Europe > France > Riviera Cote d'Azur > St Tropez > Articles > Jet-set Town Signed Signac

Matisse’s pal, Signac, was so wowed when he sailed into Saint Tropez on a sunny day way back in the 1880’s that he depicted the port with explosive dots of color. More than a century later I cruise into this legendary bay and wish I’d invented pointillism myself. Hedged by lavender hills and hemmed by golden beaches, the resort adored by French post-impressionists rises out of the turquoise Med like a rainbow. Entering the old harbor we sail straight into a Signac tableau.

Slipping on picturesque cobbles, we disembark. It’s midday in the south of France and the terrace of celebrated brasserie Le Gorille seethes with blonde babes and muscled hunks who sup on steaming crocks of fishy Bouillabaisse.

An independent Republic for centuries, St. Tropez had never been invaded, until blond babe Brigitte Bardot shot to fame in ‘And God Created Woman’, in 1956, and fans flocked here, transforming a sleepy port into the Côte d’Azur’s most fashionable resort.

Resisting Vuitton and Gucci’s siren songs I pass the chic boutiques and head for the old town. Gambetta street, where the 17th century’s wealthy merchants built their lavish mansions, leads me to the Place des Lices.

This plaza, speckled with the vaulted shade of Plane trees, is a slice of ‘real France’, where the cafe terraces are reserved for old guys with black berets sipping milky Pastis, who serenade us with the rhythmic clunk of Boules.

It’s Saturday, market day, and the square is a mottled fresco of ripe tomatoes, blistered peppers and purple egg plants. The air is a vibrant tapestry of bitter lemon, sickly jasmine and astringent thyme.

Quitting searing heat and a hundred trilling crickets, I duck into the glacial gloom of the Annonciade art museum, housed in an ancient chapel. Rapture is the only possible response to canvases signed Matisse, Van Dongen, Derain, Dufy - and Signac.

When I stagger out at sunset and buy a ‘Calin’ from the Senéquier tea house, yachts bob at anchor and the quay bustles with life. I bite into the pastry and bitter flecks of almond robed in sweet honey and sweeter-smelling cinnamon scatter onto my tongue. Now I have to grin, because this pointillism of flavor is like the savor of sunny St Tropez.

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