By David Truzzi-Franconi
David Truzzi-Franconi
Paddlers: David Truzzi-Franconi, Steve Seinet-Martin and Simon King
Story from issue 3 – November 2012
There is a very easy way to return from a casino with a small fortune: go there with a large one.
Or… maybe not!
In 2012, David, Steve and Simon, after a 1,000-mile drive, paddled from Ventimiglia in Italy, over the border to southern France, passing Monaco, Nice and Cannes and onto as far as La Napoul and the River Siagne.
They camped on the beach at Monte Carlo and drank wine from a bag surrounded by the lights of the superyachts, twinkling in the twilight. They sheltered from force 5-6 storms across the bay of Cannes, ate freshly prepared fish that they barbecued on the beach and Simon fulfilled his ambition of gambling in a Monte Carlo casino and made a slight profit.
We caught up with Dave for a quick word where he said, “Congratulations to the Paddler on your 60th magazine!
“I have been incredibly lucky to have taken part in a series of open canoe adventures, each of which was shared with the Paddler magazine in the form of articles from the Scilly Isles, Norway, Brittany, Venice, Corsica, Sardinia and Elba.
“It is amazing what a wonderful tool a16-foot Prospector canoe is, and when laden with camping gear it is a very sturdy vessel! So when you have read this from ‘cover to cover’ start making plans!”
The Paddler 3 2012
The Riviera paddlers
Our Van drew to a stop at 5.50am in the deserted Piazza Marconi in Ventimiglia, Italy where the dawn mist was lifting off the sea ahead of us. We had driven nearly a 1,000 miles from home overnight and were pleased to see the adjacent cafe opening an hour later. Fortified we headed west along the Ligurian coast and past the border with France at Grimaldi – home to our distant ancestors whose cave homes pierced the Balzi Rossi or Red Cliffs.
This stretch had produced some concern when planning the trip due to the lack of get outs in adverse conditions. However, we slid over the dark indigo seas, where the continental shelf is at its narrowest and plunges to considerable depths. Mid day brought us to some contemporary cliff dwellings as the serried ranks of ochre coloured houses of the Italianate town and French lemon capital of Menton, rose from the sea. We were too late for the lemon festival and had to content ourselves with a refreshing but caustic glass of fresh lemon juice.
The beaches on this coast shelved steeply and to launch or beach involved jumping in or out of the water and riding the waves. By late afternoon we entered the Baie de Roquebrune having rounded Cap Martin, a rocky headland full of Aleppo and Maritime pines, with villas jutting out arrogantly from every promontory. It was now time for the search for somewhere to camp for the night. To begin, we had studied Admiralty Charts, Michelin maps and Google Earth and marked possible areas for a night’s wild camping using the tried and tested technique of arriving late and leaving early with no trace.
We pulled up short of Monte Carlo where the lights of the super yachts were twinkling in the twilight. A bag of wine was cooled in the sea whilst we dragged the boats up the beach and unloaded our tents, which erupted into shape and we had a home for the night. We left early the next morning and soon we had Monte Carlo and Monaco on our beam the where the skyline looked like an American City. Passing Porte Hercule, we cruised beneath the 300ft high Oceanographic Institute set into the rock – Jacques Cousteau was for many years its Director.
Entering the more approachable Porte de Fontvieille we passed beneath a rock amphitheatre verdant with cacti agave and aloes, the harsh calls of a magpie type bird echoed off the rock. Nosing our way to the slip we got out and stretched our legs we were in Monaco! As we left we had to skirt the buoyed exclusion zone around the heliport forcing us to enter a confused and lumpy sea caused by the wash of motor yachts and the downdraught of helicopters.
Most of the coast here is an intensely developed strip between the mountains usually shrouded in mist and the sea. We landed at Plage de Marquet for a couple of beers before continuing onward passing capes a’Ail and Rognoso and the Pointe de Cabuel. This coast is the home of luxury yachts each with their own helicopter pad and smaller recreational boats and sailing yachts waiting to be craned into the water with most flying red ensigns.
We snuck into the exclusive resort of St Jean Cap Ferrat fully aware of our 16 feet and 12 inches freeboard and waited for dusk to fall and the wine to cool, whilst parakeets settled down for the night in the palm trees. The bay was a mass of mooring lanterns and the headlands draped in lights.
We were awoken by the beach cleaners each beach we landed on had its pile of white quartz sand waiting to be spread in readiness for the start of the season and would soon be covered in sun loungers and parasols making us far less welcome, but we were early in the season and shared the beach with a few locals. All the way along this coast a flash of silver would betray the presence of the railway as it burrowed through headlands and passed behind the beachfront houses.
Today our first task was to paddle along the Cap Ferrat peninsula to Pointe Saint-Hospice to assess the sea state at the point. The waves were two feet high but at short intervals with white caps in the distance, we decided we could end up in a situation where we could not move forward but unable to turn back, so we did, while we could, re-trace our steps back to the isthmus at Beaulieu sur Mer and set out to recce the portage it was possible.
We hauled the loaded canoes uphill in the heat and bemused traffic and across a busy road junction before the downhill section. We then carried the canoes one at a time down a long flight of steps and subsequent trips with our gear took most of the morning, asking a lady if she could move while we launched into the Rade de Villefranche.
She confirmed that today Cap Ferrat was tres tres dangereux, our caution vindicated we paddled across the bay in search of coffee. The bay was temporary home to two cruise liners and their attendant ferries to shore. Entering the small harbour and heading for the slip we were waved away by the Port Captain and our registration numbers taken by a minion – so much for Villefranche, although we were all flying the Union Jack as it was the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee!
We left skirting the surreally named Pointe des Sans-Culotte and then the Cap de Nice, waved on and given the thumbs up from a group of youngsters engrossed in hurling themselves off a cliff and climbing up again to repeat the exercise. We gave a wide berth to the Corsica Ferry and into the port of Nice, capital of the French Riviera and home to Dufy and Matisse. We enjoyed a pleasant afternoon coasting the promenade des Anglais and its palms, passing the private beaches in front of the hotels; we managed a stop before the three-mile paddle around Nice airport and its buoyed exclusion zone.
The sea at this point was covered in the aptly named ‘By the wind sailors’ – small translucent discs of jelly tinged violet at the edges with a small ridge across the back, at the mercy of the wind and current causing mass strandings. Being slightly more evolved we were swept by the River Le Var along the coast and stopped for a break. On seeing the front was full of marquees – it was an alternative fair, dwarves extolling the virtues of recycling soon accosted me, it was time to grab a yoghurt and go. We headed for a spot we had earmarked for camping at Cagnes sur Mer home of Renoir near where the River Loup debouched into the sea.
Our first attempt found us surrounded by rats! Moving on, we eventually tucked under the promenade where scores of rollerbladers, cyclists and the inevitable joggers, all took advantage of the wide promenade. It had been a 16-mile day and we were pleased to settle down for the night. We awoke to day four of our trip on the Sunday and waited to cross Antibes Harbour entrance as a stream of classic yachts sailed out – contestants in the Panerai Yacht race.
On crossing and rounding the corner we forced a wedge with our canoes into a small beach packed with bathers so we could hop ashore for some water and provisions. Leaving the beach found us heading for our most challenging paddle yet, that of the Cap d’Antibes. It has a blunt tip three quarter mile wide of exposed rock with outlying rocks and shoals, cutting between the headland and the exposed rocks into a headwind and a short steep sea on our quarter.
This often meant paddling out to sea to ride the waves head on before picking a spot to turn and head along the coast again, usually with a wave trying to climb in over the side. It was a long and slow haul taking an hour before we managed to turn and head for Juan les Pins surfing on the now following sea and then a beam sea as we paddled along the coast looking for a place to stop for the night.
We washed up outside the Buddha Bar for a few… actually a lot of beers and Moules, Steak Tartare etc. At this point a crew member from one of the yachts told us the forecast for the morning: strong winds of 25mph due to increase at 9am tomorrow. Our alarms set for 5am we retired, launching into a cool and calm morning we worked our way up the coast passing inside the Lerin Islands as we reached Cannes at 8am. The wind freshened to force 3 to 4 and we had to claw our way around the point to a bay in the lee of the wind at Palm Beach home to a Casino.
We made a shelter in the Tamarisk and prepared to sit the storm out it was now 5 to 6 with white horses all across the bay of Cannes. The wind veered forcing us to drag the canoes through the sand to get in the lee of the wind once more on the other side of the bay here it was very hot and still. Simon went into town dodging the Lamborghinis to find the tourist centre and managed to get a rail timetable for our return journey to the van and the information that a campsite existed 25 miles away in La Napoul.
I decided to cook that evening and headed into the shops for supplies. I had spotted a fishmongers called La Pescaille-Poissons de ligne-Coquillage et Crustaces. We bought two fine fish – a Dorade Gris, a type of Bream and a wonderful red Rockfish beautifully prepared and sealed in foil bags. I lit the two disposable barbecues I had bought in England and when the flames and smoke died down lay them on the mesh. Whilst they sizzled I made a fennel sauce with some white wine a large moon hung in the sky and the lights of the Ile Sainte Marguerite and its Fort light up the dusk. We had only covered four miles that day.
Next morning we paddled the large curve of the Bay of Cannes, stopping for breakfast before cruising a parallel course to the Croissette and its Palm trees with the continuous honking of car horns to mark a wedding jarring the day. At one stop some locals came to inspect the canoes, not having seen one on these shores and were interested to know about them. We headed for La Bocca and La Napoul, hoping for a shower that night, eventually stopping at a secluded beach whilst two of us went to find the campsite on foot, booked us in and found it had a slipway off the river!
Setting off and turning into the mouth of the River Siagne we passed a small chain ferry to take golfers from one links to another! And then off to the left tributary and found our slip. Hot showers and a restaurant meal followed. A trip downriver to the Chateau the following morning and up to the station to book our tickets to Ventimiglia that afternoon a visit to the patisserie and the boulangerie and we were off on a sleek double-decked train to collect the van.
We hopped off at Antibes to explore for a while and again at Monte Carlo so Simon could fulfil an ambition to play the tables. We had smartened up but still expected to be turned away, however, we entered the vast ornate entrance and found the dress code to be relaxed. Simon however wanted to enter the inner sanctum so bought a day’s membership, which gave entrance to the terrace, private rooms and the right to lose his money and pay £15 for a gin and tonic.
However, Simon emerged triumphant holding a 10-euro token and still had his original stake! Reboarding the train we enjoyed the rest of the journey from the top deck rolling into Ventimiglia in the early evening. We found the van untouched, drank a farewell coffee in our beach cafe and in two hours arrived back at the campsite. Heading home next day battling against driving rain and headwinds we pulled off into Beaune for a meal, as it was Steve’s Birthday. We drew our chairs up in le Bistrot Bourguignon and the cork was pulled out of a bottle of local wine-SALUT!
