Last summer, in line with a tradition I’ve kept most years over the past two decades, I spent a couple of weeks in Europe. Every day or two, I recorded and shared experiences and observations on Facebook as my trip unfolded. It’s best to record these thoughts and reflections as they happen, as the memories and fleeting moments of the everyday fade quickly, and soon enough to I’m left with only the grand strokes of a trip. I’m sharing here the snippets and journal entries that I had written while in southern France and then in Edinburgh, Scotland, in late June and early July 2024.
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French Riviera, Day 1 (24 June). I’m staying in the town of Antibes (population 75,000). This serves as my “home base” as I hope to explore the Côte d’Azur. Pablo Picasso lived here and so did one of my favourite authors, Graham Greene. This morning I visited the apartment building where he lived, right around the corner from the train station. The commemorative plaque next to the entrance is as simple as Greene’s one-bedroom apartment was said to have been, despite the fact that his books and films brought him considerable wealth. He lived and wrote from here between 1966 and 1990. The Old Town is located nearby and this is where I discovered a small English-language bookstore owned by a Briton who has made Antibes her home.
Some areas were busy with tourists and locals, but overall Antibes has the relaxed atmosphere and slower pace of a small town. The overcast and cooler weather, peculiar for this region at this time of year, seems ideal for walking — which I did, completing over 22,000 steps today. The Antibes Cathedral was open to visitors. Except for a few votive candles lit on either side, it was pitch dark and empty when I entered. The faint herbal scent of incense hung in the humid darkness. A few minutes later someone somewhere turned on the lights and soon more people found their way in.
After the cathedral visit, but still scandalously early in the day, I visited a subterranean Absinthe bar nearby. I tried the infamous drink that drove artists and others to madness. Van Gogh drank three litres a day, the bartender explained. I wasn’t about to, however. I made it more pleasant by asking him to turn it into a cocktail. “If you want to understand Picasso, drink a glass of Absinthe,” he said. “It’s the drink of artists.”
Antibes & Nice, Day 2 (25 June). Sometimes the most striking landmarks are tucked away in quiet alleys. That can certainly be said for the St. Bernardin Chapel in Antibes. Throngs of tourists filled the main pedestrian streets yesterday, many coming for day trips from nearby Nice. But out-of-sight on a winding and impossibly narrow side street that could more aptly be described as an alley stands St. Bernardin Chapel. Strikingly ornate, this sixteenth century place of worship is like a jewel box.
After spending the morning in Antibes’ Old Town, I took the train to Nice — a quick 25-minute ride. Train travel here is cheap (6 euros) and service on the line that connects Antibes, Nice and a string of other coastal towns is frequent. But it’s best to prepare for a jam packed, standing-room only journey. Nice, with a population exceeding 340,000, is far grander and more urban than Antibes. It’s also the prime tourist hub of the French riviera, with flights landing by the minute. I arrived mid-afternoon and I saw the Sun Fountain, had a crêpe and coffee (crêpes are not actually native to this region, but I couldn’t resist temptation), got drenched in a summer storm, and listened to a busker play songs from the Second World War. I’ll be back.
Returning to my hotel in Antibes, I tried the indoor salt water pool. When they say salt water, they really do mean it. You’ll float, as though you were on the Dead Sea.
Nice, Day 3 (27 June). I visited the Marc Chagall Museum, home to the largest collection of works by the artist in the world. While the museum includes some of Chagall’s earlier works, at the heart of the collection are 17 large paintings depicting scenes from the Book of Genesis and from Exodus. These were painted between 1954 and 1967. Raised in a Jewish family in what today is Belarus — and very much embracing his Jewish heritage — Chagall said of the scriptural focus of his work: “I’ve been fascinated by the Bible ever since my earliest childhood. I have always thought of it as the most extraordinary source of poetic inspiration imaginable. As far as I am concerned, perfection in art and in life has its source in the Bible, and exercises in the mechanics of the merely rational are fruitless. In art as well as in life, anything is possible provided there is love.”
After spending a couple of hours at the Chagall Museum, I took an Uber back to Place Masséna, the heart of Nice, and then walked along the coastal Promenade des Anglais. As night fell, I had a Salade niçoise (bearing no resemblance to the one made by the venerable Julia Child) and walked down the grand Avenue Jean Médecin to the train station, in order to make my way back to the hotel in Antibes.
After 24,000 steps, the one thing I really wasn’t looking forward to was the mostly uphill, 25-minute hike from the train station in Antibes to my hotel. But reasonably-priced hotels with nice outdoor and indoor pools aren’t easy to find in this region, and it had been great to start the day with a swim.
Nice, Day 4 (28 June). So many countries and cultures left their mark on Nice and this is evident everywhere. The Old Town feels more like Italy than France, and the street signs are bilingual (French/Italian). A few blocks from there, in the stately Masséna Palace, hangs a floor-to-ceiling portrait of Queen Victoria, who was known to visit the region — along with large numbers of other British, Russian and northern European aristocrats. Doctors would prescribe so-called “climate therapy” to their affluent patients and vacationing in Nice soon became seen as a way to cure or evade tuberculosis.
By the end of the 19th century, 25,000 British subjects lived in Nice, along with a large Russian expat community and, of course, Italian-speakers and French alike. The 7 km-long Promenade des Anglais — a wide beachfront promenade originally called El camin dei Inglés when it was created in the 19th century — was largely funded by English aristocrats. Today, it connects a long series of beaches and beach bars on one side, and Belle Époque buildings and mansions on the other.
The Old Town of Nice isn’t far away, but it’s a world apart. Gone are the grand boulevards and courtly mansions, and indeed the sun drenched streets as well. The tight, labyrinthine side streets are almost always in shade (so they are not a bad refuge on a blistering hot day); the buildings are rustic and sometimes ramshackle. The main gathering space in Old Nice is undoubtedly Place Rossetti, which is dominated by cafés, an ice cream parlour and an intensely Baroque cathedral named after St. Réparate (or Santa Reparata) — a young woman or teenager from the 3rd century who was martyred at the instruction of Roman emperor Trajan Decius. According to legend, her body was placed in a boat and the breath of angels helped it arrive in Nice. Today, the coast around which Nice is built is called the Bay of Angels (Baie des Anges).
Arriving in Place Rossetti is like coming up for air after wandering the maze of dark and narrow streets and alleys all around it — especially when for the past three days, Bell Canada has a roaming outage for Canadians travelling abroad. No Google Maps, no GPS, spotty wifi here and there. It feels like travel a quarter century ago.
French Riviera, Day 5 (1 July). My Sunday visit to the Villa Ephrussi, a mansion with spectacular gardens in picturesque Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, proved a highlight of my stay here in southern France. Béatrice Ephrussi de Rothschild, just divorced from the banker Maurice Ephrussi, inherited a significant fortune from her baron father in 1905. That’s when she decided to purchase a plot of land overlooking the Mediterranean — in fact, she snatched it up just before King Leopold of Belgium managed to buy it. Over the course of seven years, the garden that today is open to visitors was established and the villa itself was completed in 1912. Béatrice used it as her winter residence.
The villa, now a public museum managed by the French state, is not only ornate and stately, but it’s filled with art, furniture, porcelain and other collectibles that Béatrice had amassed over the years.
I spent more time in the many well-maintained gardens, including the central French Garden, where at 20-minute intervals fountains “dance” to music that plays through the area. There are many benches and sitting areas spread throughout the various gardens. After the mad bustle of French Riviera trains, Nice and some of the beaches, these gardens are quiet and calming. That was especially welcome, given that the train ride to Villa Ephrussi proved memorable.
Indoors, one of the highlights is a café/tearoom — with extraordinary ceilings, views of the Mediterranean and even better pastries. I had to give it a try, although I opted for a local version of a gin & tonic rather than a hot beverage.
I spent close to 3 hours at Villa Ephrussi — the afternoon flew by. Now a word about trains here: they are carnivals. Sardines in tins enjoy business class in comparison to the overcrowding in these trains. Pickpockets consider the trains ripe for picking. After arriving at the Nice-Ville station, the conductor went on the PA to announce the presence of a pickpocket onboard. The train didn’t move and he made the announcement again. Four passengers in my car took matters into their own hands, located the pickpocket and tossed her out the door, directly onto the platform of Gare de Nice-Ville. The train rolled again and a handful of Frenchmen and women squished around me discussed, with much feeling, their divergent views on railway privatization and their shared opinion that Macron must go.
I had enough time to return to my hotel for a swim before dinner, after which I watched a few hours of French election night coverage on the television. Old habits die hard and they don’t die when one’s abroad.
This morning I packed my bags and went to the Nice airport to catch a couple of flights northward, to Scotland.
Edinburgh, Day 1 (2 July). I’m staying in a room above a historic pub on the peripheries of the Scottish capital, in Midlothian county. It’s a decidedly country setting — an old carriage house with a gastropub on the ground floor and an inn with five bedrooms directly above it. There’s a bus right up the road from the inn with service to Edinburgh’s city centre three times per hour, and the ride takes about 35 minutes.
This morning after breakfast in the pub (lodgers can ask for anything, and they’ll cook it for you as part of the stay), I went into Edinburgh, and picked up a map from the tourism office. I began exploring the Old Town and New Town — and the latter isn’t actually new, it’s just newer than the medieval part. First, I visited St. Giles’ Cathedral, the Church of Scotland place of worship and historic site that once saw John Knox preach and serve as pastor there. The current church dates back to the 14th century, although with significant restorations and updates in the 19th century.
Among the many visitors to the cathedral was a man in a long black cowl scrupulously reading every panel and engraving.
“Hello, I see you’re a priest,” I said to him.
“Yes, I am.” He seemed extremely pleased to be recognized.
“And you’re a Roman, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said. “And also a tourist, like you.”
It turned out that he’s a Benedictine visiting from France. We spoke for a few minutes.
I made my way over to the National Galleries of Scotland, which is free to all and has an exceptional collection of art from both Scotland and beyond. The first rooms and halls focus on Scottish artists near the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century, while the rooms on the second and third floors explore the rich traditions of European art — everything from Medieval, Rococo and Baroque, to revolutionary Europe era works, and Impressionist paintings.
A few blocks down on Princes Street, I visited Waterstones bookstore, where I searched for and successfully found novels written by one of Scotland’s iconic twentieth century novelists, Muriel Spark. When I went to pay for the books, the clerk helpfully suggested a store still in operation today, where Dame Muriel bought her stationery.
Edinburgh is proving to be a very walkable, pleasant city — certainly cool and grey, but very hospitable and lots of character everywhere.
Edinburgh, Day 2 (3 July): I started off the morning visiting the city’s oldest bookstore, called Blackwells, and bought a few more books to add to the others I’ve purchased so far on this European trip. (Two Muriel Sparks, two Evelyn Waughs, two Graham Greenes, one local indie author, and a book on a palace.) I told myself that that’s quite enough, but then I stumbled upon a typewriter repair shop that also functions as a bookstore, and bought one more there. Before coming here, I read that Edinburgh has a large number of bookstores and I can say that compared to Canadian cities, this is absolutely true. Better still, every bookshop I visited was well-frequented by readers of all ages.
Today was a day of museums — first, the National Museum of Scotland, which is so extensive that one would have to budget more time than most visitors have to do it justice. I found the exhibits on medieval Scotland most interesting. The museum also offers a nice rooftop terrace, with views of the city. I walked over to the nearby Greyfriars Kirk, where parishioners were on hand to offer information and tours of their parish church. Outside the main entrance, actors and filmmakers were in the process of recording something — slightly deterred I think by the tourists who stood around, snapped photos and thought it was all put on for them. The cemetery next to the church is as much an attraction as the church itself, and one of Edinburgh’s most beloved symbols is here too — the statue of a cute dog called Greyfriars Bobby, who was known for his exceptional loyalty to his deceased owner. I should add that the Scottish really do seem to love their dogs.
In the afternoon, I checked out the National Portrait Gallery — the building feels like a temple, where one is compelled to speak in a hushed voice. In fact, I liked the building at least as much as the exhibits. In the late afternoon, I had booked an afternoon tea at the Balmoral Hotel. The place and service have the look and feel of Fairmont hotels in Canada, but the afternoon tea is more pricey here. That said, they’re certainly masters at offering a service that is both genuinely friendly and hospitable, while also making you feel that what you’re doing is an escape from the everyday.
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