FIDELMA COOK

WAY down below me the Mediterranean barely seemed to ripple in its deep, perfect azure blue. The only marks on its surface were rich men’s toys: elegant yachts leaning from the breeze; huge motorboats costing millions, dominating their space and each other; tenders striking out from these monsters to deposit guests at beachside restaurants.

Occasionally a jet or water skier weaved out among them and were I closer I would see the powerfully muscled or curved bodies of those who take such privilege for granted.

Perhaps that is too harsh an assessment as no doubt there are many here who have worked hard and long to earn their place.

From my terrace above Theoulesur-Mer on the Cote d’Azur, I can see the entire perfect sweep of the Bay of Cannes with the hills and tamed wilderness of the Esterel to my left.

Cannes itself straddles the curve, crouching low and glistening, harbouring, God knows how many, the beau monde.

When Somerset Maugham, who knew the coastline intimately, dubbed the Riviera “a sunny place for shady people” that was long before the Slavic hookers had found their way to the bars and clubs.

But even in the 1920s and 30s the place drew every permutation of glamour, both real and corrupt or often a mixture of both.

Royals, deposed royals, playboys, writers, painters, actors, ghouls and gangsters have littered this coastline decade after decade.

And however many new developments and private houses fight for space on the steeply rising hillsides, there is some indefinable presence that continues to lure all.

Driving down the hairpin twists to Theoule itself, glimpses of the sea are always present, framed by blood-red bougainvillea, the flower of the south.

Often paired with white oleander and laurel, the blocks of colour swirl like the skirts of flamenco dancers. The air is perfumed with sweet, heady scent and one feels mildly giddy before even reaching the private beach where everything, including bed and shade, comes at a hefty price.

Here the waves do lap but oh so gently, unlike the thundering breakers of my favourite Atlantic. But staring out to sea one can see and feel the huge swell and tug of the Med’s deceptive, dangerous power.

I cannot not think of the unfolding tragedy much further down the coast in Italy, where thousands have died and are dying in this same deep blue.

As young revellers are towed and dipped on a long rubber tube pulled by a speedboat, I hear their shrieks and laughter as they rise to the surface for another go. They are a mocking echo of the cries of the drowning as they’re pitched from their precarious vessels, launched in search of freedom to lands where they are not wanted.

But for now these are my private thoughts and I am old enough and saddened enough to understand that life has never been and never will be fair.

There are those doomed almost from birth to live out short existences of bitterness and hopelessness, and those who waft effortlessly through, expecting and demanding all.

So, for now, I push the thoughts away and burden no others with them as they anoint and oil their perfect bodies and think of which restaurant shall be chosen for lunch.

In a pushchair well in the shade lies the future, my nine-month-old granddaughter Clementine Olivia.

She awakens from a short sleep and fixes me with a penetrating look I am all too familiar with from my own family portraits. We eye each other in wary assessment for quite some time before a smiling, if still intrigued, acceptance takes place.

She should not, and please God never will, know want, hunger or poverty. The most I hope she will need to be protected from will be pride, arrogance and a sense of entitlement.

So I return the deep forebodings of the future in general, and the dark present in particular, to a box in the cellar of my mind and turn the key.

And once more I live in the now, the moment, and play age-old repetitive mimicking games with a baby who daily opens and grows to the wonder of all around her.

Later, back on the terrace, she sits on my lap and together we begin one of her first books. She opens the flaps to show animals while I read the simple words. She has already begun on what I hope for her will be the discovery of the glorious world of reading and the joy books will bring her throughout life. Down in the Med, the tenders are returning their passengers to the floating gin palaces. Tables are being set for dinner on covered decks and cook and staff labour in the heat to serve their masters.

The lights now come on in houses all around the bay and up the hills, draped almost in garlands of diamonds and pearls.

The shady people are out to play as they have always done and will always do.

Once I might have joined them. Now a baby’s head droops in sleepiness in my arms and that’s just fine.