South of France – The ridiculousness of it.

I lived in Nice for a couple of years a few lifetimes back. I had wanted to go to Paris. I emailed my dear friend Natalie, who had lived in France to get some tips.

She immediately replied – ‘Paris in summer? No. Go to Nice!’ 

So off I went, no visa, no job. Just a yearning heart for my then boyfriend living in London and a certain sense of needing to be in Nice. Needing to make it work – for the sake of my yearning heart.

I arrived at my hostel, where Nat had previously worked. She had said ‘the bosses will give you a job, I’m sure of it’. They didn’t.

Then as luck would have it the crew working all booked holidays over the Easter break which left an opening for me to help out.

When the crew arrived back I asked the head honcho if I could get a reference. He said ‘sweetie you’re not going anywhere’. 

Coming back I’m a little floored at the ridiculousness of having lived here. 

The coast line is nothing short of paradise. Glistening waters, sun drenched beaches, bougainvillea covered walls. It’s all green and pink and blue. Coloured buildings, crumbling. French balconies with their pot plants sprouting delicate petite flowers. Shutters of green and blue. Pebbles and sand. Ports filled with simplicity and extravagance.

And it’s not just the aesthetics.

When you wake in the morning there is a smell, a freshness, a piney-ness. It triggers my brain into recalling times past where friendships and human connections were constant.

In a 300 bed hostel you were never short of company.

Days were spent sun soaked. Nights – laughing, cooking, lounging, dancing. 

We had 3 bosses, a father and two sons who were nothing short of kooky, crazy (endearingly so) and at times cranky (who could blame them, they owned a 300, now 500 bed hostel). They created a space in which we were able to ‘live the dream’, they allowed us to come together.

My gratitude for this runs deep. 

I’ve been reminded these past few days of the love that was shared, so easily, so unconditionally. I’ve been reminded of the moments which were spontaneous and effortless, divinely guided.

Combine the beauty and the human connections and I now understand why I hung around so long.

For those of us who shared the Riviera, take a moment to let the memories wash over you, flash past, and trigger heart filled recollections. From check ins to check outs, to bar and beds shifts, room 101 and the sous chapelle, Waynes, Master Home, Karament, dancing on tables and falling off. Alain and the breakfast shift. Map explaining. ‘You don’t want to go to Menton you want to go to Monaco’, Villie Franch-a, Eze Village. Kitchen parties. Naps on the pebbles, sand in your v j.., Pera kebabs and hummus and carrots. Ottweilers. Perrier. Vodka. Nightwatch, shhhhhhh. Room ready?, lost keys, ‘someone’s in my bed’, ‘we can put a mattress down on the floor for you’. ‘We appear to have misplaced your laundry. Don’t worry, it always turns up’. We’re not here to f spiders and Is she registered?

To the people that made all these memories possible, I thank you. 

I’m so grateful I didn’t go to Paris. 

Clare Woodward is a Kinesiologist, transformational coach, writer, speaker and considers herself a true manifesting Queen. She is insanely curious and fascinated by the workings of the mind and spirit, and understanding how these influence our experiences, in our current reality. She loves the kookiness of all things energy and gets a kick out of synchronicities, soulful encounters and hugging trees. Follow her at Woodward Institute and find her on Facebook.