line the walls of the old fortress. I walk down postcard perfect cobbled alleyways, where purple aubrieta and red ivy cling to stone walls, to the 400-year-old Chateau D’Eza. On a French terrace where the cliff edge falls away, I drink in the broad sweep of Mediterranean Sea and a large prosecco cocktail, bubbles popping between my parched lips. Watching tiny turquoise waves turn to foam and lap at the coastline, I think this might just warrant the twenty euro bev.
