Paul Smit - Magazine Feature: Four hikes above the Côte d'Azur

It's a subtropical dream: hiking amongst the fragrant flowers, enjoying an occasional snack of figs, grapes or blackberries, with a view of both the Alps and the coast.

Gorbio - Col de la Madone de Gorbio - Cime de Galian - Mt. Agel - Gorbio (altitude difference 777 m.)

Gorbio, lying on the slopes behind Menton, is in my opinion the most beautiful village littoral in the Côte d'Azur. And that's saying something, because really, all villages here are picturesque. Eze is the most well-known one and it is enchanting. But every other building is a souvenir or antiques shop, coffeehouse or ice cream vendor. Gorbio is more authentic. It has the same charming alleys and arches, is also lying on a hilltop, but there is not one shop to be found. Not one! Children play in the streets, people live their lives. You will find only one bar and one restaurant, in front of the mediaeval village gate, on the village square with its two-metre thick elm and a fountain.

The floral fragrances embrace us as soon as we leave the village. The old donkey trail, climbing up through the terraces, is bordered by flowers. Up higher, where the terraces are less well-kept, old neglected figs mingle with the wild flora and in the end we are walking in pure wilderness. Now, in June, broom is the dominant vegetation. Its flowers here are four times as large as the broom I am familiar with. The smell is bigger than life too, it smells like a thousand honey pots have been left open.

Two thirds up the Ravin du Rank, we pause and look back. Gorbio has disappeared from sight and the highway, the only blemish on the village, has become invisible. Menton too is gone. From a valley full of flowers, we are gazing down on an azure sea, without seeing even one sign of human life. Now we understand why, 150 years ago, the English were so lyrical in their appreciation of the Côte and built their villas in the foothills. It used to be as untarnished as this view here, the subtropics in its purest form.

After the Col de la Madone de Gorbio, the scene shifts. We come upon barren territory, a land of thistles, caused by the porous limestone which lets all the water drain away. But as behooves the Côte, the thistles are bigger and more beautiful than elsewhere, in sky-blue and turquoise-green. Here and there nothing grows at all. The water as it seeps through has slowly eaten away at the limestone, leaving behind metres-high and razor-sharp fins. A textbook example of a 'karst' landscape.

In the distance the hazy outline of table mountain Mont Agel looms, crowned by a city out of the Arabian Nights. The combination of pale domes and thin towers transpires from closer-by to be a military construction, a border defence post in the south east corner of the country. Shortly before we get there, our trail nosedives down over the flanks of the plateau, into the forest. Forest? Make that rainforest. Being France's thousand-metre peak closest to the sea, its seaward slope catches more mist, orographic clouds and rain than the surrounding area, and in the winter less cold wind from the Alps.

We descend until we reach the GR 51, which runs from Marseille to Menton over the 'balcons de la Méditerrannée'. With a view of the sea, of course. Not an unpleasant trail to enter Gorbio by.

Gorbio - Ste Agnes - Cime de Baudon - Col de la Madone - Gorbio (altitude difference 933 m)

The next morning we leave the village by the same GR 51. Once again we traverse the voluptuous terraces above Gorbio. Ste Agnes, where we arrive later that morning, is far more barren. Being more than 400 m higher this is not surprising. It was built on a summit for protection against the attacks of the Saracens. To be more precise, right behind the summit: it cannot be seen from the coast. And yet it was not the location that warded off the sea pirates, but the girl Anne. Haroum, a powerful Saracen, was so impressed by her beauty and bravery that he met to her demands to gain her hand in marriage: to end his piracy and convert to Christianity.

Ste Agnes is more touristic than Gorbio, but nothing like Eze. It is a kind of artist village, complete with a crazy Italian who has opened an organic pizzeria.

Starting from the little chapel behind the village, we walk up towards Cime de Baudon. It is the middle of the day and too hot for such a steep climb. Fortunately the trail crosses a north slope. Forest. Flowers. Shade. Siesta! This is our first unhindered view of the north. We are impressed by the height of the mountains in that direction. They are the three-thousand-metre peaks of Mercantour, culminating in the Argentera, just over the border in Italy. From the Cime de Baudon, the highest point on our walk, the view is even more complete. Now the coastline is also included.

The south slope is hot, dry and treeless. Luckily the sun is setting now. We find a likely looking site for wild camping with some trees and this would be a good time to pitch our tent at the foot of the Baudon…if we had brought a tent.

Having to spend the evening in Gorbio is no hardship though. We settle down in the village square with the elm and watch the village youth culture pass us by, while the full moon slowly rises above the old rooftops. The fountain is the centre of it all. Except for the teenage boys, who gravitate around the local coquette, a teenage BB. She however pays them not the least bit of attention, saving it all for the children, who are running amok and playing some wild game with her. The wine is making us rosy and the dinner of many courses makes us lethargic. When we finally are lying in our tent on the campground and the smell of broom wafts into the sleeping bag, my happiness is complete.

Sainte-Agnès - Col de l'Olive - les Cabrolles - Sainte-Agnès (altitude difference 450 m)

I return to the Menton area in mid August. This time I opt for the cultural countryside and not only as a contrast to the nature walks. Mid August to end of September is harvesting season. Or that's what it should be. Lots of fruit doesn't get picked anymore these days. If no one walks by, the sad destiny of rot and decay awaits it.

It is already too late for the peaches. We smell them first, the air so thick you could hang a painting on it. Then we see the overripe fruit lying on the path. Only with some effort can we prevent bees following our peach-sticky footprints for the rest of the walk.

For the figs, lower down the hill, it is still a bit early. But the first ones are starting to ripen: you can break them open by hand. When I first taste this sensual delight, I understand immediately why Adam and Eve were sent from the garden by God, covered in fig leaves. They had not only tasted the apple from the tree of knowledge. They must also have started eating the overripe figs and then things really got out of hand!

We also come upon some grapes. They are hanging in bunches over a fence. Just asking for trouble! Does this still qualify as a noble deed, we wonder, as we gobble up hands full of green grapes. Are we saving France's most noble fruit from decay or stealing from someone's garden? We take another look at the villa. It is gorgeous, framed by old grapevines. The slightly dilapidated look of the house is too perfect to be accidental and the car lurking behind the trees is not a Deux Chevaux but a Jaguar. The owner, we conclude, will not go hungry for lack of 'our' grape bunches.

First day: Castellar - Col de Berceau - border pass to Italy - Chiesa - Cimone - Villatella - Torri Superiore (ascent 676m, descent 967m). Second day: Le Grand Mont (border crossing) - Colla Bassa - Castellar (ascent 1170m, descent 879m, including climbing Grant Mont (1378m) another 129m)

Autumn goes on forever in the Mentonnais and is pleasantly mild. Two weeks before Christmas I explore the last trail, which is the most beautiful of all. This is partly thanks to the season. In Italian Torri, the overnight spot for this two-day trip as well as the lowest point with its 80 metres above sea level, the lemons and oranges are ripe and juicy, the olive crop is being harvested and the first mimosas are blossoming.

It is also the toughest trail with the biggest altitude difference, traversing Le Grand Mont, known as Grammondo to the Italians. I don't pass the summit on the way in. It wouldn't matter anyway; I am walking in fog. The missing view of the border is compensated by what unfolds before me as, following 'Torri' signs and red paint marks, I descend from my cloud: a green and mountainous landscape, terraced as far as the eye can reach, with a bright white chapel in the middle. Agriculture is far more intensive here than on the French side. I have crossed over from one of the richest parts of France into the poorest corner of Northern Italy.

It comes as no surprise that tourism is still in its infancy here. The very first routes are being marked out. The route to Torri is one of these, with brand new signs and fresh paint marks. On the map many more routes are to be found, it seems to be one big hiking paradise. The unmarked routes, however, are guaranteed to end in a jungle of brambles and thorny vines, lunging for your throat like Dracula.

Even the brand new route to Torri takes some getting used to for hikers fresh from the land of the GRs. The sign at the white chapel is pointing in the wrong direction, for example, and the familiar red-white stripes, which take over from the paint marks there, pop up in the most bizarre places. Signs are prone to appear after a T-crossing and turn-offs have to be recognised by the sudden absence of signs. At a crossroads it's very simple: in three directions there are no signs, in the fourth there are.

The puzzle continues, through breathtakingly beautiful landscape. Here you can bear witness to the last death throes of the Middle Ages as well as the advent of the new era. For fifteen minutes I walk along with an old man and his mule, saddlebags full of olives. Elsewhere large nets are stretched under the olive trees. The ripe olives fall of their own accord and when 'harvesting time' comes, the farmers pitch up in their three-wheel pickups or 4x4 Fiat Pandas and empty the nets. These products of a more rational time still do not mar the olive forests in the least. The nets resemble morning fog drifting between the tree trunks. The villages along the road compete with each other for scenic effect. It's a feast for the eyes, which you will be needing to keep wide open to find the signs which are increasingly good at playing hide-and-seek.

After the last village, the richness of the landscape slowly fades and the path clings to steep rocky mountain walls in a cold forest. Then, at the very last moment, Torri appears. Abundant kitchen gardens flank the river and the green terraced mountains once again appear, like an Indonesian dream. I eat a ripe lemon straight off the tree and marvel at the fresh, almost sweet flavour.

Pleased with the successful walk, I enter the village, which is not lying on a hilltop for a change. A veritable pearl, maybe too run down to still qualify as picturesque for some. The alleys are as narrow as gutters, the tunnels run as long as fifty metres here and there - lanterns burning day and night - and staircases everywhere are winding along outer walls to higher doorsteps. What an arrival!

The real Christmas surprise however is my lodging for the night: Torri Superiore, the higher lying 'suburb'. The whole place is one single building, apparently a collection of towers (Torri) of sometimes five storeys high, creating a maze in which you could spend the whole day getting lost. Torri Superiore is an eco-village and its citizens form a communal living group. In eight years time they remodelled the village into private residences with a communal area. Visitors are welcome there. Bed, breakfast and organic meals together cost from 36 to 53 Euro, depending on the room. Camping is also possible, near a little beach on the green river.

The evening is good fun: the group is making Christmas cards. Because I have nice handwriting, I am allowed to write the Christmas greetings on the cards after a crash course in Italian.

I stay another day, helping to harvest olives and scouting some unmarked paths, that as I mentioned all come to dead ends, but in spite of that can be unexpectedly beautiful. In the afternoon one of the residents takes me with her through a multitude of hallways to a fully equipped high-tech office. I learn that more and more eco-communities are following the example of the oldest ecological communities - Findhorn in Scotland and Auroville in India - and connecting to a global network. The expansion of this network ran apace with the growth of the Internet, without which it could not exist. Torri Superiore, a mediaeval smudge at the end of the world, reveals itself to my amazement as the organisational nerve centre of the European regional network.

The next day the sun is so hot that I complete the never-ending climb to the Grammondo with bared torso and so find myself back in France. In La Douce I am above the clouds, while in Italy there were none. Mountain tops and pine forests perch above the undulating cotton-wool clouds like islands, as serene as any Chinese painting.

To the north, the snowy three-thousand-metre peaks of Mercantour pierce the blue skies. I walk the last kilometres in the falling dusk, safely beneath the clouds again, to Castellar. This is also an old village, but obviously richer than what I have been seeing in Italy. It has arraigned itself in Christmas finery and bathes in the light of a thousand lamps, high above Menton and the Côte d'Azur.

.Translated from the Dutch by Elise Reynolds

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