OPINION (AN COLÚN): A beautiful place of memories and nostalgia

WHEN I was a teenager I spent every summer holidaying in the south of France. We always stayed in the same spot, near the sea and a perfect beach, just outside Cannes. I have a lot of fond memories of the place. It's where I experienced my first kiss (a good-natured girl from Toulouse - I wonder what happened to her?) It's where I made a lot of good friends and enjoyed a lot of good times with them, all of us bursting with the energy and enthusiasm of youth.
Friends and relations from Ireland often visited and stayed with us and I have some excellent memories of them. Some of the memories are like photographs in my mind, snapshots in time; preserved like this in my head because they were evocative or beautiful. One snapshot is friends and family sitting talking and drinking brandy and coffee on the balcony after a good meal. The cicadas are calling and the night is balmy. The moon has risen over the dark profile of the Esterel mountains. There is a lovely sense of serenity in the night outside and a pleasant sense of congeniality over the group on the balcony. I think it remains prominent in my memories because of the serene, congenial mood.
Several of the friends and relations are dead now. I miss them. I miss their friendship. Everyone of them, according to my way of thinking, were sons and daughters of God; everyone of them was sacred (even the ones who behaved badly!)
I returned to my old teenage haunts in October, after an absence of some years, and once again felt a very strong attachment to the place. Sometimes I became nostalgic or sad, but a lot of the time I felt pretty upbeat.
At the moment I am of the firm belief that there are only two places I could possibly live in in the world - Ireland or the south of France. The latter's culture, natural environment, climate and cuisine is deeply enticing. Being a place of such great beauty it has attracted many acclaimed artists over the centuries, who have left behind a huge volume of work in villas, churches, museums and public places. Rosalind and myself visited one of these museums, just outside St Paul de Vence, where we marvelled at a gigantic gateway by the sculptor and artist Joan Miró. This work of genius reminded me of tall stone gateways in the Inca settlements of Peru, but it was its own unique design, unlike anything you would see anywhere else. I was interested to read Miró's biography. Like so many artists he was a troubled soul. He suffered from terrible depression which would confine him to bed for days and weeks on end. I have looked hard at a lot of his artwork, which is often charming and playful, and I can find no hint of depression in it.
We'd heard positive things about the pretty town of St Paul de Vence perched high on a hilltop. It lived up to the billing. In July and August the town swarms with tourists which I think, combined with the excessive heat, would be unbearable. In October it was a much better experience - the temperature was pleasant and the tourist numbers were much reduced.
We enjoyed days lying on the beach and swimming in the mediterranean (which was a very nice temperature). Our favourite beach was a small one beside the La Napoule castle of the famous eccentric sculptor Henry Clews.
Other days we donned walking boots and headed into the Esterel Hills, a beautiful range with its red volcanic rock and green undergrowth and trees.
One day we walked to the Malpasset Dam in a valley in the Esterels. This structure was breached in December 1959 and the flood killed four hundred people. The area wasn't cleaned up after the tragedy, but left as it was, with its giant blocks of concrete and twisted bars of iron. It is a strange sensation as you walk through the shattered remnants of this disaster zone, a reminder of the brevity of life and of how we can be cut down without warning.
On another day we hiked to a very remote part of the range, to an area located about 400 metres high and visited a small, very simple chapel which was reputedly the dwelling of a fourth century hermit called Honoratus, who lived here before founding his monastery on the Lérins Islands in the bay of Cannes. I had in my backpack a copy of “Wind, Sand and Stars” by Saint-Exupéry and when we stopped for lunch and were eating our sandwiches, while seated on the red volcanic rock, I took it out and began reading. There are countless quotable sections in the book. Here's one: “I've a deep need to truly feel alive. Stuck in towns and cities you can feel yourself spiritually wasting away. But when I'm flying, the freedom is wonderful. You leave far behind the towns and their accountants, and you reconnect with your true spiritual heritage.” He insisted on the fact that it wasn't living dangerously which attracted him: “What I'm talking about is not the love of living dangerously. This is the thing which I love - it's the whole panoply of life, with all its beautiful facets.”