The Derby, Brigadier Gerard, the Bishop of Dibley and a break... which is Nice
This time next week, I shall be in Middlesex. A few hours later, Nice will have my undivided attention, and a few hours after that, Grimaud.
As you sit shivering in the dreary rain, I shall be basking in the cooling Mediterranean offshore breeze, sipping a Whisky Sour before tucking into a lightly grilled prawn.
Except, of course, that breeze might have ushered in the downpour that La Lavandou had last week, just down the road from Grimaud. The rain was so intense that it flooded the town and destroyed a massive chunk of local infrastructure. Devant moi le déluge, as Louis XVI might have said.
Alternatively, the gentle breeze might be fanning the flames of the next forest fire, the Cote d’Azur’s latest fixation, in which case, it’s bugger the prawns and into the boats. The more I read, the more it appears that the South of France has become an absolute death trap. And then, before even the flames and the floods and the mud slides and the rock falls, and the road slippages take you away to Elysium, there’s the crime. At the very lowest level, if you’re bumped into in the Cours Saleya, in Vieux Nice, chances are you’ve been picked. When you get back home, don’t be surprised if the house has been robbed. But stray into Les Moulins just north of the airport, and you’re into a world that makes TV series like The Wire or Gomorrah look normal. Recently, the DZ mafia from Marseilles have started taking over Les Moulins,
