Once I'd turned my back, the royals arrived. Wills and Kate, their three children, her sister Pippa and their parents, all present in the beautiful village of Bormes-les-Mimosas for the wedding of the Middleton brother James to his French fiancée, Alizée Thevenet, at the little town hall a mile or so up the road from us.
Then it was on to Chateau Léoube, set in a glorious vineyard on the coast and offering a stunning private beach. Plenty of Léoube's vaunted rosé wine was reportedly quaffed by guests. Our invitations, it seems, were lost in the post.
Bormes-les-Mimosas, as James Middleton noted in an Instagram announcement, is indeed a lovely village. It was lovely even before someone with eye for marketing decided im 1968 that its name should be extended to mention the bright yellow plants that burst vividly into bloom on trees throughout the area from about February each year.
The place was already famous, in France at least, because of the visits paid by le couple Chirac when they were staying at the nearby presidential retreat, the Fort de Bregancon. Jacques, it must be said, preferred to sip apéros with friends on his favourire terraces in Saint-Tropez, 45 minutes along the coast. But he dutifully attended church services and his wife, Bernadette, would launch the corso fleuri, a spectaculary annual floral festival held in the village.
We were on a break at Lake Como when news broke of the wedding of James and the (bon chic, bon genre) Alizée, whose parents have a swish property in the area. I have no interest in royalty - my great pal Pete Sixsmith suggested the only reasonable response for a republican to an invitation would have been to decline - so was pleased to be away, safe from any risk of being pressed into reluctant journalistic duty.
In fact it was Mme Salut who said in an instant that Château Léoube would almost certainly have been used for the festivities, and this turned out to be the case. It is a magnicificent location and we have eaten at the publicly accessible Café Léoube, its entrance appearing just a few hundreds metres along from the château, on a few occasions. The menu is limited and the food no more than adequate as well as being over-priced. But the surroundings are attractive enough to soothe feelings of irritation.
My greater beef with Léoube is that it is owned by the fabulously rich Lord and Lady Bamford and it sticks in the craw to know that arch Brexiters are lording it, as it were, over this priceless piece of the coastline of civilised Europe.
But leaving aside political grievances, I can but compliment the Middletons and the bride's parents (dad is a former French diplomat) on their choice of venue for the wedding reception. It all made for a modest inside page lead in the local paper Var-Matin, the mayor of Bormes, François Arizzi, doing his best to make it sound like just another day at the office, no different from any other marriage at which he is called upon to officiate.
And as James Middleton embarks on life as an Englishman married to a French woman, he can always call on me for tips. I've had nearly 50 years' experience after all.
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