I’m a bit behind as ever with the Rugby Road trip blogs, and completely forgot I had this one sat in drafts…..

Our hotel in Nice was just a 5 minute walk to the main line station, so it was an easy 25 minute or so train that ran right next to the sea at times, to Monte-Carlo. Somewhere I had fond memories of from the same visit I’d had to Nice about 15 years ago, but somewhere Craig had never been.

Another blisteringly hot day, and with this in mind we thought, we’ll head there reasonably early, have lunch at the Cafe De Paris (as you do) and head back before the sun reaches it’s peak.

A small disclaimer, I’m acutely aware that I’m very lucky to be on this trip, so please forgive me when I write about my disappointment. There are a couple of places I think things went wrong. Plus I’m getting old, and starting to say things like “I remember when all of this was fields”….

The trip I remember so fondly from 15 years ago happened to coincide with Nice carnival. So this means we were there way outside of peak season, it would’ve been in February, It was much cooler, quieter and generally a great experience. We only had ludicrously expensive drinks at the Cafe de Paris back then, but it was peak people watching territory, and I’ve never made an Orangina last as long in my life.

The second difference is that the entire casino square has been pedestrianised, and I remember part of the fun was watching the Ferraris come and go. It’s now full of automatic bollards that pop up and recede depending on which VIP in a supercar is arriving and when. Just so you can reverse your racing green Bentley into an optimum space while a completely distracted tourist narrowly misses getting their foot run over. Oh and the tourists. Gazillions. I thought September might be quieter outside of French school holidays, but of course Monte-Carlo attracts a rather more international crowd and it was heaving.

Next we are once again haunted by the Ghost of Yacht week future, having left the ghost of Yacht week present still blighting Cannes a few days earlier.

So, thundering construction noise, the Cafe De Paris shrouded in scaffolding, tents covering the front of the marina, and just a fairly pants experience.

Yes, a queue was still snaking along in front of the Cafe De Paris for lunch, amidst all this chaos. We decided that a 32 euro chicken salad was just about justifiable on a calmer day with a prevailing wind, but alongside pneumatic drills, and surrounded by scaffolding and big crowds that it just wasn’t. So we started to head back to the station and Nice-wards for lunch because once again it just wasn’t all that!

We passed a little coffee kiosk with bistro tables overlooking the marina just towards the back of the Hotel de Paris, so thought we’d sit in the shade for a moment before heading back to the station. I waited patiently, while 3 members of staff chatted between themselves, and the owner (I think), began to serve the man in front of me. “What do you want?!”, was bellowed at this poor man. Not, what can I get you, or what would you like. It was hilariously rude. He dutifully took his coffee, probably too scared to do anything else, and then it was my turn. “What do you want?!” was bellowed at me with equal venom. Trying to stifle a chuckle as I contemplated which Swiss finishing school this chap had attended, I ordered an espresso and a cappucino, for 9 euros. I put the euro change from the 10 euro note – (because it was a 10 euro minimum to pay by card), into the gratuity cup, because I’m a reasonable person, and picked up my coffees. The short walk back to the table made me realise something. The thimble full of espresso, was heavier than my much larger filled to the brim cappuccino. What alchemy is this thought I, as I heard the cafe owner bellow questions to his next customer over my shoulder. Sure enough, something that has never happened to me before, happened. I watched over the next 30 seconds or so, my cappuccino visibly deflate in front of my very eyes. Like a sad party balloon. I literally had a cup of air. It was hilarious. I did contemplate rummaging in the tips cup for my 1 euro to be honest, but shortly after, 2 tourists had the audacity to think the slushie machines in front of the coffee van were self service so had helped themselves to a cup. He came running out flapping his arms yelling, this is not self service, you give me the cups and you get in line! This guy was just comedy gold, and I’m suspecting one of the many super-yachts below probably belonged to him given his 6- euro- for- a- cup- of- air fortune. I bet he’s got a money filled swimming pool like Scrooge McDuck!

While we were there we spied a super yacht beneath called the Lionheart. Turns out it’s one of (Monaco resident), Sir Phillip Green’s 3, (yes 3) super yachts. If you’re not familiar, multi millionaire Green, once owned the Arcadia Group, including such brands as Top Shop and Miss Selfridge. He also owned British Home Stores, taking dividends and profits while leaving workers with a pensions deficit of over £500 million, for which he appeared in front of the parliamentary select committee. See also tax avoidance allegations and a whole host of other delights. So we sat, with slightly grinding teeth, while humming the soundtrack to Les Miserables for a bit….. I wondered if it was possible to put a potato up a yachts exhaust pipe……

Monaco and Cannes are firmly not to be enjoyed by the likes of me. I’m certainly a lot more militant, jaded and considerably less easily impressed than the me of 15 years ago. I thought about it on the train back to Nice. Isn’t it a bit odd, that people go on holiday to these places, with little cultural significance or prettiness, just so we can flirt with being someone that owns a yacht or rolls Royce for a day. For pretty much all of us plebs, travelling to the moon is more likely. It’s like going to the zoo almost. A really distasteful zoo, except the inhabitants sadly aren’t endangered species.

So back to Nice we went, and found an excellent Asian fast food restaurant and had Gyoza and a chicken katsu curry, and counted our blessings.

We headed back to our hotel, but tried to stalk some Wales players again at the hotel next door. We saw a few more players, including Talupe Falatau, and I had my photo taken with Wales coach Warren Garland! He was absolutely lovely. We spent a good 20 minutes with the entire team’s luggage thinking they might be waiting for the bus to load up, but no, we had waited for just a white transit van…..

The previous night at the Rugby Fan Village they ran an advert on the big screen. Brutus Gold’s Love Train 70’s disco. I couldn’t believe it. Brutus was a Friday night staple in my home town of Leeds, throughout the 90’s. I had to beg and plead with the husband who was not feeling it one bit, but bless him, we got tickets. I had a most excellent couple of hours re-learning how to do The Hustle, amongst other things and had a great time. That is how you do a 17,500 steps day my friends. Sleep was not hard to come by that night I can tell you.

Next, the match, our last day in Nice, and onwards to Carcassone!

TTFN xx