Two returns to Nice via Paris
Why the train should gather momentum
Six weeks came and went last Thursday. I’ve been counting them down because important privileges are restored following the installation of a new hip. No, not those sort. Mrs H. decided a while ago that this milestone would be rewarded with a short break, an opportunity to walk a bit, cycle a lot, back on the agenda. What better way than to include the Promenades Des Anglais on Nice’s seafront and its fancy cycle lane?
My takeaway from several nights in Paris was under urgent construction. Everywhere was littered with building sites, workmen hard at work last Sunday, suggesting that the 2024 Olympic deadlines were beginning to bite. It didn’t spoil the food or the opportunity to practice my French with the odd request for une grande bouteille de pétillant. Somehow a large bottle of fizzy water doesn’t sound quite so de rigueur. I know, enough of the French baloney mate.
Our double-decker train to Nice from the Gare de Lyon station the next morning left a minute early according to my watch. First stop Marseilles at around 1:00 pm in a little over three hours. Situated upstairs with a standard class ticket, I certainly agreed with SNCF’s branding on the window - seat with a view. So this is what a well-funded, nationalised rail service looks like. Their free wifi was also fast enough for the man opposite, who’d squeezed into his seat, to pass the time with several streamed films on his big iPad. I wondered whether he’d missed breakfast because he made short work of three pre-wrapped biscuits with sweet fillings and a large packet of M&Ms, all washed down with a healthy bottle of water within 30 minutes of leaving Paris.
I decided that he must be visiting his two grandchildren, going by the picture on his lock screen. He was either tucking in before sugar prohibition started on arrival in Marseille, where he left the train or was now going home and needed a sugar rush to make up for the lost privileges from his visit.
Aside from people watching, it’s difficult not to be distracted by what is happening outside as the train flashes through the French countryside at speeds up to 199 mph. You get a sense of the size of France on the train, able to observe the changing weather and terrain at ground level. The boring ploughed mono-culture landscape south of sunny Paris stretching into the distance was soon replaced by rolling hills. The distant snow-capped westerly mountains belonging to one of the national parks were quickly followed by snow next to the tracks as we continued south through Macon and Lyon.
One minute we could have been somewhere in the UK, the next, it was dry, much drier, the trees and scrubbier bushes doing their utmost to survive on a limestone pavement. Somewhere south of Lyon, we’d crossed an invisible line entering the northern tendrils of France's Mediterranean climate.
The return of a clearing sky was enough to show the versatility of the dark solar panels, glinting on several railway station car parks as they flashed by, as we closed in on Marseilles. It’s also the law here - 50% of spaces must have solar roofs in 80-plus-sized car parks.
Approaching Marseille Saint-Charles station, it was difficult not to find a roof entirely taken over by the guarantee of nearly always on, free sunshine. We were also rewarded with our first snapshot of the bright blue Mediterranean on a fine early spring day.
The second part of our journey from Marseilles to Nice reminded me of Great Western Railway journeys to Devon and Cornwall, the railway hugging the coast for part of the way, forced to twist and turn for three more hours.
After Toulon, the first of several stops before Nice, I optimistically looked towards the hills searching for a tell-tale-shaped tree shading a chateau at the top of one of the terraced flower villages. Forty years ago I’d had a wonderful, unexpected holiday, a guest of a friend and her sister plus a bunch of others. I still have fond memories of the al fresco dining provided by the patient Madame Provo (was that her name?), the picture-perfect postcard views, Estagnol beach in its pine tree setting and an introduction to red wine dispensed from a petrol pump into the containers we’d turned up with.
I’m not sure why I’ve never made the connection between a Niscoise salad and its origins in Nice, observed on nearly every tourist menu we passed. I put the disconnect down to my lack of knowledge about tuna, which I’d always assumed was a big game fish found in the Caribbean. It is, but species such as Albacore tuna never leave the warmer waters of the Western Mediterranean and some Atlantic tuna migrate to the same area. In other words, it’s a local ingredient just like the anchovies and the new potatoes.
Our big adventure turned out to be a cycle ride to Villefranche sur Mer. Not far for those familiar with lycra, cleats and gears from Shimano. A painless visit to a hire shop and we were away on our sit-up-and-beg bikes with the added insurance of electric assistance just in case. With my limited knowledge of coastal cycling, I still suspected that Villefranche might have one or two hills on offer, even though it looked to be conveniently situated around the corner. Our shop assistant seemed to think that our proposed destination was very doable, which led me to believe that cycle lanes were not only reserved for Nice and there would be no near misses with southern French drivers who don’t mind sharing, as long as you’re happy with finer margins of error.
Having familiarised ourselves on the flat promenade cycle lane, we U-turned and followed our well-marked route, gently climbing out of Nice around the headland to Nice port next door, where ferries to Corsica and Antibes depart. Interesting that the first and biggest boat in the port as we free-wheeled down the hill, was a gin or more likely vodka palace called Kaiser.
My first mistake was apparently to follow the road sign to Villefranche according to Mrs H. The cycle lane had vanished by this point and we were now halfway up the first real hill, cars revving past in low gears. Evidence of a lower coastal road had recently come to light. It was visible at the end of Mrs H’s finger at the bottom of the cliff we were climbing, quietly sitting there all cosy with only the sea for company. Fortunately, the ever resourceful Mrs H had found a zig-zagging road through a park which we could cycle down to join the more picturesque and safer option below.
The road turned out to be a path with intermittent steps and a significant number of turns as far as the eye could see. It was certainly wide enough provided we remained in single-file. As we descended I was reminded of days spent on bikes as a child, where I would have tried to cycle a path like this one, out of the saddle, all the way down, frequently skidding by hammering on the rear brake. The further we descended the tighter the turns became and the more populous the steps, until we were finally confronted with a staircase.
No longer a child and acutely aware that I was breaking in a new hip, we retraced our steps, prepared to face the traffic once again on our precarious adventure to Villefranche.
As luck would have it, we were little more than a mile away from Villefranche’s harbour where rewards awaited us in the shape of other Nicoise delicacies and a sea view.
Privileges for hip patients post 6 weeks include - crossing your legs, sleeping on your front, cycling and swimming, and hip extensions for gym goers.