Day 9: Antgate and the day of plenty

One of the most irritating things about camping, and one that cannot be avoided, is bugs. At Eze, we were hassled by a bunch of wasps every mealtime and were both bitten by mosquitoes almost the minute we arrived, despite drowning ourselves in Eau de Repellant. A citronella candle soon became our best friend. Now, in Port Grimaud, it’s not the wasps that are the problem, but the ants. We awoke yesterday morning to find the cool bag quivering with a stream of the beasts. They’d basically set up an ant super-highway all around the zip, with A-roads of them trailing to and from the bag to the outside of the tent. Naturally, I reacted coolly to this dilemma. So after shrieking, squirming and hopping from one foot to the next, we spent the next half an hour scraping them off the groundsheet, unpacking the cool bag, disposing of ant-infested food and making sure all food and drink-related products from now on are kept in the boot of the car.


It’s not like we were slapdash, though – everything was wrapped in aluminium foil then zipped up tightly in the foil and insulation-lined cool bag – which makes me think that these were Superman ants, capable of smelling food through aluminium, and probably also able to see through solid steel and move faster than a speeding bullet.


As for the ‘day of plenty’, well, we were off to St Tropez, which involved, firstly, plenty of walking. What we thought was a 10-minute dawdle into Port Grimaud to catch our boat to St Trop, was in fact a 40-minute trawl in the heat along a road, down a bike track, under a bridge, along a car park and then, once we got to the port, another hike round to the furthest end of the harbour, where the boat came in. This of course was repeated on our return. Silver lining? More of those French carbs and camembert burned off. Every cloud.


After soaking up the rays and the cool breeze on the top deck of our water bus to St Tropez, we arrived. And then came more ‘plenty’ – as in plenty of money. Like Monaco and Cannes, this place is dripping with cash. From the mega-yachts (some of which we’d spotted in Monte Carlo) to the pricey boutiques along the back roads to the designer stores alongside the market to the moneyed couples trotting along, showing off their razzle-dazzle. No wonder the French refer to the place endearingly as St ‘Trop’ (‘too much’). Whist attempting to celeb-spot, we headed to the famous Saturday morning market on the Place des Lices, where DD bought a hat and an oil painting of St Trop, and I bought a jumpsuit I’ve seen all the locals wearing, and a striped breton top, a la Brigitte.


Once we’d filled up on Moules et Frites and a bottle of something chilled, we headed to Plage les Graniers for some sunbathing, cooling off first in the sea (not as warm as the sea in Nice, I must add). This was all very lovely, and it was lucky that it was after I’d been for a dip that I heard the guy next to us talking about how the bay was full of jellyfish…


We decided to come back into St Tropez in the evening, reckoning that the less-than-ten-minute drive into town wouldn’t cost a lot in a taxi. Wrong. Here comes the plenty again. E30 for the trip in, E40 to come home again later… sheesh. No surprise really that we were hangover-free this morning. On remarking on how fresh I felt today, DD quipped that we couldn’t have afforded a hangover. Too true. The first bar we went to had mathuselems(sic) of Cristal for E14,500. Zut alors! So we went for a more discrete jeraboam instead. Ha! Hardly. Two cocktails each for E50 more like. But this spot was perfect. All the seats were turned to face the yachts lining the port, which were all lit up and filled with their partying owners, amusing themselves by quaffing champagne in front of their eager audience. I must mention here that we nonchalantly waltzed into said cocktail bar (Le Quai), perching onto a couple of perfect-view seats. Then a guy came over to us and asked where we were from and then if we had been seated. Turns out you’re not actually supposed to saunter in and seat yourself, unless you’re a resident or someone special, who has their very own seat, or you’ve phoned in and booked an area in advance. Oops. Luckily, the guy rolled his eyes at us and said he would let us off this once. Result! Best view in the house to watch all the see-and-be-seens swagger past/drive past in their lambourghinis/Harleys.


The rest of the night was spent sipping ridiculously priced drinks in ridiculously look-at-me bars, waiting for the clubs to open (the best ones don’t come out to play until midnight at the earliest. DD was mainlining Red Bulls in readiness). VIP Rooms is one of the most well known, but it appeared to be closed for the season, so we headed for the next best place, Papagayo near the old port, and danced away with the Euro set while trying to make an E18 drink last all night.


Tonight is our last night here in Port Grimaud, sob. Might need to rein in the spending and have dinner a deux by the tent before catching a movie in the car (our trusty BMW plays DVDs. It’s like our very own drive-in movie). Starting the drive up towards Brittany tomorrow morning, via Bordeaux and Cognac, then it’s one more night under canvas before meeting up with the rellies in Brittany to stay in a real bed again. Till then, au revoir!

Top to bottom: Catching up with French Grazia on Friday night after a day lazing by the pool. The language of style is universal, non?; Waiting for the boat in St Tropez on Saturday, trying out DD's new hat; Posing (quelle surprise!) in Papagayo at 2am