The Crêpe Escape: Del Hughes navigates Côte d’Azur chaos to catharsis

Étape Deux (Stage 2)

Del Hughes

If you’re joining me mid‑tour, catch up on Étape Une here.

Week Two, and we’re finding our groove – or whatever passes for it in a new ménage à trois. I’m still squarely in the ‘getting to know her’ phase; Tim is smitten; and the power dynamics? Well, let’s just say it’s… complicated.

Only yesterday, we learned that Bella has a distinctly specific ‘love language’ involving premium lubrication and a complete disregard for personal space. And I’m becoming increasingly resentful when Tim waxes lyrical about what a ‘great little mover’ she is.

​Oh, the fickleness of the man. Apparently, all it takes is a curvaceous body, a biddable nature, and a great rack, to be completely replaced in his affections.

It’s a strange kind of infidelity, being sidelined by a three-ton Adamo 75-4DL motorhome that Tim is tenderly piloting across the French countryside. (Eyeroll.)

But, while our first week was less gentle learning curve and more a space-clashing, dog-squashing, throat-shredding scream-fest, we’ve now cooled into a calmer – yet still choppy – cadence.

Because – before the en vacances vibes can fully kick in – we’ve got a promise to keep. But first, La Route Napoléon.

To say my knowledge of French military history is weak is wildly generous; if ABBA hadn’t won Eurovision in 1974, even ‘Boney’ himself might have passed me by.

Though I know the basics, I was still surprised by the story of his epic return to Paris – from exile on Elba – in 1815.

The first leg – a 314-kilometre push north, from the Côte d’Azur to the former Dauphiné capital, Grenoble – was a six-day strategic masterpiece, mobilising a thousand loyal soldiers, hundreds of horses, and a shedload of muskets, cannons, and howitzers.

To appreciate the feat, you have to picture the geography: he was forcing an entire army through a vertical barrage of steep mountain cols, winding Provençal hairpins, and pinched valley throats. It was a staggering display that essentially smashed the record for rapid troop transit. (In your face, Hannibal.)

This gruelling pace set the momentum for the rest of his trek, and twenty days later, he reached Paris. Louis XVIII, sensing which way the mistral was blowing, rapidly quit the capital, and for a few months at least, Napoléon called the shots.

Since we were heading south, we did his route in reverse, along the N85, which follows most of his original path and incorporates some très tight, corkscrew climbs. (Whoop.)

Over deux cafés-crème et un pain au chocolat in La Mure, I excitedly recounted the huge scale of his campaign, emphasising that Boney did this entirely on foot (or hoof – when his prodigious piles weren’t too prolapsed for his saddle. Ouchy!). Tim didn’t even look up from his coffee, offering only a deadpan: ‘Not in a bloody motorhome, he didn’t.’

The road fought its way over the saw-toothed spine of the Alpes-Maritimes. It’s a realm of extreme, thin-air contrasts: a spiralling sequence of switchbacks that claw out of tight, twisting ravines to scrape the sky.

 ​But as we pushed further south, the terrain softened, punishing ascents gave way to Provence’s broom-bright valleys, and eventually the road opened onto the sinuous, sizzle-baked sprawl of the coast.

It’s a stunning transition – that shift from the cold, crushing weight of the peaks to the topaz-blue horizon. And as the first flash of the Monegasque skyline blazed into view, all thoughts of Boney vanished, replaced by one simple question: how on earth do you park a three-ton motorhome in the supercar capital of the world? Welcome to Monaco.

The air is thick with exclusive exhaust fumes and clouds of Baccarat Rouge 540. (No worries about petrol prices here, I’ll wager.) It’s a playground for the global elite, where colossal yachts dwarf the harbour, moored monoliths of steel and ego.

​The streets are a layered labyrinth of impossible wealth. There’s a Cartier on every corner, a relentless parade of Louboutins and Blahniks clicking on pristine pavements, and a population that seems to exist in a state of permanent languor, eased into indolence by the sheer size of their own bank accounts.

But no shopping for us (obvs) because we’d come to this millionaire’s mecca for one reason only – Formula One. Yawn. In fairness, I’d got my Alpe d’Huez, so Tim was entitled to his own lap of honour. Or, as it turned out, six laps of full‑throttle panic and rising hysteria.

​Our first loop quickly devolved into a sat-nav nightmare. We found the starting grid and grabbed pole position, only to immediately veer off course, swallowed by the tangle of traffic and the engulfing high-rise honeycomb of the city.

From there, it became a rhythmic blur of high‑octane landmarks: the Fairmont tunnel – that brief, echoing dash of darkness where F1 cars streak through at 180 mph; the grandstands, already poised for the June 7th showdown; the grid again… and again… and again (by this point we were practically residents).

Then came a frantic diversion that forced us to drive the circuit in reverse. It was frenetic and oddly exhilarating – though admittedly, easier to enjoy from the passenger seat.

To the locals in their prestige marques, we were a road hazard; to the tourists, influencers, and wannabes, we were the most confusing ‘safety car’ ever to grace these hallowed streets; and to les gendarmes, pure comic relief – grinning and flicking ceremonious salutes as we rumbled past (five times!). Lol.

​By the time we reached the fabled plaza, Bella was steaming – and so were we. Navigating was a battle; bikes and scooters whipped past, with casual disregard for anyone’s continued existence; crowds sauntered across the roads, lost in their phones, or avidly seeking out celebs, with no concept of the Green Cross Code.

The beating iconic heart of this gilded principality, Casino Square, is the place to be seen. It’s a sensory assault of turbocharged luxury: the low, guttural growl of Ferraris, the casual flashing of black cards, and a level of lustre so intense, it feels as if the whole city has been hermetically sealed from the grubbiness of the real world.

And there we were, Bella bowling up to a Bugatti like the clumsy, bug-splattered interloper she so gloriously was.

A valet approached, resplendent in gold braid and peaked hat. But even his impeccable training couldn’t disguise the theatrical double-take that nearly sent his Ray-Bans flying – a look of profound shock, born no doubt of the impossibility of reconciling Bella’s boxy bulk with the Casino’s strict code of aesthetic exactitude.

And if Boney thought his comeback was a tactical challenge, he clearly never tried parking a motorhome between a DB5 and a Roller. Eek.

After one further inadvertent loop, we finally escaped via the rock-cut tunnels that carry much of Monaco’s traffic. And as roads go, they were spectacular – glistening with natural crystals that catch the light as you move toward the open air.

We were leaving the polished perfection of the Principality behind and heading toward the classic charms of the Riviera. Next stop: Nice.

We took the La Basse Corniche (the D6098) along the coast – a gorgeous run, rolling through star-studded resorts, an uneasy mix of bougie swagger and old-money affluence: Cap d’Ail, Villefranche‑sur‑Mer, and the mega-moneyed Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. If only…

As a property-porn devotee, I was in heaven – but if you’re rich enough to afford a Bond-villain compound, you’re definitely rich enough to afford top-tier privacy screening, which cocked up almost every photo I attempted to take. Mind, I did get a few overlooking the beaches which – for the moment – haven’t been fully privatised by the glitterati.

Arriving in Nice, I’ll admit to feeling a tad underwhelmed. We’d possibly set the bar too high, too soon. It was… well, nice enough (sorry), but even Swansea sparkles beneath blue skies.

If the Principality was a pampered princess, Nice was the grande dame, sheathed in a faded silk negligée – still lovely, of course, but stubbornly unwilling to accept that La Belle Époque ended some time ago.

The façades were sun-scorched, the shutters chipped, and the city carried a faint trace of hot pavement, orange blossom, and the dusty drift of ambition, long since retired. There was beauty in her bones, yes – but she’d let the sea air have its own way for far too many tides.
And the crush of cars – nose‑to‑tail, going nowhere – really didn’t help. Plotting a course to our campsite was no easy job, even when Google Maps behaved. Which, for the record, it absolutely didn’t.

Instead, it sent us straight toward a perilously low railway bridge, roughly the height of a bottle of local Bellet (citrus, herbs, and a faint lick of sea salt, apparently; I just… tasted wine).

This slight oversight condemned us to a glacial 10 km detour along the coast to Antibes whenever we fancied popping off for un café crème et une pâtisserie (which was often. Yum).

To be fair, the view was knockout. A vast, cerulean crescent unfurled below us, edged with striking, skeletal sweeps of chalk-white pebbled beaches, their pale stretch punctuated by the occasional freckle of parasols. It lacked the rugged, gutsy, elemental spirit of our Welsh shores, yet had a brittle, stark allure. But by your eighth pass, even paradise starts to pall.

And with Antibes being yet another stop on the Côte d’Azur influencer trail, our sodding detour took even longer. But Bella truly ran the gauntlet, dodging the selfie-sticks and muscling her way through the melee – I guarantee we derailed at least four livestreams and a painstakingly choreographed TikTok. Ha.

Two days were plenty. The Riviera caters mainly for the rich, the famous, the flawless, and the surgically enhanced – and we were, quite obviously, none of the above. So, we pulled the gazebo down, packed up, and headed inland, steering towards somewhere far more meaningful.

Which leads neatly back to my second non-negotiable – Mum. In Étape Une, I mentioned how Dad and I loved the Tour de France. What I didn’t mention was his deep affection for the mellow rhythms of French life, and how he’d dreamed of returning to the country he held so dear. Sadly, syringomyelia meant he never made it back.

That summer of ‘86, traversing the tapestry of the French regions, didn’t just fill his itinerary; it filled his heart. So much so, it became his final wish: ‘Half of me in Rhandirmwyn, the rest on Alpe d’Huez.’ Mum, however, had other ideas.

She vetoed the peak because her circulation was so bad – ‘I’m not spending eternity up a bloody mountain’ – and told him to pick somewhere in France they’d both enjoyed, ideally with a view, easy access, and close to a bar with a decent wine cellar. (Classic Mum.)

 There was really only one contender: Gorges de l’Ardèche. It struck the perfect balance. Rugged enough to satisfy Dad’s love for scenery, but perfectly suited to Mum’s requirements for a location where one could contemplate the afterlife – without the need for rope and crampons.

Plus, a few metres along the road sat La Grotte des Tunnels – a bistro tidily tucked beneath tonnes of overhanging rock. It held particularly fond memories. While I’d been off kayaking, my parents had stopped by for a leisurely lunch, washed down with une quantité astronomique de plonk.

In fact, so much vin was consumed, they were delivered back to our auberge on the back of a charrette, pulled by an amiable carthorse named Claude. (The owner had commandeered this vehicle from his neighbour, though the ‘taxi fare’ had been negotiated in advance: four cases of red and a full wheel of questionable fromage.)

Thirteen years after that summer, I went back to Le Pont d’Arc – the canyon’s massive limestone arch that lifts over the river in a broad, effortless span. In the early morning hush, I walked the quiet road above the river, passing their bistro, and let Dad loose into the shushing waters below. Now, twenty-seven years later, it was Mum’s turn.

​The gorge is a beautiful contradiction. When the crowds come, movement ripples through it – canoes, hikers, tourists – and the air shifts, full of motion and chatter. Yet in the off‑season, it falls into a deep, resonant silence.

The fissured cliffs, shaped over millennia, paired with the soothing murmur of the water, lend the gorge an ancient, almost sacred, calm. It’s a deeply moving spot to reflect on the fragility and significance of a human life – wholly suited to these quiet, final moments.

At 5 a.m. we left our campsite, and at Le Pont d’Arc in the first thin light of day, we said – yet another – farewell to Mum.

We’d worked our way through her other resting places, and with France now sorted, Killarney was last on her list.  Halle‑sodding‑lujah! (And yes, she’s still orchestrating from the other side.)

To be honest, as Tim sprinkled her in the river, I was a tad tearful (read: uncontrollable sobbing). Maybe it was because the Ardèche had been so special to us; maybe it was the comforting sense of symmetry, knowing Mum and Dad were resting in the same waters.

Or maybe it was an emotional collapse, years in the making – not helped by the crippling paranoia of smuggling a Lurpak tub filled with suspicious‑looking powder past Customs. Gulp.

So that’s Stage 2 done. 700 km in four days (double what Boney managed – and happily minus any saddle-mashing misery), six laps of Monaco, many of Nice and Antibes, three pitch-up campsites, two tanks of gazole, and one mother, safely scattered.

With our mission finally accomplished, it felt like our holiday could truly begin. And I’m even starting to come round to Bella, because I know exactly how it feels to be judged for your body shape, or to feel utterly out of place among the sleek and the chic.

We’re both generously proportioned, a touch awkward, and completely unsuited to the jet-set lifestyle (though I’d be willing to give it a whirl).

Hmm. Perhaps there’s hope for our throuple yet.

So allez, ma jolie grosse, to Étape Trois – Carcassonne… and beyond.

P.S. Gazole prices are still exorbitant, which, given our self-imposed news blackout, remains our only reliable indicator of global mayhem. I’m guessing the mango maniac’s shambolic mission continues. Sigh…

If you’re feeling a whisper of wanderlust and want to experience the joys of the open road (while in snug proximity to your family/friends), Bella and her various-sized sisters are available to hire from Whyknott Motorhome Hire in Bridgend.