On the morning of our first day we took a stroll down the Promenade de Anglais. A long and wide sweep, with a pebbled beach abutting the white stone of the sea wall on one side, imposing high terraces looking out onto the med on the other.
A bracing day in March gave us a lungs full of Riviera air as we decided to unlock two municipal bikes and rent a few hours worth of pedal power to speed up our sightseeing duties.
I squinted at the instructions to free our blue contraptions. The local council in Nice, quite rightly eschewing traditional means of collecting bicycle-based income (i.e. euro coin in slot) had instead decided that the best way to release the cycles from their cage was by some indecipherable source code that one had to programme into the pad on the lock and then wait for a message to be sent to your phone.
After thirty minutes I gave up.
“Fuck this for a game of soldiers, I vote we revert to Shanks’ Pony*.”
Weaving in and out of the smug locals barrelling down the blue cycle lane on their nifty machines, we decided on taking an early lunch on one of the swish restaurants located down on the beach.
Was it too early for some grape? Well, sat on long comfy loungers, pushing the smooth grey pebbles around with my sandals, and staring out at the endless horizon that was the Tiffany blue Mediterranean, I decided, that no, it wasn’t too early for wine.
Rested and relaxed we decided that in very short order we would catch the train to Monte Carlo. Yes, definitely time to pay up and go. No doubt about it, if we wanted to catch, I mean if we really wanted to get to Monte…er, Waiter!
*slang for walking