Look beyond the glitz and glamour of the French Riviera to find medieval towns along the 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, standing between rows of Chardonnay vines. ‘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 grapevines 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.
It’s Easter weekend, and Nice is shrugging off winter. Along the promenade, visitors peel into sandals and shorts, while locals hold firm in coats and oversized sunglasses. Some bolder beach-goers brave the Mediterranean Sea, still numbingly cold from the winter months, though the majority remain ashore, stretched out on blankets or seated on deckchairs. Collectively, pomeranians, dachshunds and chihuahuas outnumber people. The French Riviera is a known hotspot for the fabulously wealthy, but for all its reputation, it is more accessible than it first appears.
A self-guided walking tour of Nice Old Town
Although Nice is the second largest city on the Côte d’Azur, it is easily explored on foot. 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, set against the green slopes of Castle Hill. The water, a deep uninterrupted blue, now houses more yachts than fishing boats.
A path traces the edge of the port, the ocean to one side, quarry rock on the other. Set in the cliff-face is the Monument aux Morts, a white stone monument commemorating the 3,665 Nice citizens who died during World War One, its symmetry and detail a stark contrast to the raw rock surrounding it. I turn the corner and stumble upon a less impressive installation: giant red, white and blue letters spelling ‘#iloveNICE’, wrapped in long-limbed teenagers angling for the perfect photo.
Following the seafront back towards the old town, I reach Cours Saleya, a long-standing outdoor market lined with picked and potted flowers, fresh produce and local delicacies. There are cheese wedges, cured meats, olives the size of apricots, glossy pastries and freshly baked bread – all shielded from the midday sun by striped awnings, preserving a sweet aroma which is part floral part yeasty. Vendors smile easily and move at an unhurried pace, quietly confidence they don’t need to hustle.
The winding alleyways host delis, restaurants, boutiques and bars, alongside open-front stores selling snacks, crafts and souvenirs. I pass barrels of bath salts in all shades and scents, seafood still moving and wide pans of socca bread crisping over open heat. 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 ‘the original street food snack of Nice’. Socca is fried in a black shallow pan before it is cut into rough pizza-slice triangles, sprinkled with salt and pepper and served to a growing queue of hungry customers. At three euros a wedge, it’s hard to stop at one.
I burn off socca and lunch Pinot with an ascent of Castle Hill’s wide cobblestone staircase which concludes at the highest point in Nice. At the hill’s flat, green summit, a yoga group move into a synchronized warrior two, their fingertips reaching out to sea, runners circle the parameter with focus in their frowns, and children scatter across a small playground. Between the castle ruins, old cemetery and Cascade Dijon waterfall, daily life unfolds. From the edge, the view stretches back over Port Lympia, now reduced to a small curve of colour against the coastline.
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 kilometres, Monaco is one of the most densely populated places in the world – like everyone wants a little piece of tax haven. Yet the streets are quiet.
Beyond the ponds and palms of the Jardins de la Petite Afrique is the infamous Monte Carlo Casino. Its beige facade, which could otherwise seem plain, is adorned in 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. An excited teenage boy holds his smartphone up to a red Ferrari and I note the same voyeuristic curiosity that brought me to Monte Carlo.
Monaco-Ville, the Old Town quarter, sits on a rocky promontory extending into the sea. Known as ‘the Rock’, it is the highest point in Monaco. I follow La Rampe de la Major, a red-paved walkway that winds upwards to the city walls – the historic entrance to the stronghold of the Grimaldi family, who have ruled Monaco for over 700 years.
Skipping the crowds gathered for the changing of the guard at 11:55am sharp, I walk along the edge of the Rock. On the southwest side lies St. Martin’s Gardens. A small plaque notes that Monaco’s first public garden was created in the early 19th century to provide work during a famine. Expecting allotments, 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. It dawns on me that it is Easter Sunday. ‘The Way of the Cross’ ceremony is tradition in Monaco, which is 80% Roman Catholic. Unable to walk through the oncoming crowd, and reluctant to turn back, I flatten myself against a stone wall as the procession passed, 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 and small children with not quite enough spatial awareness to make it a fully relaxing experience. Halfway up, I start to understand Nietzsche’s nihilism, but only need to glance over my shoulder for a coastline view of the Cote d’Azur which more than compensates.
Eze Village has been known as ‘the Eagle’s Nest’ on account of its clifftop vantage point, but there are few homebirds in the ‘museum village’ curated for tourists. Boutique hotels, up-market lunch spots and art galleries now occupy former dwellings within the fortress walls. I wander down cobbled alleyways, where purple aubrieta and red ivy cling to stone, 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. At twenty euros, it’s indulgent – but, just about, worth it.
