Les débuts......

So, where did it all begin?

When I was 8 years old my parents took my little brother and I to an idyllic location close to the sea, by a hilltop village perched perfectly against an azure sky. For my 8 year old self it was love at first sight, a heart-stopping coup de foudre, which was to change and influence my future forever.

On the beach at Cavalaire

Souvenirs d'enfance

I never expected to fall so head over heels in love with a place. Of course, when you are 8 years old a family holiday by the sea is always going to be lovely - but this was different somehow.

That first trip we towed our 11ft 'Sprite' caravan behind dad's rather cool (at the time) orange Ford Capri and made the long journey south from the rainy north of England. That night we parked up on Dover sea front, sleeping in the caravan at the side of the road, avoiding the hassle of finding a campsite and enjoying spectacular sea views. Drawing back the curtains at dawn the next morning we peered out from our bunk beds at the long white pebbled beach and excitedly observed the grey, foamy sea of the English Channel. The white cliffs of Dover loomed spectacularly in the distance - our adventure was about to begin.

After endless days winding our way down to the south through the French countryside – a countryside that became warmer, more mountainous and to my mind more beautiful by the day - we arrived in Cavalaire-sur-mer and set up our camp. What followed were perfect, long and glorious days filled entirely with sunshine, the sound of the cicadas a continuous thrumming backdrop to our little piece of heaven. We spent whole days on the pine edged beaches where the sand was so soft and golden, clumping and sticking to wet toes, a multitude of different hued golden grains. The waves always seemed so gentle, lapping carefully at the edge of the bay and we safely bobbed around in orange arm bands hour upon blissful hour. Even a dose of German measles didn’t mar the perfection of our first holiday in France: ‘the sea water will do you good and help the itching’ said a kindly pharmacienne.

That year we discovered Bormes-les-Mimosas, a hilltop village with olive green and blue shuttered houses which jostled for space up winding, steep little streets. The purple bougainvillea tumbled down ancient, sand coloured walls, escaping from lush, verdant gardens and competing with the pretty pots of vibrant fuschia pink and shocking red geraniums. It was picture postcard perfect, scattered with a handful of tiny restaurants and bars, and the best ice cream in the world.

We made friends with some French children, Nicole and Cédric, and communicated with exaggerated gestures and smiles interspersed with the odd, hastily learnt French word. Our pronunciation was perfect as we knew no embarrassment, we imitated, mimicked and grinned. We shared pain au chocolat at breakfast and those red, sugary strawberry foam sweets in the afternoons, slurping messily on vast chunks of Watermelon, the juice running down sun browned chins and pooling stickily on bare knees at siesta time. In the evenings we ran wild, exploring the dusty campsite and playing hide and seek around the umbrella pines whilst the grown-ups had aperitifs French style – with little salted crackers and glasses of rosé wine. That first holiday was simply perfect.

After that there was no stopping us, the whole family had fallen hook, line and sinker for the charms of the Var and we tried to return as often as we could, Easter, Spring Bank, high summer....

A plethora of trips continued every year right through to my late teens - from St Tropez, La Croix-val-mer, and Frejus all the way around the stunning red rocky coast to La Napoule, Cannes and Nice. We visited so many of them – from the small seaside villages and large coastal towns to tiny mountain hamlets. The scenery, the 'paysage', glorious in its contrasts – the colours so alive, so heart wrenchingly beautiful.

“You were never told that St Tropez is Paradise?” - Karl Lagerfeld