We are, it turns out, the only non-honeymooners at Les Rosées, and it isn’t hard to see why. It doesn’t get much more romantic than this. As pretty as its name, this lovingly restored, traditional Provençal country house sits in the same flower-filled garden in which it has snoozed peacefully for more than 400 years. Just 20 minutes from the glitz of Cannes, it is a gloriously tranquil base from which to explore the most glittering stretch of the French Riviera.
Arriving late and weary, we don’t fancy venturing out for dinner, but a snack of ham and cheese with a glass of wine in our room is no problem. We are in the Isadora suite (a favourite of Liza Minnelli, apparently) and the spacious bedroom gives on to a fairytale turreted lounge. After our long car journey, the bed, with its clouds of crisp linen, is heavenly.
Decorated in warm, earthy tones, the flagstoned rooms have a rustic feel, yet are still stylish. I’m quite happy making like Minnelli in my turret, but there’s a more low-key lounge downstairs, full of magazines and books, and with a grand piano, to discover. You can see the influence of the owner’s Canadian wife in the homely touches. Breakfast – everything is organic – is a treat: white tablecloths, croissants, ham and cheese, and homemade jams in the idyllic garden. The pool is a good size and, if we hadn’t been on the doorstep of some of Europe’s starriest towns, we could easily have spent a blissful day reading in the shade of the trees.
I convince Mr Smith that we have to visit the famous Fragonard perfume factory in nearby Grasse, the perfume capital of the world. After the olfactory excesses of the city described in Patrick Suskind’s novel Perfume, I am a little disappointed at how clinical it all is today. A guide explains the whole process from distillation to bottling. Did you know that to extract one kilo of rose essence you need to distil 3,000 kilos of roses? The tour is free, but ends, predictably, in the factory shop and a fairly heavy sell. Mr Smith grumbles, but agrees to treat me to a tiny bottle (only, I suspect, because our attractive and fragrant guide recommends it so warmly). The products at Les Rosées are Fragonard, naturally, so I’ve already had a chance to sample them in the luxury of our pretty Provençal-style bathroom.
Eager to clear our heads after so much scent-smelling, we head to Cannes for some sea air. Working on the culture desk of a newspaper, I’ve always been more than a little envious when the film editor and critics set off to the famous festival every year (as books editor, I get to sit in a rainy tent in Hay-on-Wye). So I am very much looking forward to finally promenading the Croisette, even if it isn’t red-carpet season. The enticing smells along the front remind us that it’s lunchtime, so, after much indecision over which of the rather intimidating-looking beachside restaurants to choose, we settle down for lunch and some serious people-watching. No wonder everyone wears giant sunglasses – all the bling can be blinding.
Daring to join the rows of oil-slicked bodies laid out like king prawns along the front takes more than a little courage. Once we’ve taken out a small mortgage on two sun loungers, we join everybody in pretending not to be ogling everyone else. We have only been enjoying this for half an hour or so before the sun is eclipsed by the arrival of a scary-looking DJ, and a boom box so large it can surely be heard in Monaco. We wander off to the Marina for a tour of the yachts.
After the glare of Cannes, visiting the mediaeval town of Mougins, only three kilometres north, is like taking a cool, flower-filled bath. All winding bougainvillaea-bedecked streets of artisan shops, fountains and picture-postcard restaurants, Mougins is exactly how you’d imagine a picturesque village on the French Riviera to be – only prettier. It’s no wonder that generations of glamorous writers and beautiful people – Jean Cocteau, Man Ray, Christian Dior, Catherine Deneuve, Edith Piaf and Jacques Brel, among them – have hung out here. Most famously, Picasso spent the last 15 years of his life in Mougins, high on a clifftop overlooking the Côte d’Azur, after he married Jacqueline Roque. The fascinating Musée de La Photographie at the centre of the village has a wonderful collection of photographs of him and other 20th-century icons.
It is early evening by the time we arrive in Mougins and visitors — all elegantly turned out — are beginning to emerge for drinks in the square before dinner. There are so many lovely looking restaurants that it’s almost impossible to choose one, but in the end we plump for Le Petit Foulet, on account of its name. Thank goodness we did, or else I might never have discovered strawberry soup. Le Petit Foulet is also a foodie emporium and I buy several pots of posh jam for a fraction of the price than they sell for at the French delicatessen near my Farringdon Road office.
The highlight of the trip for Mr Smith is undoubtedly driving along the heart-stopping coastal roads. This should definitely be on everyone’s list of romantic things to do before you die – fortunately we, and our mini, make it back to the serenity of Les Rosées in one piece.
I probably stand as much chance of ousting Nicole Kidman for a starring role as persuading the film critics to let me tag along for the film festival one year, but somehow or other, I aim to come back to Les Rosées sometime soon.
