Opinion: London was busy: the plays, the sights. One day, I happened upon a far-right rally. I wandered among the grim old couples, the sunburned yobs and their jowly dogs. My plans changed when a policeman told me I had nine minutes to leave the square. Police were about to separate the group from a counter-protest, and I could be trapped for the next four hours. I escaped through the park. I wasn’t that dedicated to journalistic inquiry.
Back in Menton, extreme heat and crowds have arrived. Now, the sea is glassy, the sun blazes down on packed beaches. Restaurants are full. Menton used to be a quiet, unfashionable backwater; suddenly it’s booming. It’s a remarkably orderly social scene. I’ve never seen a drunk person, nor a fight.
In the garden below the apartment, in the hot dusk, a woman waters plants wearing a silver gown. One evening, two children appeared on the waterfront – a girl and a taller, dark-haired boy – and I saw myself and my brother long ago. They were talking intensely, two ghosts in the humid night, heading towards the olive grove. I watched them until they disappeared.
On non-working days, it is possible to walk around the coast to Monte Carlo and order a salad in the restaurant by the casino. Here, it’s all limousines and bodyguards, Botox and bling, the smooth men with their Mafia vibe. At the marina, the super-boats are moored in a display of ostentation so extreme it looks like madness. Why would you want to own one of these floating office blocks?
The carpark of the Monte-Carlo Beach Club specialises in exotic rarities: the armoured Rolls-Royce, the customised Ferrari. It seems vacuous and sinful to spend so much on toys. But these are the super-wealthy, and the definition of “so much” is relative.
One afternoon, I set off along Menton’s Boulevard de Garavan. The heat was searing and I kept pausing to send another email. I was intensely discussing the Polkinghorne murder trial with a journalist back home. I was trying to make a point: that in a subtle way, the reporting has been almost as notable as the trial itself. The protagonists have been described as “rich”. The details are labelled “salacious”. The words “tabloid” and even “gutter press” have been bandied about – by the media itself.
This seemed to amount to a strange deference to the subjects’ privilege, almost akin to apologising for covering the trial. The media, I thought, should insist on its rights. It’s not “gutter” or “tabloid” to cover any murder trial. It’s in the public interest.
The subjects weren’t rich in Monte Carlo terms, but they were uncommon in the context, for being educated, middle-class professionals. If they’d been the usual types, their private hell would be reported more matter-of-factly.
I’d emailed my way across town, now I reached my destination: the St John’s English Library at the Anglican church, opposite Menton’s casino.
The Rev Chris Parkman is an engineer who has an interest in conservation. He listens with a sharp-eyed look. Often a comical expression crosses his face: a wry, consternated grimace.
He showed me his beautiful church, which looks small on the outside and much bigger within. “Like the Tardis,” I said, ridiculously.
He told me Anglican churches in Europe tend to be opposite casinos. I said, “So when they emerge at dawn, drunk and ruined, your doors are open.”
I sat and listened to the Menton man of God. It was wonderfully cool and quiet in the library, and the world seemed far away. There were worse places, quite nearby, to be a sinner.
