Siena

After the thrills and spills of three weeks in Biarritz, it was time to get back on the road. Having surfed almost every day of the trip, I have to admit I was quietly relieved at the thought of a day trapped in an air conditioned car en route to Italy. I like to think my surf technique has improved a little, and I got off relatively lightly on the injuries front with just a couple of friction burns from the board and half a dozen criss cross cuts on my right foot from landing too close to a submerged rock. Oh and a suspected broken toe.

Next stop Siena and a striking contrast to the laidback West Coast beach vibe. After a July spent loafing around in shorts and flip flops, Siena is a chance to flaunt some of the many shoes I lugged along (in their own case, of course) this being Italy. There is a well known rivalry between Siena and her Tuscan sister Florence and visitors tend to fall in love with one or the other but not both. I have to say I'm finding it hard to choose. While Florence has more of a Renaissance vibe and is stuffed full of art everywhere you look, in Siena, it is all about the architecture and the feel is a lot more Gothic. It's small, intimate and a feast for the eyes if you love buildings as much as Handyman and I do.

We are staying in a converted farm on a hill just outside the old city walls, and Antonio, whose family have been here for generations, gave us three recommendations for restaurants to try. As this part of the trip is all about food, we have tried them all. Osteria il Carroccio was just like being at a family house for dinner, with one of the waitresses serving as she balanced her toddler on her hip. Almost every table was taken but they fitted us in by the kitchen. I ordered the ribollita (Tuscan vegetable and bean soup) and lasagnette (a mini lasagne?) filled with spinach and ricotta. Both delicious. Handyman had pasta in tomato and salami to start (am I alone in finding it strange to have pasta as a starter?) followed by chicken and mushroom casserole. He also gave his choices the thumbs up. We shared broad beans in tomato and garlic which, when they arrived, did a very good impression of looking just like Heinz baked beans but they tasted amazing.

Last night we went to his second recommendation Taverna di Cecco, on a quiet side street just before you reach the main square, Piazza del Campo. While Gianni the owner ran in and out greeting regulars - it was encouraging that every customer apart from us and an American couple who were being shown the sights by their Siena based student son was Italian - the waiter arrived with menus and a glass of perfectly chilled prosecco on the house. This is what I would do if I ran a restaurant. It is an instant pleaser and puts you in a great mood. I had crostini porcini - so bang went the no bread rule - followed by a lovely light risotto alla verdure made with zucchini, peas and sweet roasted onions, while Handyman opted for a caprese followed by perfectly pink lamp chops on a bed of salad. We drank Villa Antinori, a crisp and fruity white from Florence (I have just bought several bottles at the local supermarket for €6 a bottle). A guitarist turned up to serenade his friends at the next table while we discussed the derelict Hotel la Toscana opposite. By the end of supper, we were smitten, had totally remodelled it and were discussing how much we could buy it for.

Lunch today was at Antonio's third pick, Trattoria Papei in the beautiful market square. Most of the menus here are meaty, with wild boar, lamb and duck among the most common dishes. In Italy, if you are more than 20 minutes inland, it is very difficult to get fish or seafood, which makes sense really. Handyman ordered antipasti and I had the bruschetta pomodoro from his plate which was yum. He had cold cuts and minced beef spleen which he compared to cat sick and which made me very relieved to be a veggie. I am a bit pasta-ed out, all that surfing is a distant memory, so my main was chosen from side dishes of peperonata (roasted peppers in tomato and garlic) and verdure al forno (simple roasted vegetables) and Chuppa Chups had lamb chops (again) served with stewed potatoes, which he declared delicious. The dessert - torta della nonna - or Granny's tart, was unreal. Almond infused pastry filled with tangy lemon cream, baked and topped with whole toasted almonds, dusted in icing sugar. I almost wanted to go and kiss Nonna, who was sitting on the terrace surveying the action. Four orange liqueurs later (I passed mine to Handyman, who drank it, only for the waiter to arrive with two more, which he also had to drink) we staggered off in search of a lounger by the pool.

Come to Siena for the wonderful architecture, the friendly locals and the stunning scenery and of course the food as well as Il Palio, the crazy horse race that takes place every summer in Il Campo. San Gimignano is also well worth a visit, although the myriad of tourist shops were a little too Saint-Paul de Vence for me. We sat out a thunderstorm in La Mangiatoia where yet another historic lunch was consumed. Borgo Grandaie is a great base, with a delicious breakfast served on the terrace, and it's worth staying here just to pick Antonio's brain for Siena's best fare. After three nights here, we are on the move tomorrow, and heading for another personal recommendation, Promontorio del Gargano on the south east coast with a pit stop in Montepulciano en route. Viva la dolce vita.

Technology Vs the great outdoors

Today I was reading about a survey that said that two thirds of kids in a recent survey about their spare time said they would rather be outside exploring the world than playing on computers and iPads. This struck a particular chord after the day I have had with Issy and Kate.

We set off for the beach at 11.30 and despite the fact that they were lying in bed with iPads to hand 30 mins earlier, they were ready to leave before I was (I like to think this is because I chivvy along calling up the stairs 'leaving in ten' then 'leaving in five' then 'I'm leaving RIGHT NOW' only for them to appear with bags ready and sunnies on while I chase around searching for car keys, having a last minute pee and checking that I have my wetsuit.)

We got to my favourite beach Ilbarritz and instead of waves we had a flat glassy sea, perfect for swimming but no use for a board, which meant an hour of sunbathing in the most glorious surroundings, this particular beach being a cross between the best I've seen in Cornwall and Queensland, backed by dramatic cliffs and zero development. 'This is boring, let's go and find some surf,' said Issy so we packed up, jumped in the car and drove to Plage Marbella, a few minutes away on the edge of Cote des Basques.

If there is ever going to be surf, it's here, and sure enough, there was. We hired boards, paddled out and spent two hours catching some lovely waves, wiping out, standing up and laughing. I had to persuade them both out of the sea, promising we would head back tomorrow and we sloped off to the bar for a drink, salty, exhausted and utterly exhilerated. 'I'm going to teach my kids to surf,' said Issy, 'and by the time I'm 23 I want to be brilliant on a surf board. I love it here, can we move?'

It's a seductive place for sure. Sylvan, the barman at La Plancha who mixes the best mojito I've had in France, put it quite simply. 'I've lived in Polynesia for 30 years but I came back home to Biarritz this year because each time I visited my parents, it was never long enough. Tahiti is lovely but this place is where my heart is. And the surf is unbeatable.' I have to agree.

Biarritz

Having packed up and cleaned the house to within an inch of our lives, we were ready for our summer road trip, first stop Biarritz. I chose this destination for one main reason - surf. The beaches along the Atlantic West Coast are renowned for offering Europe's best surfing conditions and as someone who usually has to make do with a measly weekend every year (when it can be too stormy to be safe to surf, as in Hossegor frustratingly two summers ago) the idea of three weeks being able to dip in and out when the mood takes me was rather appealing.

Biarritz has many other pleasures too. The west coast vibe here is not dissimilar to California....there is sunshine, endless beaches with hugely dramatic cliff faces, scenery not unlike Cornwall and lots of male and female hotties skateboarding, surfing, paddle boarding and generally being tres sportif. Yesterday, we played a game of tennis, then I headed to Cote des Basques for a couple of hours surfing before joining a beach yoga session run by the Roxy Pro team.

The town is full of great boutiques, bars and tapas bars, the best being Jean in Les Halles, where the chiprions a la plancha are mouthwateringly good. And the dogs are loving their nightly walks along the cliff paths above the beach, before we stop off for a mojito at La Plancha at Ilbarritz, where the sunset is one of the best I have ever seen. One of the great surprises of this area is that you can head to the beach at 6pm and still be surfing, swimming or relaxing in full sunshine at 9pm.

Given that daughter No 1 doesn't arrive here until next week, the younger teen hasn't done too badly hanging out with the 'rents all week (God I hope she doesn't read this, she detests me using any form of abbreviation whatsoever fyi.) There have been minimal kick offs and only a little bit of eye rolling at our behaviour (this includes breathing and trying to make conversation of any sort.) Her mood, like the weather, is now set to be calm and sunny all week as her friend has just arrived from Nice, happy days.

Three surf sessions in and my technique is improving, my ear is still intact, and apart from one grazed toe, there are no injuries, although merely writing this is bound to jinx me.

Summer Summer Summertime

The lavender is in full bloom, the grass is turning yellow and the pool is warm enough to swim in which can only mean one thing. After the soggiest and most unpredictable spring in recent years, summer has finally arrived. This was heralded by the Fete de St Jean last weekend, celebrating the summer solstice, when hundreds of locals and visitors congregated in Place de la Tour in the centre of the village to watch a spectacular fireworks display which took place against the backdrop of the gorge and would have given Ally Pally a run for its money. Just a few carafes of wine were drunk at the Donjon and the mood was convivial until our friendly village policeman arrived in the early hours of Sunday morning to politely persuade us that it was time to go home. I wear this as a badge of honour rather than disgrace.

The partying had started in earnest last Thursday with the Ogilvy Mather event at the Martinez beach club, one of the highlights of the Cannes Lions advertising festival. Franz Ferdinand played and much to the girls' delight, Sarah, chief fixer, party planner and PR extraordinaire, arranged for them to go backstage and meet the band while the more mature girls amongst us (me, Milly, Karin and Mel) were content to boogie on down to Rob Da Bank's brilliant DJ set.

The glamour is in stark contrast to this week, as I make lists about lists to ensure that everything is shipshape and sorted in time for us to head off like extras from My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding next week with cases and dogs jammed into the car on our seven week European road trip. The girls are already planning how many bags/pairs of shoes/bikinis they can fit into the boot (where did they get that gene from I wonder), which leaves me and Handyman on course to share one small holdall between us. Now that the house is finally finished after a marathon five year renovation project, we have to transform it from a comfortable chaotic family home into a chic boutique pad as the holidaymakers arrive and we head west to Biarritz, arriving just in time for the Roxy Pro Surf championships. Let's just say with two teenagers, certain bedrooms like mine and the spare room are an easier task than others, naming no names.

With that in mind, Uncle Gaz arrives on Sunday, the only member of my extended family who is possibly more OCD than I am, to clean the oven (last year he threatened to post 'before' pics of it on Facebook, but life is too short to clean an oven or stuff a mushroom, isn't it?) help me pack up and generally pull everything together in organised (military boot camp) fashion. I'm not sure whether it bodes well that straight after I pick him up from Nice we are off to brunch, a monthly Sunday event that a few of us have recently started which usually ends quite jovially with no riotous behaviour whatsoever around supper time. Last year, UG, as he is known, provided many hours of entertainment in the car en route to Spain following some rather cheeky vodka jelly shots but in his defence, that was after he had finished the cleaning, not before he started.

I am planning to blog on the best bits of our road trip, so for any of you lucky readers heading to Biarritz, Puglia and Antibes, watch this space. I am signing off with a picture of the Fete de St Jean...is it just me or is that a giant cockerel being burned in the middle of the boules court?

Cockerel on fire

The Real Deal at Cannes

I was going to write about the joys of post Film Festival life this week, notwithstanding being stung by a huge jellyfish in Saint Tropez at the weekend (I am now sporting a third boob…attractive.) But as the most asked question of the last month has been ‘Go on Kazza, give us all the goss on Film Festival,’ here is the real deal (and if I wasn’t fussed about being accredited for next year, there would be a lot more juice.)

A scantily clad waitress is holding aloft a huge chocolate birthday cake ablaze with candles as she’s carried cross legged on a silver platter by six fit waiters high above the crowd at Nikki Beach to the sounds of Stevie Wonder's Happy Birthday to mark the birthday of one of Eva Longoria's VIP party. Girls who look suspiciously like they have been paid to look like party animals are dancing on tables alongside which rest magnums of Moet & Chandon in huge ice buckets.

It can only be Cannes, the craziest, most excessive film festival in the world, to which Hollywood’s A list decamp from Los Angeles for two weeks every May to party like mad on the Côte d’Azur. So what is it really like to have access all areas at the most talked about event in the celebrity social calendar?

I’ve been covering the festival for six years and while it’s been suggested that Cannes is losing its glam factor, you only had to be at Calvin Klein’s chic beach party watching a black leather clad Nicole Kidman make a show stopping entrance to realise that definitely isn't the case. With a table at amfAR costing €120,000 for ten guests and red carpet premiere tickets changing hands for €3,000 a seat, you need deep pockets or a certain degree of fame - or infamy - to come here.

It’s not all glamour, however, and behind the scenes competition to get a few measly quotes from the red carpet is fierce. At Swiss watch brand IWC Shaffhausen, manners are in short supply as journalists, film crews and photographers jostle for the best position as guests arrive for a gala dinner at the exclusive Hotel du Cap Eden-Roc, where the most lavish parties of the festival, including de Grisogono and the amfAR AIDS Benefit, take place. It’s also where Leonardo DiCaprio promoted Cannes opener The Great Gatsby, giving five minute interviews to the world's press. (The deal was they had to return the following day to interview the rest of the cast in order to get their tapes of Leo’s interview.)

Back to the red carpet, and I get elbowed in the face by one desperate French TV reporter eager to get to the front in the hope of a few words with the A list arrivals. It almost seems worth it as we have been promised Bradley Cooper, Robert De Niro and Cate Blanchett in a tip sheet from the PR a few days earlier. The reality is not quite the same league - Jamiroquai’s Jay Kay, model Karolina Kurkova and Grey’s Anatomy actor Eric Dane, who was flown in specially, naturally sporting one of the company’s watches, before being flown back to America a day later.

It's not just about celebrities either. Drinks brands Ciroc, Moet & Chandon and Belvedere spend hundreds of thousands of pounds sponsoring parties and hiring superyachts – jury president Steven Spielberg’s Seven Seas was the ultimate this year, with its own private screening theatre - to throw lavish cocktail parties to raise their profile. The Johnnie Walker Blue Label yacht hosted Martin Scorsese and Leo DiCaprio, his father George and stepmother Peggy, creating column inches that money alone just can't buy.

Belvedere threw one of the most talked about parties of the fortnight at VIP Room, flying in Run DMC's Reverend Run to DJ to a crowd including a flirty and reportedly newly single Liam Hemsworth and Solange Knowles. Important note: the drinks were only on the house for celebrities - so while Liam got a free ice bucket of cold beer, everyone else had to pay, (and at €45 for a glass of champagne and a vodka and Red Bull, you learn to drink slowly.) The naked fire-eater, dancing dwarves and trapeze artists hanging from the ceiling made up for it I guess.

I took my 18-year-old daughter Livvy along, after she begged, pleaded and cajoled to be allowed to come to a proper film festival party. I called it a day at two rounds (yep, €90) only for us to be invited into the VVIP area by a 31-year-old New York magazine publisher with the immortal words: ‘Why wait at the bar when you can drink for free with us?’ We joined him and his friends who were ‘something big in Bollywood.’ They were knocking back magnums of Belvedere vodka and Dom Perignon and while they were very generous, it soon became clear that there was another agenda. As we went to leave at 4am after what I can’t deny turned out to be a great night, he tried to persuade me to leave Livvy behind, telling me: ‘Your daughter is HOT.’ Like that was going to work.

With dozens of parties every night and each one vying to attract the classiest calibre of guests, the longer celebs stay at your bash, the more successful it is deemed. Many make a brief appearance for the cameras before quietly slipping away in their search for the coolest party of the night.

The borrowed jewels lent to A listers come with their own bodyguards although this didn't stop thieves making off with a reported €1m heist of Chopard gems from a Cannes hotel safe on the same night as the company’s Trophée party at the Martinez. Clearly, there were plenty more baubles to go round as Cara Delevingne was spotted shaking a priceless 18 carat white gold and diamond Chopard necklace and squealing: ‘Look at this, look at this!’ as she showed it off to fellow guests. She was unable to head off to another party with fellow supermodel Laura Bailey as she was required to stay at the party as an ambassador for the brand, although she later appeared at the Calvin Klein soiree a couple of miles further down the Croisette.

You know you have made it if you are invited to the Chopard Lounge on the seventh floor of the celebs base of choice, the Martinez. Their rooftop spa was transformed into a luxurious private club, with oversized sofas, fresh roses and jasmine and chill-out music playing. Waiters deliver glasses of pink Champagne, platters of fresh fruit and canapés (sushi is the A list favourite as it’s low cal) to celebrity and VIP guests. There is an eyebrow and lash tinting room run by Paris’s queen of brows Sabrina of Un Jour Un Regard, who was flown in from the French capital to tend to Nicole Kidman, Cara Delevingne and Marion Cotillard. The Mavala manicurist from London offers manis and pedis and just along the corridor is the L'Oreal hair lounge where you can have a pre-red carpet blow-dry and makeover. No money changes hands, these are free services to a1nyone lucky enough to boast a coveted pink Chopard access badge around their necks.

The press pass is also colour co-ordinated but doesn’t bring such high end delights. White and rose are the most highly regarded, giving VIP access to press screenings, increased likelihood of a red carpet premiere ticket and preferred access to the press conferences, while blue and yellow mean a scrabble for everything as you are last in line for screenings and press conferences, even if you have spent an hour in the queue (guess which colour mine was? Yep, yellow!) There are around 4,000 accredited journalists at the Film Festival, but the largest screening theatre holds less than 1,000 people and the press conference room a mere couple of hundred. Do the maths and you can see why tempers start to fray.

There is also a sliding scale of talent with Nicole, Leo, jury president Steven Spielberg, Carey Mulligan, Justin Timberlake and his wife Jessica Biel topping the invitation lists for the hottest parties while Sid Owen, Spencer Matthews and Nancy Dell’Olio were left to make their own entertainment.

However good the parties are, sometimes stars just want to go under the radar. The Great Gatsby’s Carey Mulligan – spotted enjoying a cosy lunch with Justin Timberlake at the Michelin pop up Electrolux Agora Pavilion following their press screening of Inside Llewyn Davis – went with Leonardo DiCaprio and Tobey Maguire to the family-run Michelangelo Italian restaurant in Antibes, a favourite of Brad and Angelina's, for a cosy and low key supper party on the second night of the festival.

Most moving moment was when Michael Douglas – who is phenomenal as Liberace in Behind The Candelabra – broke down in tears at the film’s press conference as he spoke of his joy at being back at work after his throat cancer battle, earning heartfelt applause from the usually hardened critics and writers.

But no matter how famous you are, sometimes it cuts no ice with French security, as Harvey Weinstein, producer of The Kings Speech and The Artist, discovered when they failed to recognise him at the Calvin Klein door and told him to wait (he stayed in his car until they let him in). And Lady Victoria Hervey suffered the ultimate celebrity humiliation when she was blasted by an irate security guard for hogging the red carpet after repeatedly being told to ‘move on’ at the Blood Ties premiere (which she wasn’t in.) That’s showbiz honey!

Cannes

So there I was at the Martinez pool bar in the sunshine with glass of Taittinger in hand, a pre amfAR apero. I was made up, coiffed and party prepped for the red carpet by the L'Oreal team of professional stylists and make up artists, which is just as well as I was sitting with a table of supermodels, including Milla Jovavich, Isabeli Fontana and Bianca Balti. Kylie was lounging around in the bar with her boyfriend in jeans, a T shirt and not a scrap of make up....and still she looked amazing!

Leaving the Martinez in a fleet of festival cars to head to the Eden-Roc and THE party of the festival, the amfAR Cinema Against Aids gala, with a police escort and roads closed to let us through, was a little surreal. The night itself lived up to expectations, not least because it finally stopped raining. You can read all the goss, including how Leo DiCaprio raised €4million at the auction with a trip to space, in this week's Hello magazine....buy it NOW!

My highlights.....Behind The Candelabra, an excellent biopic for HBO about Liberace in which Michael Douglas and Matt Damon are totally believable as gay men with a soundtrack straight out of Studio 54 circa 1977. It has it all, glitz, glamour and great acting from M&M. Just a shame that Michael won't be eligible for an Oscar as it is one of the finest performances of his career.

Also, The Great Gatsby, which is attracting mixed reviews but which I loved. See it for the costumes and party scenes alone but LDC also makes a great Jay Gatsby. At his private party here two years ago, Leo put in a brief appearance surrounded by his entourage who were watching his back while the beautiful people ate, drank and danced on the terrace of his rented super villa in Cannes Californie. Watching him on screen brought back memories of that night. Gatsby is big, brash and just what you would expect of Baz Luhrmann, which is not a criticism.

And the parties, oh the parties.....Calvin Klein, on the beach at L'Ecrin, as torrents of rain lashed down on us, rendering the beautiful stretch of sand there utterly surplus to requirements. Chopard Trophee, where all the celebrity guests dripped in borrowed diamonds (Cara Delevingne was particularly excited about her enormous diamond pendant), Belevdere, with the dancing dwarves, naked tattooed fire-eaters and magnums of Dom Perignon and last but definitely not least, amfAR, where Sharon Stone proved that at 55, she can still rock it in white Cavalli, as you can see from the picture above, and turn every head in the room.

The Chopard suite on the rooftop of the Martinez was pretty special. A waiter handed me a glass of pink champagne on arrival and the best lash lady in Paris, Sabrina from Un Jour Un Regard, did my eyebrows and lashes (I didn't say it was all work.)

And so was the Michelin pop up at the Palais, where two star chef Bruno Oger, who cooked for Steven Spielberg, Nicole Kidman and Leonardo DiCap after the opening of Gatsby, rustled up a stunning six course lunch for me and a few other lucky journos at the chef's table in his amazing kitchen at the Electrolux Agora Pavilion.

The lowlights? Lack of sleep for two weeks and the bloody rain. Forget the goodie bags, nice as they were, it was an umbrella you needed at all times for Cannes 2013.

La vie en Rose

As Cannes Film Festival approaches, my dilemma is what to wear. The last few hot sunny days have kidded us all that summer has finally arrived and bikinis and kaftans have been de rigeur chez Kershaw with jumpers and jeans stuffed to the back of the wardrobe to make room for silk T shirts, floaty shifts and shorts. Now the forecast is predicting torrential downpours over the next three days, making the prospect of cocktails at Nikki Beach not quite as appealing as they should be.

Attending glam soirees all done up like a dogs dinner is one thing but being rained on as you leg it and skid along the Croisette in ridiculous heels looking like a drowned ferret while the great and the good emerge from their dry chauffeur driven limos is another. Are you feeling sorry for me yet?

 The Great Gatsby opens the festival tomorrow, with the press screening ahead of the starry premiere tomorrow evening. Leo DiCap (I feel I can abbreviate now that we are virtually old buddies having rubbed shoulders at his private villa party two years ago), Carey Mulligan (who would be my choice to play me in a film of my life, I'm sure she would jump at the chance), Tobey Maguire and Baz Luhrmann will be posing on the steps of the Palais des Festivals while us mere mortals bask in their dazzling reflected glory.

Then there are the party invites which are currently piling into my inbox.....Calvin Klein, Chopard, Belvedere, Eva Longoria's gala dinner, to mention  few not forgetting Judy's friend's birthday supper, which will be every bit as good as the celeby bashes, if not better....it will take more than a few showers to dampen the party atmosphere this year.

Before the rain arrives, I snapped the picture above as whatever the weather, the garden is in full blossom...the orange trees, jasmine, climbing roses, grapefruit trees and even the viney weedy thing that usually really annoys me growing up our terrace are all blooming and their heady scents fill the air.

The perfume is the first thing I notice every morning when I get up to check on Earl/Steve McQueen. He hops around the olive trees every morning looking in rude health. I saw my neighbour Rosine last week and she asked, vous avez un lapin qui vit dans votre jardin? I explained that he had escaped from his two storey townhouse hutch and she told me that in the past few weeks he has eaten all of her blette and courgettes and has just started on the leeks. Eek.

I have been taking Special K, spinach, rocket, apples and carrots down for breakfast and dinner to feed him up so that he doesn't feel the need to raid her vegetable patch. He is now so confident when he sees me arrive with his organic picnic box that he races towards me like a demented puppy eager to tuck in. After his feast, he has taken to lying by the hammock (not in it) snoozing in the sunshine with his back legs stretched out. I'm still deciding whether the next picture I post should be Leo DiCap in his tux tomorrow night or Steve McQueen relishing his great escape.