How Monte Carlo went to hell

I now find resorts more fun out of season. Civilised tourists are as rare as an intelligent Hollywood movie, so local talent will do nicely, and to hell with the vulgar jet set. Gstaad is perfect in June and July, March and April, as are St Moritz, the Ionian Islands, and Patmos, my next destination. Once upon a time the French Riviera was a must, but now it’s a sweaty hellhole, a shabby place for not so sunny people.

Although I spent my youth on the Riviera, I was two going on three in 1939, the time I would have chosen to be an adult had I been given the choice. Old hands there used to tell me about that summer, the gayest – in the old sense of the word – on record. Back then Monte Carlo was still Ruritania-by-the-Sea, and whispers from late revellers about columns of troops between Cannes and Monaco had replaced the latest gossip. Even better were the tales of German spies being put ashore from submarines at Cap Martin and showing up at the casino in dinner jackets. But nothing could put a damper on the fevered atmosphere of fun. People were anxious to have a final fling before war broke out.

On the day in August when the Soviet-Nazi pact was announced, pandemonium broke out on the Riviera. Hotels and villas emptied in hours. Officers and men on leave left within half an hour. The main Monaco casino struggled on but most of the croupiers, as Frenchmen, were called to join their units. An international tennis tournament was cancelled, as were the boat races. The high-class tarts who frequented the high-stake gamblers gathered at the Hôtel de Paris and consoled each other.