Excursions au bord de la mer

I don’t know why I chose French. Spanish was certainly the more predominant language in school and the German teacher was quite popular. Maybe going against the grain was why. Or maybe it was because I’d memorized French phrases for a French speaking character in the stage version of Jane Eyre and wanted to understand what I’d said. Or maybe it was because I read Agatha Christie mystery novels and my favorite character was the truth-loving Hercules Poirot, the Belgian sleuth from Wallonia who was always throwing in little French phrases tout le temps. 

There must have been a first day of French class, but it’s gone from my memory. I can picture the tall, thin-smiling Madame Tolbert inviting us to speak French. There was something sharp and polished about her, yet kind and approachable. I seem to remember that everyone respected her, but perhaps she would not remember it that way. She truly loved the French language and culture and it cut through whatever difficulties, unknown to us, she may have encountered. Perhaps more than anything else, she taught us to love France.

It was with Madame Tolbert and her gaggle of her wide-eyed students from Fairbanks, Alaska that I first stepped into the house and gardens of the Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild in 1985.

We arrived by bus and stood across the extensive ponds and gardens from the pink mansion built on a peninsula. The symmetrical, sculpted greenery rounded before us like the foredeck of a boat, overlooking the sea from each side. That’s how Baroness Béatrice de Rothschild, its designer, wanted it to look. She wanted her guests to stand on her second floor balcony and feel that they were out at sea minus the motion and nautical challenges. There was nothing like this in the middle of Alaska. We were stunned motionless.

Thirty-three years later, I’m back again.

The old building, finished in 1912, provides views of the Mediterranean from both the port and the starboard bows of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. During Béatrice’s lifetime, there was only one garden area completed: the French formal garden that is right in front of the mansion. Béatrice left the house and grounds to the Académie des Beaux-Arts and over the decades after her death in 1934, nine gardens were developed, each with a different theme: Jardin de Sèvres (porcelain), Jardin Espagnol (Spain), Jardin à la Française (France), Jardin Florentin (Florence), Jardin Lapidaire (figures in stone), Jardin Japonais (Japan), Jardin Provençal (Provence), Jardin Exotique (Mexican desert), and la Roseraie (roses). With many levels, stairs, statues, and water displays, the gardens feel like a magic kingdom. Around any corner you might see a stone figure playing a cello or blooming cactus or stairs parting ways to make an alcove for a white statue or a rock bench under a canopy of green growth or shining porcelain tile with stepping stones over streams of water. 

While exploring the house, I hear one of my favorite musical works. I follow the sound to emerge into the main French garden for a water show set in time with the music, so much so that the sounds of the water weave beautifully into the piece as additional instruments! Water tinkles, spouts, sashays, and sprays all around. It’s mesmerizing for all the senses.

After a meditative journey through the gardens, I return to the house to go to the Salon de Thé for some light refreshment while glimpsing the Mediterranean through the windows.

It’s as I walk along the rade de Villefranche-sur-mer at sunset to return to my temporary home just forty minutes away that I realize the most unbelievable thing about the Rothschild Estate is that Béatrice didn’t choose to live there. It was always a show place to be shared. I realize something else. I would enjoy fostering a place of stories, beauty, and rest for people to visit and restore something within.

The next day, I walk the other direction, rounding the Cap de Nice to arrive in the city of Nice in a little less than an hour.

The sentier du littoral walking trail is rugged and the stony path often steps precariously over the sea. It’s not advertised or easy to find, so I’m thankful Shelley told me where to go. 

First, there is a walk through la darse, the old port of Villefrance-sur-mer, where there is an old man of the sea, a Ulysses in his chair, wistfully remembering past exploits that I can only imagine. 

Tucked along the base of the cape, the rock trail winds over turquoise and emerald and deep royal blue waters. Above the path it’s a steep shot straight up to where the wealthy of the world have their summer homes. Strange to think that somewhere up and up and up and over is Elton John’s house.  

There’s a stunning section of broad, prickly pear cactus. I’ve never seen such large, round pads.  There are stairs going straight up and as I approach the top, I can turn around and see the port of Nice. 

I walk in the old city of Nice for a little while, find the youth hostel that I stayed in thirty years ago, and return to Villefranche-sur-mer by train to get back before dark.

Next Two Months in France: Vivant à Villefranche-sur-mer

This is #21 in a series of stories: Two Months in France. Follow the links below to read the other parts of the series starting with the first:
1.   Santa Fe Depot Departure
2.   Return to the Great Lady
3.   Shakespeare and Company Bookstore
4.   Paris Stroll
5.   Paris – des heures exquises
6.   Train to Thonon-les-Bains
7.   Château de Ripaille
8.   Getting up with the Birds: Lac Léman to Lyon to Lille
9.   Navigating to Avignon
10. In the Walled City of Avignon
11. Inside the Rich Ochre of Roussillon
12. Up the Steep Calades to Gordes
13. Retraversant à Fontaine-de-Vaucluse
14. Diving Deep in the Closed Valley
15. Défense de marcher sur l’eau
16. Tout Seul in Carcassonne
17. Théâtre de Poche in Sète
18. Climbing into Vallon-Pont-d’Arc
19. On ne peut jamais revenir à Antibes
20. Arrivant sur le toit à Villefranche-sur-mer