Summer Holidays: Moustiers Sainte Marie à Cagnes Sur Mer

Friday
After another great breakfast we left our beloved B&B after taking a few photos. We made a stop in the town for bottles of water and to visit the local market and came away with dried and fresh fruit for our trip, and a braided length of garlic bulbs for me to bring home.

An hour and a half of winding mountain roads later, we had the sea in view and Grasse lying before us.

Grasse was one of the few places I insisted on seeing in the south of France. After reading the book Perfume (and seeing the film, which wasn't nearly as good as the book, as these things usually happen), I was curious to see the town of Grasse, the international capital of perfume.

Of course the book takes place in the 18th century, and the charming village of Grasse is now a mid-sized town overflowing with tourists. We were both a little disappointed - I expected a quiet, unassuming hamlet with a few old perfumers still mixing scents with old fashioned methods. Instead there were factory tours, commercial shops in flashy-colored buildings, and loads of marketing. Boo.

So it seemed the word was out on Grasse. I'm sure the major motion picture starring Dustin Hoffman didn't help. Anyway, I was still curious to see a factory, so I bugged David to take me to the Fragonard Museum. We walked through the small museum of perfume bottles and the history of the company, and at the end we were offered the factory tour. David wasn't interested, so he left to fetch the car and I went on the little tour.

It was fascinating to see how they used to make perfume. Used to. The romanticism of pressing delicate flowers into animal fat to extract the scents has long been replaced with chemical processes in industrial cities far from Grasse. But they did still make some basics in that little factory, and at the end of the tour I bought some of the local stuff to share with friends back home.

I bounced out of the shop with my pretty little soaps and perfume and met Dave waiting patiently in the car. He eyed my packages, did the mental volume calculation of my luggage, and wisely said nothing.

We pulled out of Grasse and continued for only another half hour before reaching our destination in Cagnes Sur Mer. We chose the chambre d'hôte in Cagnes Sur Mer because it is located roughly in the middle between Nice and Cannes. The town itself is not anything particularly extraordinary, but Cagnes Sur Mer was the last home of Pierre Auguste Renoir and his studio still remains there (of course I didn't learn this until after our visit, and I am seriously kicking myself for missing it).

The B&B was nestled in a quiet hilly subdivision, and as we eased through the narrow gate, our hosts eagerly came out to greet us. Such a change from our last guest house, where the hosts were aloof bordering on cool. The owners of this house were a retired couple with extra space that their families used during summer holidays. The family had just cleared out two weeks earlier, and we were the first B&B guests to follow.

We were given a tour of our quarters, which was a private space of three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small living room. After we'd settled in they insisted on serving drinks, and we were soon installed on their patio overlooking the pool, chatting about our trip.

It was then that we received a truly unexpected compliment. After a bit of small talk, the husband eyed us both carefully and asked "Are you Belgian then?"

We nearly erupted in giggles. Of course to a French person, being mistaken for a Belgian is insulting. But for us, to have someone think that French is our native tongue (or one of our native tongues) - just with a funny accent - we were so pleased.

(Incidentally, in defense of the Belgians, the average Belgian speaks 3 languages minimum, regardless the quality of his accent. How many does the average French person speak? 1.5, tops. And no, you can't bring Americans and their mono-linguistics into this argument because we're not the ones making fun of Belgians)

Anyway, our hosts provided us with maps of the region and gave us a few restaurant recommendations before leaving us to our devices. We climbed back into the car and decided to try the direction of Nice, which wasn't more than 30 minutes away.

Once on the coastal road, we cruised along the water's edge in the early evening sun. We unintentionally drove all the way into Nice, so we decided to park the car along the Promenade des Anglais - the walkway along the ocean in Nice - to have a promenade ourselves. We strolled along the rocky beach, and sat on a pier watching unsuccessful fishermen. We marveled at the sound of the tide rolling the rocks along the beach - what a simple, peaceful sound.

As night fell we returned to Cagnes Sur Mer. We decided to go with our hosts' recommendation and eat at a nice seafood restaurant along the coastal road. It was a bit posh, but the food was so good. I had lobster pasta, which arrived with the lobster body crawling out of my plate. David ordered fish, and we were startled when the waiter swanned up to our table and presented a whole fish on a silver platter for David to approve. He did his best "that will do" nod (usually reserved for bottles of wine), and the fish reappeared a few minutes later sans skin.

After that tasty meal, we promptly returned to the house and passed out. Mmm, seafood dreams.