‘It’s cold here in January,” says my guide, Michèle Caserta, as we stroll along Cannes seafront, where warm autumn sunshine sprays diamonds on the waves. “Maybe 15C?” She notices my raised eyebrow. “I’m Mediterranean: for me, that’s cold!”
For me, it sounds enticing. A world of blue skies and palm trees, winters like springs, and autumns with balmy seas and nights warm enough to drink rosé outside. Indeed, I have more sympathy for people who have to endure the Riviera’s summer months, when temperatures soar (Cannes hit a record 39.2C in July), the city heaves with tourists and prices spike.
Believing the Côte d’Azur is at its finest off-season, I’ve come in October, by train with flight-free specialist Byway Travel, and am staying at characterful, family-run Sawday’s accommodation. It’s an easy journey, with a stop-off in Paris before a direct train to Nice, where I start my exploring, then a short hop (about 35 minutes) to Cannes.
Thing is, I’m doing nothing new. Until the 1950s, winter always was the French Riviera’s peak season. This stretch of once-inhospitable seashore, backed by rugged mountains, was transformed from the late 18th century, when it was discovered by foreigners seeking warmer climes. Villas, concert halls, parks and promenades were built to serve these hivernants – winterers - and coastal backwaters turned into the earliest villégiatures (holiday resorts).
Nice was among the first places to be developed and was already popular by the late 18th century. In 2021, Unesco placed the “Winter Resort Town of Nice” on its World Heritage list, recognising its mix of architectural interest, artistic wealth (Henri Matisse, Marc Chagall and more worked here) and distinctive, leisure-focused development. Walking around today, especially along the Promenade des Anglais and in the heights of the Cimiez district, I see striking examples of this, including the old Hôtel Régina, built for Queen Victoria, the Moorish panache of the former Hôtel Alhambra and innumerable gardens exploding with exotic plants.
My own base, Hôtel Windsor, feels apt. Only 10 minutes from the train station and half that to the sea, this 19th-century building has its own oasis of bougainvillaea, bamboo and rubber trees – a wonderful jungle in which to breakfast – while the rooms are decorated by contemporary artists. They cost from €90 off-peak, compared with more than €200 in the summer.
Exploring the city, I seek my own sort of low-season, lower-cost wellness. I swim in crystal-clear water that’s still 23C (and remains 13C in winter). I catch a piano concert for €20 (with wine) at the grand Opéra Nice Côte d’Azur and eat authentic cuisine nissarde at Chez Davia, where chef Pierre Altobelli upholds his grandmother’s traditions (she opened the bistro in 1953) but employs skills he’s picked up in some of the world’s best kitchens. The courgette flowers are delicately battered, the petit farcis (meat-stuffed vegetables) light, and the lemon tart smooth as silk. Its also great value at €39 for the menu du jour.
Most of Nice’s grand villas are private residences, but just a short train ride east in Beaulieu-sur-Mer, at the neck of the Cap Ferrat peninsula, Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild is open to visitors. When filthy-rich Baroness Béatrice de Rothschild visited this hilltop spot in 1905 she saw the water, mountains and horizons and thought simply: I want it. She built a fairytale gateau of a palace with nine themed gardens, and it’s eye-popping: fountains that dance to Swan Lake, gargoyles, cacti and roses, Meissen porcelain monkeys, a carpet from Versailles, a screen that belonged to Marie Antoinette.
After lunch on the cafe terrace, my sea view framed by the loggia’s ivy-cloaked stone, I take a train to Cannes. There’s glamour galore here too, of course – but I’m less interested in the city’s A-list swagger than in the little islands offshore. There are four Îles de Lérins in Cannes bay, and the main two – Saint-Honorat and Sainte-Marguerite, each inhabited by a handful of people – are served by at least seven ferries a day year-round (adult €17.50, 15 mins).
I’ve arranged to meet Michèle, one of Cannes’ Greeter guides (passionate locals who show visitors around for free) as Île Saint-Honorat is her speciality. The island – almost a mile long by 400 metres wide – is, she says, “a little place with big spirituality”.
A holy man called Honoratus founded a monastery here in AD410 and it became an important religious centre. Over the years it has been invaded many times, but after each upheaval, the monks returned. Now, a community of 22 Benedictine brothers lives here, praying, working, tending the vineyards, and running a guesthouse where anyone can stay.
“I need to come for a retreat at least once a year,” Michèle says as we arrive at the jetty. “The island has a sacred soul.” As we walk past the vineyards, along shady aisles of eucalyptus, pine and olive trees, I can feel it: the peace. It’s a world away from starry Cannes.
After a night back on the mainland at Villa du Roc Fleuri, a cool-but-unglitzy B&B in Cannes old town, I spend my final day on Île Sainte-Marguerite. Accessed from Cannes (there’s no ferry between the two islands), the car-free island is cloaked in forest and has 22km of walking trails, including an 8km loop of the coast.
On my way to the ferry, I stop at a kiosk for a pan bagnat, this niçoise salad in a bap is so revered in the south of France that there is an association to protect it (the Commune Libre du Pan Bagnat). Once on the island, I quickly lose the other people as I walk off clockwise, passing the star-shaped Fort Royal (now a museum), where the mysterious man in the iron mask was once imprisoned and I continue past 18th-century canon batteries and through the mastic, myrtle and pine trees.
Things become busier on the island’s north shore, for good reason. From a pebbly beach here you can snorkel to the Underwater Ecomuseum, six sub-aqua artworks by Jason deCaires Taylor, sunk in 2021. I swim out over the posidonia seagrass and darting fishes, and eventually find them: huge cement heads on the white seabed, just starting to acne with marine creatures. Unlike the plaques around Cannes’ Palais des Festivals, which feature the hand-prints of movie legends, these heads are modelled on local people; the aim is to encourage the community and visitors to care for this fragile environment. I float there a while, mesmerised.
A late-afternoon ferry takes me back to Cannes and Roc Fleuri. Lying on the roof terrace, I watch roosting parakeets, feel the breeze, sun and salt on my skin, and think – oddly – of Queen Victoria. When the monarch was dying on the Isle of Wight, in January 1901, she proclaimed: “Oh, if only I were at Nice, I should recover.” Indeed, there’s something healing about winter on the Riviera, whether you’re royalty or not.
The trip was provided by Byway Travel, partnered with Sawday’s. A seven-day trip to Paris, Nice and Cannes costs from £986pp, including B&B accommodation and train travel
