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oming ashore on the tender, rain and chill wind largely preclude any thought of my re-living a luncheon experience from 1980 in one of the famous St Tropez Beach Clubs.

 

 

Il pleut maintenant. (It’s raining now.) Bill and I take shelter in the first restaurant at the port L’Escale not realizing he might need to raise the credit limit on his card. A layer of white sand covers the floor completing an all white and chrome fit-out of this posh establishment.

It’s the sight of the moules at the next table that decides our luncheon choice. Now to choose a bottle of Rosé! The flamboyant, white-clad waiter with a topknot of hair recommends one that goes so well with the moules.  – Chateau Peyrassol, a combination of Mourvèdre, Pinot Noir and White Grenache. A paler drop I’ve yet to see. And delicious.
 

 
Our moules arrive with parsley and thyme – a strong seasalt flavor and a texture as soft and creamy as crème brûlée. Dipping bread in the white wine, herby broth is almost better than the moules. And the sinful frites also get a good going over. 

I can’t mention the light and fluffy Grand Marnier soufflé (nor the small glass of chocolate mousse and shortbread that comes with the macchiato) without guilt that drives me to walk from here to Marseilles on a treadmill in the ship’s gym.

Who cares about rain?

Coming ashore on the tender, rain and chill wind largely preclude any thought of my re-living a luncheon experience from 1980 in one of the famous St Tropez Beach Clubs.

However, I’m not exactly stumped with nothing to do. I set out with zeal to find a shoe repairer! Yes, in this hedonistic port on the Cote d’Azur, it’s a shoe repairer that I’m looking for.

My schoolboy French vocabulary doesn’t extend to ‘repairer’. And my first point of enquiry at the port has me believing that locals don’t bother with repairing shoes.  So I don’t even try to explain that it’s a new stud on my camera case that I need to get replaced.

I probably have as much fun walking down little alleyways discovering the unexpected of what St Tropez has to offer while looking for this elusive shoe repairer. After all, my original plans for the Beach Club can be played-out at any old restaurant at home.
 

 
I eventually find the shoe repairer in a back street. He speaks English. He does the job. My new stud’s not black, but I don’t care.

 
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