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1 day ago
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‘Look at that!!” exclaims a jubilant Sandi Toksvig at the very start of her jolly new travelogue, Great Riviera Rail Trip. “Marseille!” The city of Marseille is, undeniably, there behind her, it being the starting point for a four-episode trip east along the French south coast that will take in picturesque fishing villages, posh resorts and quirky nooks.
Shows where we watch celebrities go on holiday come in many different stripes, but all boil down to us pressing our noses up against the screen and wishing we were there while the famous bod has a lovely time. The most honest course of action for the famous person is to lean into it and enthuse. Toksvig does this, constantly wriggling and giggling with pleasure as she tells us how incredible, magnificent, wonderful and beautiful the Riviera is. It looks as if she is right.
Her first stop is Sanary-sur-Mer, where she experiences that harbinger of a well-planned sojourn: the view from her hotel window – of a delightful harbour giving way to the gently brilliant sea. It’s what she had imagined and hoped it would be, but slightly more enchanting. Off she trots, down to the waterside for the first of many meetings with interesting locals where language will be no bar to conviviality.
“How nice to mityeuu,” says Toksvig, veering towards the vowels of Inspector Clouseau as she encounters the man who maintains les pointus, the local wooden boats so called because they are pointy. Their subsequent conversation falters a little because of his limited English and her much scanter French, but the azure waters are too pretty for them or us to care.
Back on land, Toksvig announces that she “feels a new novel coming on” before landing the first big laugh of the series: “Hello!” she bellows from her hotel balcony, to nobody in particular. “I’m a writer! Thank you!” Soon we’re learning about how Aldous Huxley, Bertolt Brecht, Thomas Mann and other writers found refuge here in the 1930s, the Germans having escaped Nazi persecution. Toksvig boggles giddily at the thought of Brecht, sitting perhaps in the very spot where she’s now enjoying some cafe culture, knocking out a satirical song about Hitler for the amusement of fellow coffee-sippers.
When a subsequent visit to Hyères revolves around a visit to the chateau and gardens established between the wars by Edith Wharton, author of The Age of Innocence and The House of Mirth, it becomes clear that Toksvig might have slyly mis-sold her series to lure as many punters as possible: yes, she does travel by train but this is really Sandi Toksvig’s Great Literary Riviera Trip, a pleasant fantasy for bibliophiles. Having met and befriended the American arts and travel writer Lanie Goodman at the obligatory cafe charmant, the prospect of arriving chez Wharton causes another eruption of joy that’s at least half sincere: “This is one of the best days of my life! Let’s take our ice-creams with us!”
As one wonders whether Toksvig’s adorably retro suitcase is secretly full of books – “I didn’t bring a lot of things, because I have a theory that France has got shops” – her recitation of a Wharton poem rounds off what, for the bookish traveller, looks like a perfect day that a good chunk of viewers will be desperate to emulate.
The theme of literary sophistication is, however, lightly worn, and doesn’t extend to Toksvig’s narration, which is not immune to repetition and cliche. Sanary-sur-Mer in the 1930s was “the beating heart of European intellectual life”, while a few decades later, Saint-Tropez was “the beating heart of 1960s Bohemian life”. Bouillabaisse, meanwhile, is “the region’s most iconic dish”, although if you’ve decided to play the celebrity-documentary drinking game where you take a shot every time the presenter drops the i-bomb, that’s your only tot in episode one.
Beyond Hyères is the famous Saint-Tropez, where an exclusive beach club was once graced by the presences of Allen Ginsberg, Marlon Brando and Brigitte Bardot. The town generally, though, causes the programme to lose its artsy energy and slide into the sort of scenes any lighthearted travelogue would pump out. A game of boules with some extremely French-looking men doesn’t throw up any memorable insight or conversation, nor does Toksvig’s solo sampling of the brioche-and-buttercream tarte tropézienne. Just when it seems there’s nobody around who is willing or able to chat productively, the situation is salvaged by a couple from Bradford who are on holiday and profess to be QI fans – Toksvig hits them with a QI-worthy story about how Saint-Tropez was named after a headless knight, and all is well again.
Leg one of the journey ends at a hilltop vineyard, where the owners don’t have much to say but the organic rosé, its flavour freshened by the warm salt breeze, looks divine. It’s something to write home about.
