Just down the Ruelle du Marché steps below my window there’s a live band rocking out universal classics; a few steps more, the distinct hum of revelers spilling out of the restaurants lining the foreshore. People are sprawled on the stairs leaning into each other, smoking, laughing and singing along in predominantly French and English accents. They’re totally ‘in the moment’.
I might be in the old town’ where history connects with ancient fortifications, in this case The Citadel, but that’s where ‘old’ ends. Villefranche, an extension of Nice on the Côte d’Azur or ‘French Riviera’ is not only quaint, it’s abuzz with activity. Similar to the Cinque Terra in terms of architectural influence. Tall houses in the same faded patna of terra cotta, pink, yellow and cream with moss green shutters, trompe l’oeil facades and pots of Bougainvillea crowding less narrow enterprise lined lane ways. But that’s where the similarities end.
The locals smile a friendly ‘Bonjour!’ They happily relieve you of your strangled french and enjoy testing their english.
‘Arretez! Vous tues langue notre!’
Stop! You are killing our language! And they work hard at making you feel welcome. It’s refreshing, rejuvenating and spirited and you know what? It’s working.
Sparkling, azure blue ocean dotted with yachts, bay cruisers and speed boats; a balmy 32 degrees, the best bread in Europe, chilled G&T’s and a cozy, albeit tiny abode to retreat to right in the beating heart of this dear little village.
Stay tuned for local highlights, the low down on retail therapy in Nice and a desperately needed hair style update (lest I be labelled a Wookie)
Had the cliff clinging ‘Via dell’Amore‘ (the Lovers Walk), a narrow pathway linking Riomaggiore and Manarola, not been closed I would have walked the pathway and admired the spectacularly romantic sunsets. Instead, a leisurely stroll through the village before returning to the train.
The village, again tucked into a tiny crevice has quaint lanes so narrow, the jumble of tall buildings clinging one atop the other, almost touch, held strong only by random stone archways. Cool, dark and perfect for dodging the drips from washing strung high above. I smile at Nona’s sweeping doorsteps and search for the little surprises that whisper of the village personality.
Quaint, sheltered between large jagged rock formations, smeared with bright towels and sunbathers and topped with teens daring to dive into deliciously cool water between rowboats of softy hued blue yellow and red. They do, to the raucous cheers of folk lining the narrow side steps leading to the cliff walks.
