the south of France, barefoot
Our recent jaunt to France was organised on a total wing and a prayer. In a distinctly out-of-character moment, I—of the most painstaking, forward-planning, rigorous research and meticulous holiday management—found myself saying to my husband, “There are cheap flights to Marseille on BA; let's book them and figure out the rest afterwards.”
(With four children that all need their own seat on the plane, the flights have become the thing that dictates the destination.)
I am fortunate enough to have been to the South of France a lot. My best friend’s grandmother lived in Mougins, so the summers of my teenage years and early twenties were spent cruising the Côte d’Azur for trouble. All of our francs went on night clubs and beach clubs, in Juan-les-Pins and Antibes and Cannes. As I got older, the compass shifted towards St Tropez for aperos at Senequier and dinners at Byblos. But this was not the trip I wanted for my children. I wanted space and a sense of freedom for them; I wanted to take them to places where I wouldn’t have to tell them to be quiet, or to sit still. To beaches where we wouldn’t have to pay for a sunbed. I wanted us all to be barefoot and fancy free, with sand in our hair and freckles on our noses.
We booked a last-minute hut on Pampelonne called Kon Tiki. Approaching slowly from the Marseille side turned out to be a dreamy part of the journeying, rather than the usual schlep from Nice. Instead of the tangle of motorway and huge apartment blocks and the interminable traffic-clogged road that crawls the coastline from Fréjus, we pootled along, past Hyères to Le Lavandou, where we wound all the windows down and let the warm, briny breeze rush through the car. The sea glinted and flashed on the horizon. At Plage de la Fossette, we spotted the enticing red parasols of Coco Beach but decided to push on.
A few bays later, in Plage de Cavalière, we stopped at a little restaurant, Les Canetons, for lunch. When I posted about it on Instagram, I had a flurry of messages from people exclaiming “That's our secret spot! Our favourite place! How did you find out about it?” And I'd love to tap my nose and say how clever I am, but remember: I didn’t plan a minute of this week, so in reality, we had a car-full of hot, restless smalls who'd been up since 3:00 am and we drove past and I shouted ‘pull over!’ and we tumbled in for a late lunch of grilled dorade and almost wept with happiness.
We didn’t have a reservation between us (ok well maybe a quick table for six at Le Club 55 where we ordered the crudité—the kids thought we were absolutely crackers—“but it's a tray of raw vegetables…!’) We discovered Plage de l'Escalet, just south of Ramatuelle, the perfect mix of sandy stretches, white as the Caribbean, and rocks for clambering and exploring. And, of course, two great sandwich bars at the top of the hill for really good jambon beurres and panachés.
We bought a flimsy rainbow umbrella and a basket-load of apricot-coloured foutas and went where the day (or indeed the Mistral) took us. You know those tourist boats in St Tropez that you don’t give a second glance? We all adored it. We got a box of Tarte Tropéziennes and a bag of sweet, furry peaches and munched them, backs pressed against the hot stone wall of Plage de la Glaye. This is now our new South of France—sandwiches and bottles of Orangina (and Le Club 55).
Issy von Simson
Still strongly tethered to her hometown London, Issy certainly knows what’s groovy in the UK capital. But, lucky for us, her knowledge extends far beyond the reaches of Zone 6. Perpetually drawn to the coast – the brinier the better when it comes to the air – Issy is our go-to for seaside getaways. Opinionated and organised, she’s pretty much our ideal travel companion; you know you’re going to get a perfectly planned trip when Issy’s in charge. So, follow her tips and do as Issy does. You’ll end up in the most gloriously unexpected of places.
