Nice is on the coast. Behind it lies the most beautiful mountains of the world. They provide a wonderful backdrop to the Côte d'Azure. I took a photo of a relief map showing the area that I traversed in order to reach my destination near Vence.
I tried to zoom in even closer to show you exactly where I explored. Alas, it appears illegible never theless.
A teacher friend, P; tall, blonde, athletic and extremely chatty; wisked me into her speedy, little european chariot. Leaping into her car with a stuffed overnight bag, we instantly fell into relaxed conversation. The fact that P. spoke fluent English was a lottery win!
P. knew all the routes to avoid traffic congestion, and so I was treated to an extraordinary tour of all the back streets of Nice. They were beyond beautiful. Family homes were exquisite, character-filled architectural showpieces with gardens that demonstrated lots of care and pride.
Once we left the urban streets of Nice, we only seemed to be on a short stretch of highway, before we were winding through narrow roads, climbing mountains, plunging again into gorges, piercing tunnels, and then climbing mountainsides once again. The tiny car was like a mountain goat. At times I wished that our conversation could be put on pause so that I could absorb the incredible vistas that surprised me at every turn. All the while, P. delivered a running commentary on the history of the towns, the local attractions and the points of interest.
The journey to P's beautiful mountain retreat was just over an hour.
The car screeched to a halt as we pulled up to a postcard-pretty, typically rustic and homely house. It was a beautiful early evening and my breath was taken from me as I tried to feast my eyes on the view. A massive mountain peak loomed in my immediate background, while the foreground was olive trees, rambling bushes and a gentle slope into a valley. A distant village sported the obligatory church spire, and an ancient village plucked straight from the pages of a fairy tale.
P. enthusiastically pushed the shutters open and breathed life back into the house whilst I contemplated the surreal landscape; basking in the sunshine; trying to imprint this wonderland into my DNA so that I may retrieve this blast of happiness in times of future stress.
P. had to rearrange her bits and bobs to make way for her antipodean guest. She had accumulated so much "stuff" that the house was overflowing with memoires. Her love of books was evident as every nook and cranny boasted collections from every era and global location.
The downstairs sun-drenched room was decorated with paintings of the local area, furniture that oozed rustic charm, whilst P. told me of the fun times that she had shared with good friends on summer evenings. I could taste the rich, red wine, hear the crickets chirping and smell the sweet flower fragrances as the late afternoon deepened into a happy provençale soirée; as she recounted her stories.
P. owns three properties. This is her weekend house.
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