Saint-Tropez

— The Grand Account —

Saint-Tropez was a fishing village that painters found first — Signac sailed in, Matisse followed — and the light they came for is still the town's true currency. The citadel watches the gulf as it always has, the classic yachts still raise sail for Les Voiles each late September, and beneath the summer's glitter the village keeps its old Provençal bones: pétanque under the plane trees of the Place des Lices, the morning market, nets once dried where superyachts now berth. The elite return each June because Saint-Tropez manages a contradiction no other resort can: it is at once the most watched harbour in the Mediterranean and, behind the right gates, one of the most private.

In season, arrive by air: a private jet from Farnborough to La Môle–Saint-Tropez, the small airfield fifteen minutes inland, sidesteps the coastal traffic entirely. Some prefer Nice and the slower coastal approach; the truly unhurried cross with the car via Eurotunnel Le Shuttle and descend through France over two days, the Rhône giving way to vines and umbrella pines. On the peninsula FFGR favours the Rolls-Royce Cullinan, equal to the lanes of Ramatuelle and the gravel of private villas, with the V-Class VIP Senzati for larger parties. One chauffeur from London onward — who knows precisely which beach road moves at noon in July, and which never does.

Cheval Blanc St-Tropez holds the finest position in the village, and its restaurant — Arnaud Donckele's three-starred La Vague d'Or — the finest table on the gulf; the Byblos remains the legend it has been since 1967. Days follow the peninsula's liturgy: espresso at Sénéquier on the old port, the market on the Place des Lices, a long lunch at Club 55 with the Cullinan waiting under the pines of Pampelonne. Evenings begin late and end later. Your chauffeur manages the season's choreography — berths, beach clubs, the road home at three — with complete equanimity. Saint-Tropez is a performance, certainly. FFGR ensures you are never part of the audience.