Nothing in the beach hotel was made of plastic. It wasn’t advertised as being a plastic-free hotel, but we noticed it. Nor was there a television in the room nor air conditioning nor a ‘no smoking’ notice on the wall nor a list of hotel rules. Instead there was a wall of books in the reception area, ashtrays from the golden age of smoking, sea breezes and an air of greater liberty. When I presented myself at reception to check in, the woman didn’t want to see a credit or identity card – my Christian name was credential enough. She led us up the marble-slatted stairs, unlocked the door with an old-fashioned key, wished us a very pleasant stay, and went away again.
The decor of our first-floor room with balcony was artfully artless early 1960s, designed by a genius. I laid on the bed under the slow ceiling fan and imagined the scent of Gauloise cigarettes and heard the faintest echo of Charles Trenet singing ‘La mer’ on a gramophone somewhere below. If there was a Figaro lying around somewhere, I wouldn’t have been surprised to read in it that Algeria was still part of France.
Our balcony overlooked the hotel restaurant and the wide sea. Enclosing the bay were the islands of Porquerolles, Port-Cros and Le Levant. The Mediterranean was glassy flat. Paddle boarders and elderly sea hikers swinging their old arms passed slowly back and forth. Catriona burst into tears.
We unpacked and clattered down the stairs for a pre-dinner drink. ‘How goes it?’ asked one of the hotel restaurant waiters, laying tables, barefoot in the soft white sand. ‘Could be worse,’ I said. He looked shocked. ‘I doubt it,’ he said.
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