The Last Train from Saorge

I have missed the 05.54 pm train from Fontan Saorge to Nice. Not to worry, there’s always the next train that should arrive at 06.35 pm. I will just have to change trains at Ventimiglia and I will be reaching Nice by 08.12 pm. From there, depending on the train I get, I should easily reach Cannes by 09.15 pm. That is my plan A. Sounds like a time table? Well, my life revolves around train schedules when I travel - hence can't help it.

It is 06.37 pm now and no sign of any train in this uninhabited, desolate station at the France-Italy border. I start getting worried. This is Europe after all; everything works like clockwork here. How can a train be running late? Then I realize that the train, in question, will be coming from Italy – a country notorious for impromptu railway strikes.

I have a theory that Bengalis and Italians come from the same Neolithic ancestor – at least the men do. More on this theory of mine in a later post – but just to give you an insight into my theory - both Bengali and Italian men live with their mothers till they get married and sometimes, even after they get married; remain mamma’s boy forever, love their carb and fish and afternoon siestas and every now and then, call for a ‘bandh’.

I curse all the Italian and Bengali men I know and their Neolithic ancestor because I am in trouble here. I need to get myself to a station which has more than a single railway track and hopefully a station master. I spot a couple sitting in the other corner of the station - the only two souls, barring me, in this god-forsaken station. I pray that they speak English and approach them.

I am lucky that they do. They are waiting for the train as well and they are in deeper shit than I am. Their destination is a lodge up in the mountains and if they don’t reach the next station – Breil sur Roya - in another 15 minutes, they will have no way of reaching home. They decide to hitch hike and offer me to join them. I know that I will get some train to take me till Ventimiglia from Breil sur Roya, from where travelling to Nice is easier - so their proposal makes sense. But I am not that adventurous to hike a ride and I am in two minds. Time to work on Plan B, which is to make Plan A work. But how to go about it – that is the question.

I am again getting ahead of the story. The day starts like any other day in Cannes. I am off to explore the Alpes-Maritimes countryside – away from the usual touristic trail. The trail I follow today is semi-touristic. I take the Train des Merveilles from Nice at 09.05 am that runs through the Roya Valley, crossing the Alps – into Italy. There are picture perfect villages where the train stops and ideally, one should break up the journey over 2 days, spending nights in the larger villages and exploring the smaller hamlets during the day. But I don’t have the luxury to do that – I have to be back in Cannes for the night. So I did my research before starting the journey and zeroed down on two villages – Saorge and Tende. As I pass the villages that dot the Nice-Cuneo line – each one with a pretty name – like Peillon or Sospel – I feel tempted to get off the train. But I hold myself back – I must stick to my plans, I have a husband to go back home to.

The Train des Merveilles runs till Tende and that happens to be my first stop. I reach there by 10.50 am and sit down in a café near the station just to let the few tourists who have descended with me, get lost. When the coast is clear, I start my exploration. I visit the Office de Tourisme that is just beside the railway station and collect a map of the village. There is also a museum attached to the office. Now, I am not a museum fanatic – so I skip it, but if I remember correctly, it is the Musée Départemental des Merveilles where the rock engravings found in the “Vallée des Merveilles” are displayed.

I’d rather admire the tiny theatre, painted in bright blue, in front of the Office de Tourisme and that is exactly what I do. It reminds me of the movie hall where Tito used to work as a child in “Cinema Paradiso”. A village market near the station takes up some more of my time. A further 10 minutes walk and I find myself in the medieval village. Though a fortified village, this one looks more Italian than French. I am no expert in architecture, but I can make out the difference in style of the stone houses from the other French fortified villages that I have visited. The narrow streets and vaulted passages are, of course, a common feature to any medieval village in this part of the world. I follow the map and start exploring the nooks and crannies.

I spend some time exploring The Collégiale Notre-Dame de l'Assomption, a very colourful 15th century church with a clock-tower. I walk past an interesting looking work shop displaying medieval weapons of torture and am fascinated by it. Now this is the kind of museum I’d like to visit. I make my way up the terraced cobbled streets, that open out to balconies so that one can admire the scenery below - a cluster of slate-roofed houses, grouped tightly together, with the colourful tiled roof of the clock tower looming over them all, sitting on the Roya Valley, with lush green snow-capped mountains serving as a backdrop.

I realize I am being followed and turn around to see a black cat. I am not a cat person and also, being followed by one, that too a pitch black one, in a medieval town makes me feel a bit eerie. I try to make matters light and take a few photographs. The cat obliges me by giving picture perfect poses. I take my eyes off it for a moment to adjust my camera and when I look up, I find it’s disappeared. My doubts are confirmed – the cat must be a 15th Century Knight, tricked and cursed by some wicked Ogre to spend the rest of eternity in this feline form. He must be looking around for someone to save him – maybe by some valiant girl with brown skin who has traversed seven seas and seven lands to rescue him, but just missed her only chance!

I hike up the village and find myself in the ruins of the 14th-century château that sits on the top of the village. Tende was a fortified town guarding the Vallée de la Roya till the 15th century, and was considered impregnable. The château was destroyed in 1692 and all that remains today is a needle like structure that might have been a part of the château wall. The view from this point is even more breathtaking. My mind starts conjuring up stories to go with the surroundings. So this must be the remote château where the Princess was held captive by the evil Ogre, waiting for her love to come and rescue her. Alas, she did not know that her love still roams around the dark alleys of the hamlet below in the form of a black cat.

I see some hikers travelling even further up and when asked, am told that there are excellent hiking trails around this area. Neither do I have the time nor the proper gears – otherwise I would have never declined their offer to join them.

3 hours is more than enough to wrap up the tiny village of Tende. I have my lunch at a local café and I am recommended to try Sugelli, by the old pot bellied owner who serves as the chef cum maître d'. Sugelli is a special kind of pasta with a thumb print indentation and is a local specialty. Since I have a thing for Italian cuisine, I am inclined to say that it is delicious.

I catch the 02.05 pm train to Saorge, another medieval village perched along a narrow rock spur that juts out into the Vallée de la Roya, high above the river. Saorge is classified as one of the "40 most beautiful villages of France". The train reaches Fontan Saorge station in 25 minutes. The station itself is a piece of art deco and is shared by the communes of Fontan and Saorge. From the station, I hike up the main road for about a kilometer to reach the village of Saorge. In between, I cross a huge tunnel, bathed in orange-golden light and wonder if I am really heading to heaven. Saorge, if you notice, sounds very much like Swarga, which means heaven in Sanskrit.

The village of Saorge is as pretty as it can be. Again, a medieval stone terraced village, this hamlet lies in the beautiful surrounding of the Gorges de Saorge – so the view from anywhere in the village is impressive. The village is built in levels and there are these tiny stone bridges that link one level with the other. The Office de Tourisme is closed for the afternoon and I have no option but to explore the village without a map.

Not that I mind, because it is more fun exploring the village without a plan, getting lost and finding some amazing photographs waiting to happen at every corner. The La Madone del Poggio church, with its 15th century, 7-storey tall Lombardy-style bell tower fascinates me. The 17th century Notre-Dame-des-Miracles monastery, with its serene ambiance, is a miracle indeed. I find a few more nameless medieval chapels and spend time admiring the frescoes and the stained glass windows.

After exploring the village for a couple of hours, I find a small café and rest my legs for a while, while sipping cold lemonade. I reminisce the day that I just had and as usual, rue the fact that A is not around to share it with me. And just as I am thinking of A and wishing that he were here with me, I hear his phone ringing. I almost jump out of my chair and for a second, wonder if this is, indeed, heaven where all your wishes come true. In that split second, I also make sure that I wish for a life full of travel, free airtickets and hotel stay at any place in the world or an unknown uncle leaving his billions to me so that I can travel forever. But that is not to be – as a young man sitting across me, picks up the phone that happens to have the same ringtone as A's. Ah well, this may not be heaven, but this place does have a lot of good looking men around. I feast my eyes on this handsome guy and temporarily forget about A.

I have a 05.54 pm train to catch and am so lost in these compelling surroundings that I end up missing it. And then the wait starts. While I am contemplating whether to join the couple, who have offered to take me along with them till Breil-sur-Roya, provided they can hitch a ride, we see a bus driving up to the station. The driver runs to us and asks us if we are waiting for the train. He asks us to hop into the bus which has been sent as a replacement to the cancelled train and says that he will try his best to reach us in time to catch the 06.46 pm train in Breil-sur-Roya. That sounds like an impossible task since it is already 06.40 pm – but Breil-sur-Roya, which is the next station, is only 8-10 kms away from Fontan-Saorge and the way the bus zips past the winding mountain roads, I get convinced that I may just have my tryst with heaven today. We arrive in Breil-sur-Roya in about 7 minutes and find the train waiting for us. My faith in the European Transport System is restored.

As the train makes its way through the Roya Valley, I toy with the idea of getting off at Sospel or Peille and explore these hamlets. But I have had a tiring day and I also have a man waiting for me, back in Cannes, eager to listen to my adventures. For €17, which is the cost of the return ticket from Nice to Tende, I have had enough adventure for a day and have collected a life time of priceless memories. I decide not to be too greedy, but come back some other time to explore the remaining villages. Well, that would mean that I will have to be back to this part of the world again – but, like I said, I am not greedy. I just want it all, when it comes to leaving my footprints in some remote corner of the universe.

This is it.

I fall in love with the name. Coaraze. I look into some images in Google and just know in my heart that I have to visit the place. The name pops up while I am doing a customary search on ‘Day trips from Cannes’. The usual suspects come first – Nice, St. Tropez, Monaco, St. Paul’s Vence. Then come the unusual ones. Most of which could only be accessed if you have a car at your disposal. I, on the other hand, who can neither afford a car, nor would know how to drive in France, prefer public transport to go around. Yes, I do miss a lot of picturesque country roads and charming villages in the bargain, but have learnt to live with it.

I dig deeper and figure out that Coaraze can be reached by a bus from Nice – the only hindrance being there’s only one bus that leaves Nice and only another bus that passes through Coaraze for Nice in a day. So it is going to be a do or die situation – miss the bus and you are stranded in a remote village up in the mountains, with a handful of houses, an hour away from Nice. But it is doable. And do I will, I decide.

I have to reassure A that I will be back by 4 in the afternoon. I don’t tell him about the one-bus-a-day scenario – it will surely freak him out. I kiss him goodbye and wish him another productive day at the Cannes Congress, where he will get to see the heavy weights of the industry throwing their weights around.

I take the train from Cannes at 09.05 am and reach Nice in 30 minutes. I hop into the Office de Tourisme next to Gare de Nice but figure out that I know more about Coaraze than the lady at the counter. She, however, gives me direction to Nice Gare Routière, from where I need to catch my bus to Coaraze. I pick my breakfast from a boulangerie on the way and walk down to the bus terminal. It takes me around 20 minutes, but when in Europe, I don’t mind walking. It takes me a while to find Bus No. 303, since apart from me, there are only 3 more passengers queuing up for it. None of them look like tourists and they stare at me suspiciously as I look very much like one, with a knapsack and camera slung around my neck.

The bus starts exactly at 10.30 am. The first half of the journey is a bit boring as the bus makes its way through the city, picking up locals, all of whom seem to know everyone else on the bus. Once we leave Contes, however, the scenery takes a dramatic turn. The road starts winding uphill, through the Paillon river valley. Soon we are zigging and zagging through a treacherously narrow mountain road, each turn taking me further and further away from the civilization.

The bus drops me at the entrance of the village precisely in an hour’s time. Yes, I am the only one to get off. I take a moment to survey the scene around. I am some 650 m high up in the mountain, about to enter a tiny village that nestles peacefully among thick woods and deep ravines. It is classified as one of the most beautiful villages of France and I already get a sense why it is called so. I cross the road and start climbing the pebbled pathway that leads to the village.

There is not a soul around, it seems – the only sound I can hear are birds chirping and a stream running somewhere nearby. As I make my way through the terraced cobbled street, I stop every now and then to admire the stone houses that are painted in brilliant hues of blues and oranges. The Office de Tourisme is shut of course and with no help around, I decide to consult my notes and explore on my own.

The vaulted passageways keep me away from the sun. I pass through backyards of houses which are adorned with summer flowers. I catch a dog napping in the shades of the tunneled street and try to make friends with it. It seems completely disinterested in me and rolls back to sleep. I notice the interesting looking sundials at almost every house entrance and start clicking photographs. Coaraze is called the sun village or the village of sundials and is famous for having artists like Jean Cocteau, Georges Douking and Mona Christi leaving their work behind in this petite sun drenched village. There are also a few very curious lizard motifs around the village. I look for someone who will explain them to me, but I find none.


As I make my way through cobbled streets punctuated by flower-decked little squares, I meet a few locals. Ah, so this is not a haunted village or a movie set after all, people do live here. I come across an old lady sitting in her garden, crocheting. As I stop by to admire her little garden, she invites me in. I guess they don’t see much tourists here – that too an Indian one. She starts speaking in French and all I can manage is ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ – thanks to my Lonely Planet ‘useful terms and phrases’ section. Obviously she does not but that does not deter her from carrying on the conversation with me. I give polite-verging-on-stupid smiles to all her questions and thank her for offering me some water. I ask her if I can click her picture which she fervently declines. I ask her for the way to the village church and what I gather from her animated gestures is that there’s only one way that leads to the church and that is straight up ahead.

I get repeatedly lost in the labyrinth of the vaulted passageways but find my way back to the open squares. After a few attempts, I manage to find the village church. Coaraze is also known as the village of fêtes and apparently there is always something or the other happening here. I find almost the entire village gathered around the huge open space in front of the church. No wonder the streets were so deserted. Some celebration must have just got over and the villagers are kissing and shaking hands and bidding each other good bye. I feel like an intruder amidst all this festivity as I can feel the looks I am getting from all around me. Not in a bad way, because all of them seem to be smiling at me.

I try to find out in my broken French what is going on, but either my French is too bad or they don’t want to share their little secret – I walk away from the scene without knowing much about what the merriment was all about. From the bits and pieces of French words I pick up, I have a feeling they are celebrating the advent of summer - but then according to my research, these Coaraziens celebrate everything. Today, they might just be celebrating life.

I follow the steps from the corner of the church that lead up to a large square shaded by Acacias, Cypress, Pine and Mimosa trees. The view from here is of deep valleys and high forested hills to the north and south of the village. I am rendered speechless and I just sit down at the edge, appreciating the beauty around me and eating my picnic lunch. I gaze at the vistas in front of me and soak in my solitude. I wish I could share this with A – but I know he is having a nice time back in Cannes, probably consuming lobsters by kilos for lunch, right at this very moment. The thought brings me back to reality – time to head home. The only bus back to Nice is at 01.10 pm and it is already past noon now. I pick up my things and walk back to the village. I cannot hurry even if I want to – the serene ambiance compels one to lose the sense of time. The village of sun dials seems to be time warped in a century when life was hard but straightforward, when machines were a distant dream and people still believed in the art of simple living.

I find my way through the winding street, stop by to capture a few more memories in my camera and soon arrive at the bus stop. I still have 20 minutes to spare. I take a last look at this mountain hideaway as I wait for the bus to arrive. I am joined by a couple of villagers who are all going down to the city. An old man finds me very intriguing and strikes up a conversation with me. He can speak a few words of broken English and we carry on fine. He asks me about India and seems genuinely interested. He has never travelled anywhere – not even to Paris and wonders why a girl would come all the way across the oceans to visit his part of the world. I ask him if the legend about the devil cutting off his tail, in order to get away from the Coaraziens who had caught him, was true. He answers in affirmative. Apparently, the village was called Caude Rase in medieval times, which means ‘cut tail’. The lizard motif becomes clear now - the devil had surrendered his tail like a lizard, hence the lizard motifs to commemorate the legend.

A woman joins our conversation – though she does not speak English. After knowing that I speak English, she starts a long conversation with me in French. She looks a bit distraught as she is trying to make me understand something. I pick up a few words – Michael Jackson, mort, ce matin. I get a sense of what she is saying but I don’t want to believe it. How can it be possible – I watched him giving a press conference a couple of days back on BBC about his upcoming world tour! I keep on asking her for details – but our conversation obviously gets lost in translation.

The bus arrives dot on time and as before, it seems like every passenger is known to the other. They are all, of course, discussing only one thing now – Michael Jackson. I curse myself for not knowing French. I am also amazed by the fact that people who don’t understand a word of English are mourning his death. Music, surely, transcends all boundaries.

By the time I reach Nice, it is past 2. I almost start running towards the station as soon as I reach Nice but decide to take the tram instead. I guess some of that dawdling effect of Coaraze has rubbed off on me. And then, for € 2, which is the cost of the return bus ticket from Nice to Coaraze, I can avail the tram as well, both being part of the TAM network - so why shouldn't I? I swing by the Office de Tourisme to pick up some information about my day trip for the next day. I have to wait for a train to take me back to Cannes for another 20 minutes or so and by the time I reach Cannes, it is almost 04.00 pm. I rush back to the hotel and find A glued to the TV set. Yes, I am back to civilization all right.

As the images flash before my eyes on the TV screen, the contrast hits me. The better part of the day was spent celebrating life and here I am, ending the day with death and disbelief.

I wonder how it would be if we could all live in places like Coaraze – unaffected and untouched by this very distressing time that we survive today. Life has its own rhythm back in Coaraze – unhurried, deliberate - it has its own definition. The Coaraziens still smile at strangers, take the time out to talk to their neighbours or to celebrate nature. I am sure they will once more banish the devil if he ever sets his foot in their terrain. They are happy in their little village, some working in bigger cities like Nice or Contes, but coming back every night to their humble homes – far away from the civilization. They may not have travelled beyond Nice but their little world is fulfilling and has adventures of its own. They don’t just exist like we the city people do – they live life. Yes, MJ would agree with them – ‘Make a little space, to make a better place’.