Day 45 - June 23rd: Azure Secretary Services

Vauvert → Grasse to Nice: 19.8 miles / 1,199 total

The three-day celebration has come to an end. While two of those days included trail runs of 54 and 41 km, the nightly dinners, shared laughs, and poolside time made it feel like one big party—and it was worth it. Christina needed the break, and Jax loved having the comfort of a place to settle for more than a day. When we packed up this morning, he didn’t want to get in the car. After a heartfelt goodbye, especially with Monica, Christina, Jax, and I left at 8:30 a.m. to return to the Best Western in Grasse, where we had left off a week ago before heading backwards toward Arles.

One benefit of shifting back toward the coast: temperatures in the 80s instead of the high 90s. A huge break.

The drive gave us space to reflect. This was our third time along this route—first for recon, then on foot, and now in reverse. From the rolling hills of Provence to the mountains of the Côte d’Azur and the Maritime Alps, the terrain felt different this time. We remembered it step by step, climbed it once in slow motion. And while we race forward as a society to build faster, more efficient transportation systems, there’s nothing more meaningful than moving under your own power—for not only does it get the job done, it offers a deeply rich sensory and cultural experience along the way.

Back at the Best Western, I launched immediately at 11:30 a.m. The route took me west through winding mountain roads, parallel to the Mediterranean. The first 10 km passed through classic hill towns like Plan-de-Grasse, Valbonne, Villebruc, Roquefort-les-Pins, and Le Colombier.

As I mentioned a week ago, Grasse is known as the perfume capital of the world, has produced fragrances since the 16th century. It was once home to tanneries, and the need to scent leather gave rise to the perfume industry that still thrives there today.

Valbonne, by contrast, is unique in that it was built in a grid—unusual for Provence—by monks from the Lérins Abbey in the 16th century. It still carries the feel of a planned monastic village, preserved and charming.

Roquefort-les-Pins, nestled in pine forest, has roots going back to the Roman era, and its isolated feel today still reflects its long history as a defensive outpost.

The roads were a mix of sun and shade, with the smell of pines in the air and the temperature notably cooler than Provence. At 15 km in, I made a right turn toward the sea and descended a narrow lane cut into the mountain. Houses clung to the left, overlooking a canyon, and I dropped into a thick, wooded section where the road turned to trail, and then to singletrack. Optimism faded as the trail closed into thornbushes and briars.

It became impassable. I was hunched over, scratched up, and stuck—too far in to turn back. I paused, hands on knees, catching my breath. Ten meters to my right, through the brush, I spotted rocks stacked in a suspiciously unnatural way. I fought through the overgrowth and scrambled over the rocks—and found it: a perfect singletrack trail running below. Jackpot. I followed it downhill for a kilometer until it dropped me at the D2085, a notoriously busy mountain road.

The next 10 km were stressful—dodging cars, trucks, and motorcycles. In the final few kilometers, I spied a fortification on the hill—a lone stone tower rising above the green slopes as I descended toward Nice. Likely part of a medieval watchtower network, it would have served as a lookout over the inland routes leading to the Mediterranean. These towers once signaled danger—Saracen pirates, invasions, or unrest—long before digital alerts.

Finally, I descended into Nice, arriving near the airport. The last stretch took me past highway traffic and then, like a switch flipping, I was on the Promenade des Anglais—a dream running path along the Mediterranean.

Nice has long been the jewel of the French Riviera. It was founded by the Greeks in the 4th century BC and later became a Roman resort town. The Promenade des Anglais itself was built in the 19th century by English aristocrats wintering on the coast.

The water was a clear turquoise, lighter near the shore, and stretched out to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat in the distance. In that moment, I felt something profound: the weight of the miles behind me, the beauty of the present, and the anticipation of the journey ahead. All the effort to go forward and then circle back—Arles, Grasse, Monica, Laura, Peter—it all came together. I was physically fine. But emotionally, I felt drained.

Time to return to the monastic rhythm—early nights, early mornings, and relentless forward motion.

Thanks for the support.

Cheers,

David