This Summer

This Summer

I am a singleton. For the last few years, during austerity times, I have not been on holiday. Holidays had become lonely affairs, and not having as much money as usual to spend put me off even more.

            This year my spirits raised. I had been promoted at work. I decided to go to the South of France. Gloomy old England was just too much this summer. I needed to get away.

            I arrived at Nice airport in the sunshine and hopped on a bus to the promenade. My hotel was close by, and overlooked the Mediterranean Sea, which was glorious. Quickly, I unpacked my case and went downstairs to explore outside.

            Walking along the prom I saw artists carefully drawing in chalk on the pavement slabs: classical scenes of the Madonna and Child. I walked onto the pebble beach where a hawker tried to sell me a coca cola.“Non!” I said, waving my arms. I looked around at the topless sunbathers, and the windsurfers on the blue sea seemingly defying gravity. Despite being alone I felt a kindred spirit with the holiday-makers. I took off my shirt and lay on the stones under the hot sun.

            “Monsieur!”

            Opening my eyes I saw an old man carrying a small monkey. He held out a cup. “Monsieur!” he repeated. I reached in my pocket and found a few coins, dropping them in the cup. “Merci!” the man said. He let the monkey swing round his arm and then climb on his bronzed shoulders before moving up the beach to another sunbather. I closed my eyes again and had a nap.

            That evening I went to a chic café for dinner. Eating on your own always feels awkward, but I was used to it. There were olives and pimento’s on a dish. I ate them judiciously, before licking my lips with satisfaction. My Pernod was exotic-tasting, and made my head spin even though it was diluted with water. I ordered sardines followed by steak frites. I could just hear the waves lapping the shoreline, and seabirds calling as I watched the passers-by in the avenue.

            Minding my own business, I was surprised when an elegant, tanned lady came and sat next to me. She had a little white Terrier with her.

            “Du l’eau s’il vous plait,” she said to a passing waiter. He obliged by returning with a bowl of water that he carefully placed on the ground. The dog lapped at it enthusiastically with its little pink tongue.

            “Such a nice dog,” I said. The lady smiled.

            “English?” she said.

            “Yes, do you speak English?”

            “A little.” The lady patted the dogs head as it drank.

            She spoke good English, and we chatted. She ordered some food and I ordered some wine, which I shared with her (it seemed polite).

            When we had both finished eating, and the bottle was empty, I asked if she would like a walk along the seafront?

            “Mais oui!”

            “Bon!” I said. My French was ropey, but I liked to slip in the easy words.

            When we reached my hotel I felt like a cloud: the wine, the lovely food, the company…France, all made me fulfilled, floating on air. The lady agreed to meet me in the morning. She would show me the beauty of the old town.

            “C’est magnifique!” she gushed.

            My fortnight went so quickly. The lady showed me the sights and we dined each evening in each other’s company. I talked my pigeon French (and native English) with her like I had never talked before. And we shared an intimate moment during a short shower when I raised my coat around her shoulders to protect her from the rain.

            As I boarded my home-bound plane I thought I was in a dream. Nice was more than nice, it had changed my life forever. No more a singleton, as in the next year Colette, widow of a famous French actor, was to be my beautiful wedded wife.