Cap d’Antibes

Cap d’Antibes, of literary legend. The air is cold and pretty. Dainty, crisp. Smells of seaweed and seamist, triggering beach memories of home. The rocks are unforgiving, silver and white. And the sun is so, so vibrant. Warm on my face. It’s hot, but the light gusts make it feel cool.

I picked up the head of the Tirepoli (literally, hair pull) trail from Garoupe Beach along the lower edge of the cap, and my next two hours were blue, green, stone with the sweetest, most lovely breeze. Snow-capped alps pierced the skyline beyond the mainland beaches. A sailboat, anchored in the bay. A man swimming in the sea.

A Monday afternoon in February, here, sitting on the rocks, eating half a baguette from last night, squinting in the sun.

It’s quiet, save for the stray sounds of workmen I cannot see, working behind closed hotel and villa gates. Everyone in preparation mode for the wild, summer season – and the energy it will bring.

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