Cannes

Cannes wears its fame lightly for eleven months of the year. Once the festival departs, the town returns to what it has always been: a Belle Époque resort facing one of the calmest bays in the Mediterranean, the Lérins Islands floating offshore in a haze of pine. The Croisette unrolls its palms between sea and façade; behind it, the old quarter of Le Suquet climbs toward its eleventh-century tower, all narrow stairs and evening light. There is glamour here, certainly — but also a Riviera patience, a town long accustomed to greatness arriving by sea. Cannes does not chase attention. It has learned that attention always returns.

Few approaches are as effortless: a private jet from Le Bourget lands at Cannes-Mandelieu, the Riviera's business airport, in roughly one hour and twenty-five minutes — and the Croisette is barely ten minutes from the runway. Your Rolls-Royce Phantom waits beside the aircraft, doors opened as the steps descend, luggage handled without a word. For those who prefer the ceremony of the road, the A6 and A7 carry you down France in a single composed day, the A8 delivering the first glimpse of the sea near the Esterel's red rock. Throughout, the chauffeur keeps his rituals: cabin scented and cooled, itinerary confirmed but never recited, silence offered as the first courtesy.

The Carlton and the Martinez still divide the Croisette between them; we favour a sea-facing suite and dinner at La Palme d'Or, where the bay performs behind the glass. Days take their own shape: a private launch to the Île Saint-Honorat for lunch at La Tonnelle among the monks' vineyards, a quiet hour in the Marché Forville before the crowds, an evening climb through Le Suquet as the lights come on across the water. Should the festival find you here, we hold cars at the Palais steps and move you between screenings unseen. Cannes, taken slowly, is far better than its reputation — and its reputation is considerable.