Racing to Monaco

The Mediterranean sun woke me early with the promise of new horizons. I’d explored eastern Liguria’s coastlines on this and past trips, but now wanted to set my sights west, which is far less familiar to me. I departed Genoa at 8am, where rush-hour traffic choked the suburbs for an hour, before I eventually broke free back onto the scenic SS1, which is also known as Via Aurelia. This ancient Roman coastal route connected Rome to regions like Liguria and territories further afield, and today, I’d be sampling the western section, where it hugs the Mediterranean with its twists and turns, hopefully carrying me as far as Monaco.

Around Savona, the road transformed, growing more beautiful as its sweeping bends revealed Mediterranean pines, olive trees, and ancient stone walls. Noli also caught my eye, a pretty little town nestled between forested hills and secret bays, its waterfront bursting with oleander trees, and its promenade dotted with quaint bars and restaurants, making it look like a pleasant place to relax for a few days. The route continued, dipping from high cliffs, hugging the seafront of small towns, then climbing again, creating a rhythmic dance along the coast. Towards Varigotti, the drive grew more thrilling, the road now carved into the rock faces where sheer drops fell away to the sea, punctuated only by tunnels where cuts weren’t possible.

In Loano, a bustling market held me up for 30 minutes as locals clogged the streets, shopping at stalls brimming with fresh produce. Alassio’s marina and scenery dazzled, while Diano Marina stirred memories of Extra Virgin by Annie Hawes, a book I’d recently read about her tale of moving to this area to revive a rundown olive farm. My mum also holidayed here with a friend in the sixties when she was 18—probably much changed now, but I filmed the drive through for her to see if it sparked any memories.

As I pressed on, the Via Aurelia’s beauty was tempered by cyclists around every bend and tailbacks behind Apes, the small three-wheeled vans adapted from the humble Vespa for cheap post-war transport. Perfectly designed to carry cargo around the ancient streets of the small towns and villages dotted all over Italy, they’re everywhere, but on faster roads such as these, they can be difficult to pass, especially in my right-hand-drive car, where I’m unable to see oncoming traffic and have to commit to some questionable overtakes. One such Ape, bright orange and loaded with crates bursting with freshly picked grapes, held me up for quite a time, while racy Italians got evermore frustrated at my lack of nerve to overtake on blind bends.

I’d wanted to stop at some point on this trip to stock up on cheap Italian wine, and I took the opportunity when I spotted a Lidl near Riva Ligure. Not really knowing what was good, I went for anything that had won some kind of medal—most had, to be honest—and I ended up with an 18-bottle selection of Chianti, Morellino di Scansano, Barbera d’Asti, Negroamaro, Valpolicella, and Primitivo from Salento. At an average of €2.85 per bottle (less than half the price of the cheapest supermarket plonk back home), I felt I couldn’t go wrong, and I am happy to report that I didn’t; they were all very good once finally sampled back home. I only wish I’d bought more!

I soon crossed the French border and marvelled at Menton’s old town glowing under the afternoon sun, before finally reaching Monaco. I knew I’d arrived when I spotted a local garage flaunting a Ferrari, Aston Martin, Lamborghini, and Bentley, and then I suddenly recognised I was heading down Beau Rivage towards Sainte Dévote, albeit anticlockwise around the famous Formula One circuit! I eventually came to a stop in my parking space at the conference centre, then uttered the famous words of Jenson Button: “Monaco baby, yeah!”

From the Grimaldi Forum, I set off to explore, wandering through Le Jardin Japonais, then into the tunnel—another famous F1 landmark. Emerging into the bright sunshine, I was greeted by the unexpected sight of Monaco Classic Week visible in the harbour. Unaware it was happening, I was thrilled to see several elegant and historic yachts such as Tigris, Oriole, and Carron II, gliding through Port Hercules.

As an F1 fan, my continued search for iconic parts of the track led me to the Swimming Pool section, Loews Hairpin, and Casino Square, all of which ignited my soul. The day’s heat, the hottest yet, left my shirt clinging during my two-hour walk, sweat mingling with memories of Mika Häkkinen winning the 1998 Grand Prix, one I had witnessed with a friend when we stopped here on another European road trip. I had vivid recollections of sound and colour; back then, the cars still had the roar of their V10 engines, which reverberated off the buildings and surrounding hills down to the harbour. We watched that day, perched on the hill up near the Royal Palace, where it’s free to watch the race. One special moment was watching the start on a small TV in a bar with the sound turned down so you could hear the power of the engines in the air as the cars got off the line; we then rushed back to our spot on the hill to see them emerge out of the tunnel and race around the harbour—it was a magical day.

I left by 4.30pm, choosing the shorter, more convenient three-hour autostrada route back to Genoa, though missing the prettier—and twistier—return on the Via Aurelia, the finest parts of which flanked Noli and stretched between Imperia and San Remo.

Back at Porto Antico, twilight’s passeggiata unfolded, with the Bigo lift silhouetted against an orange sky, and the aquarium’s lights dancing on the water. I dined at Heineken at 752, a bar and restaurant beneath the lift, savouring delicious arancini filled with rice and cheese, soaking in the view, and enjoying a couple of beers on the terrace. A GROM gelato followed, a sweet end to the night. The classic boats, racing heritage, and Genoa’s warm embrace welcoming me back again had etched this 230-mile road trip into my memory.

To continue reading, head to: Chapter 7: Genoa's Hidden Charms and a Fond Farewell