St Tropez

• On the Ship where every one knows your name
• Paris is perfect, if you ditch the men! - France
• An appetite of Venice - Italy
• Party time in Tapas Central - Spain
• Croatia uncovered! - Croatia
• I'll have the state room please - Portugal
• Seeking Spain's hidden gems - Spain
• Let's tryst again - Sicily
• Dallying with Delia - Majorca
• Wax gets the works - Majorca
• B&B at the Palace - Italy
• The Golden Oldie - France
• Amazing Amalfi - Italy
• Follow the Stars - Europe
• Tuscany - Italy

WHEN I WAS TOLD St Tropez was our destination I have to confess that my heart sank.

Images of ageing men sporting bell-bottomed flares and long strands of beads, and swingers thinking that Andy Williams’ choice of white leather slip-on shoes, circa ‘71, were still the last word in fashion streamed into my head.

As did women of the same age wearing boob tubes, coquettish skin-tight hot pants and clutching a fluffy white doggy under their gold-laden arms. After all, the French do call it St Trop - literal translation St Too Much.

Small wonder then that the likes of Joan Collins and Sir Elton John still have houses there.

I was convinced that I was being sent back to the equivalent of Carnaby Street-in-its-heyday-on-Sea for whose inhabitants time had stood still while the blazing sun wrinkled them into large, once trendy, prunes. Not that I’d ever been there, you understand.

Youthful memories

These visions came courtesy of youthful memories of the days when Brigitte Bardot was young and lush, Sacha Distel was swank and bistros were considered exotic.

The days when my parents” very hippest friends took their breaks in St Tropez. It was then, quite simply, the chic-est holiday destination known to modern man.

So, braced against the prospect of seeing a man my Dad’s age in hipsters, off we set for the South of France.

As soon as we arrived at Nice Airport (the closest to St Tropez), I was pleasantly reassured to see plenty of other families just like mine - all carrying umpteen different-sized pieces of luggage in varying states of disrepair.

“People like us come here too,” I thought happily, “so maybe I won’t be the only one on the beach without a Gucci beach towel.”

It's a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Nice to St Tropez and in parts it’s positively lovely. The first motorway section has glimpses of the azure sea. After a while you reach a long stretch of road lined on both sides by rich, deep-green forest spreading over majestic, rolling hills.

At least five Rolls-Royce Corniches must have overtaken us during the journey, each a more lurid pastel shade than the last. If they’d gone past in convoy it would have looked like Neapolitan ice cream on wheels.

Our villa was nestled among other similar-looking houses in a vast secluded private park.

Had I been going for a romantic weekend, I would have loved to have stayed at the fabulous Chateau de la Messardiere, a historic and elegantly furnished hotel set in its own extensive grounds on the hillside overlooking St Tropez. Maybe another time.

The next day we set off to investigate the beach, which overnight turned into a parking lot for speed boats - none of which seemed smaller than a tennis court. Their passengers were nowhere to be seen and were probably lying low below deck until the magic hour when lying in the sun became The Thing To Do.

Fashionable sunbathing

We’d evidently arrived before the fashionable sunbathing hour which, as I was wearing my old Marks & Spencer one-piece and my toddler daughter was wearing nothing at all, suited me fine.

However, the beach and sea were as lovely and unspoilt as you could wish for. Despite it being so close to our villa, we managed not to visit the beach again until a few days later.

When we did return it was later in the day and by then the time-warp crew were out in force.

If you’re over 70 and feel the pressing need for an overall tan, and I mean overall, then St Tropez is for you.

A late afternoon stroll along the beach afforded a view of more well-matured, naked people than you'll expect to see on communal bath day at an old folk’s home. I had to stop myself doing a double take at one particular gent (who must surely have said farewell to 80) wearing nothing but a nifty flesh-coloured thong - crispy deep fried chicken came rushing to the forefront of my mind.

And, of course, for the older lady who has indulged in a little vanity surgery, nude sunbathing can be rather revealing - in more ways than one. I haven’t seen such pert boobs since I unravelled my fish and chips to discover that they were wrapped in the Sun’s infamous Page Three.

On a 20-year-old topless model breasts that defy gravity are one thing but pop a similar pair on a woman with a bus pass and it does look a little incongruous - particularly since every other bit of their bodies was widely advertising the ravages of time. Anyway, each to their own and the ancient nudity did not detract from our seaside enjoyment.

On our last day we decided we ought to visit St Tropez’ centre. When it was adopted by the in-crowd back in the late Fifties and early Sixties, St Tropez was a small fishing village with a winding, long row of lovely tall houses right on the quay.

Truely wonderful

Even today one can see what a truly wonderful find it must have been. And although in shape it’s unchanged, the add-ons of commercialisation - innumerable cafes, restaurants and boutiques - have inevitably scarred the seafront.

But they should worry! The place was inundated and shows no signs of losing popularity. If anything, the name that St Tropez has made for itself over the years contributes to its continued fortune.

Walking through the town you could hear tourists chatting in a host of languages, but the smartest looking people were always the French for whom, despite the huge influx of moneyed foreigners, St Tropez evidently remains fashionable.

As predicted, I did see women carrying poodles. But for us - a family of four, with two small children - one visit to this town jam-packed with open top sports cars and their predictably designer-clad drivers was enough.

Like movie stars fleeing from the paparazzi we retreated to our villa to settle down poolside and were instantly grateful for the solitude and peace it so elegantly provided.

While the surrounding area is breathtaking - green, hilly and wild - St Tropez centre ville, as the French say, is not for those of us who don”t know Prada from a pretzel.