Kissing Cousins*

*Click here for definition

We left Siena on the Wednesday and drove out to the Italian coast at Livorno to follow the Mediterranean motorway to France. It was somewhere along this route that I spotted an Italian (at least, his car had Italian numberplates) peeing at the side of the road, just like his cousins, the French. For some time I'd had the idea of a blog on this subject (if I could come up with a polite title), hitherto being convinced that they, Frenchmen, were the only nationals in Europe, if not the world, who practised this art.  I was wrong. Perhaps I'd better abandon the idea of an essay on this topic for now; suffice to say, you can substitute the 'K' in the title of this piece for a "P" if you like.

The differences between these euro-cousins becomes apparent as soon as you cross the border at Ventimiglia. Tidiness take over. Confusing roadsigns, particularly the temporary ones setup for roadworks no longer leave you guessing. A sense of order - efficiency even, whispers its name again in the warm breeze coming from the sparkling sea, gliding over the fabulous rooftops of Monte Carlo. It's not until Nice, still on motorways but now crammed with traffic, that you are reminded of the auto-scrum that you get around all northern Italian towns and cities.

At last we were able to leave the motorway and, guided by Fifi, our faithful GPS comforter, start to take the road to the hills nearby.

Biot is a village in these hills a few kilometres inland from the ugly, urban coastal strip along the 'Bay of Angels' which stretches from Nice to Antibes. It must crawl with tourists from Easter to November, but when we arrived  (late October), it was almost normal with very few obvious tourists and the genuine feel of a French village, slowing down for the 'low-season', politely keeping its attractions available but in a sleepy sort of way. A delight after the mêlée of Siena.

We headed for 'Les Arcades' hotel-restaurant at the top of the oldest part of the village.  We'd passed-by a few years before, briefly, with Marina (once again) as our guide. She knew it from her earlier days as a photo-journalist as it was only a short dash from Nice and Cannes and thus became known to the press-crowd and their filmstar targets during the Film Festival weeks.

The hotel is a delight. The proprietors, M. and Mme Brothier (André and Mimi) have run it for over 50 years and treat their guests like relatives, who drop-in from time to time for a meal and to catch up on the family news. Each room is hung with original artworks of no mean value (artistic as well as financial). Mimi will show you her large private art collection in the cellars as well as expounding some useful medicinal advantages of some of her recipes - "The entrée you have chosen is a diuretic.  Makes you peepee," she said with an encouraging smile.

The village of Saint Paul de Vence is only a few kilometres distant and so we made a visit in order to ogle at the (very) up-market galleries, artworks and residences in the ancient hilltop settlement, tucked inside its ramparts, from where you can peer down onto its millionaire neighbours' villas and swimming-pools.

Enough. Time to return to the cool, green valleys of Corrèze by way of the fabulous Millau bridge, designed by Sir Norman Foster. Another 'Kissing Cousin' perhaps? Well, he is English - from a working-class north-of-England family who has risen to 'Baron Foster of Thames Bank'. Sadly, I can find no information on his propensity to kiss, unlike the Italians...

Mapmaker