Out to Grasse

My preconceived idea of Grasse (salons staffed by slim waisted, nattily dressed, French gays proferring perfume), was shattered as soon as we turned down Rue Jean Oseda. Sure, there were wall to wall perfumeries selling scents, savons and essences, but there was something else I couldn't put my finger on, something else in the air. Camilla, Sue and Kim stepped up into the packed perfumery, too packed for me as I headed outside into the shade to wait. An ice cream stall was doing good business and soon I was slurping on my new favorite glacé - lemon meringue pie!

A lunch had been enjoyed earlier in Fayence at L'Auberge Fleures where mine host was tres disappointed we did not partake of three courses with wine. A lemon meringue glacé taken at leisure was just about right. Ascending Rue Admiral de Grasse, we dipped in and out of boutiques with Kim buying jewelery, Camilla searching for that elusive orange based perfume and Sue offering advice. The tourist-filled Le petite Train De Grasse in miniature yellow ran counterclockwise to our path. A plaque dedicated to Amiral De Grasse, un "Heros de Independance Americaine" was attached to the wall above. Faded ochre and juane walls enclosing paved paths promised allure just around the bend below.

As we walked down Rue des Fabreries, passing shops and artists studios, we noticed Grasse had definite Moorish influences. That's what I had been sensing and was confirmed when an ice-cream induced thirst thrust me into a tiny Algerian convenience store. Inside, a jellaba wearing customer was debating the quality of a box of figs. The proprietor, surrounded by his family, were assuring the providence of said produce to the grizzled ancient. A ginger moggie slinked around legume filled hessian sacks.

The last bus to Seillans was scheduled to depart at ten past six. Feigning olefactory overload, I left the girls to their shopping and headed up Rue de l'Oratorians where the facade of the 17th Century Eglise de l'Oratoire was undergoing restoration. The well preserved medieval facade was home to the Oratorians from 1632 and featured Gothic portals and windows. I was feeling a touch medieval myself by now.

Reaching Place de Aires, I observed a force of policemen carrying out rego checks and writing parking tickets. Now this was the strangest thing I had seen since arriving in France! It is a Frenchman's God given right, nay purpose, to achieve the most imaginative parking possible ~ perched on the sidewalk, shoehorned into alleys and parked directly on pedestrian crossings, filling a space with one's voiteur is de riguere.

A long afternoon's shopping takes it out of you and we eagerly approached the 3001 bus and it's comfy seats. Offering to purchase the tickets, I approached the front door and stood in line. Sue giggled as I was confronted by an eye-level view of the short-clad posteriors of three young girls - shorts are being worn very short in Grasse this year! Our driver, sporting a cut-off denim jacket and grown-out Mohawk, prised the €12 from my sweating palm and smirked "Merci, Monsieur". Joan (as in Jett), eased her Varlib steed out of the station onto Allee du 8 Mai 1945 and thence into Avenue onze Novembre for the bumper to bumper crawl downhill. Descending, we passed Les Offeres Historique Citroen specialising in 2CV's. We passed through neighbourhoods that reinforced our Moorish sightings. Billboards plastered the bus stop at La Roq announcing Dr Feelgood were appearing on Friday. I wonder who was replacing Lee Brilleux following his unfortunate demise at the hands of the rock'n roll lifestyle?

High-rise apartment blocks clinging precariously to the rocky hillside, were located adjacent to Clinique Vetinai where only well-groomed pets were treated for ailments. Nearby, the verdant plant coverage contrasted pleasingly with the faded pink stucco of Stade RC Grasse. Joan throttled back through the gears to slow our ride through the leafy neighbourhoods of Peyminaid and the village's heart of coiffures, boulangeries and Agence Immobiliers. Around about this time I began to wonder whether another remake of The Italian Job was being cast for Joan was doing a sterling job auditioning for the part of the bus driver.

As we approached Ville de Montaroux, the street narrowed and a Peugeot Jumpy earned its name as it and Le bus got rather intimate! In passing, I believe the relationship only got as far as the promise to exchange coats of paint at some future point. I'm considering writing to the Conseil General du Var to congratulate him on Joan's engagement. Above her head a selection of eight red glass breaking implements (issue de devours) hung like notches on her belt. Passing Callian, I was close enough to Le Terrace to order a pastis. We were inclined to ask Joan if she issued implements to purchase travel snacks! Rounding a curve, a castle on the skyline completed the evening vista. And all for €3 each!

"Tres formidable!" I called out as we exited at L'arrette Seillans.