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It was one of those early azure mornings in summer that promise so much. We had arrived in Villefranche-sur-Mer from the airport. No one was up. Even the water in the harbour was asleep. John and I had an entire French town to ourselves. The stillness of the moment was delicious. John, my year-old son, had been reluctant to return to France. He had hated the noise of Paris, but here, as we sat with our feet dangling in the lukewarm Mediterranean, I could see he was just as taken with this place.
Villefranche-sur-Mer is an unusual town. Constructed on a steep slope, it has built its houses out over the harbour's medieval back streets so that roads, such as the 13th-century rue Obscure and the 14th-century Portal de Robert, run like tunnels beneath the town. Devoid of people, these streets feel weird — it was as if we had stumbled into the Middle Ages.
Swishing our sandals in the harbour waters was a much better way to welcome the morning. The sound of a single motorboat had been drawing nearer, its prow cutting a perfect V through the still grey waters. Now it arrived and a tanned young man disembarked with a basket.
He had clearly been sent by the Beautiful People out on one of those big white yachts to buy that morning's croissants. We followed him. It was time for breakfast. I had decided to spend our first day motoring west along the coast, all the way to St Tropez.