THE HOUSE
Only a few decades ago, the French Riviera was a smiling land of tile-roofed fishing villages, creeks, coves, vineyards and cool pine forests flanking the Maritime Alps as they tumble into the green-blue Mediterranean. There were a few sedate hotels for sedate people. Then city people swarmed down from the sunless north, turning the beaches into a Cóte de Coney. With their headlong eagerness for a piece of the land to call their own, they turned the simple fishermen and winegrowers into gouging real-estate sharks, who chopped up the sea front...
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