There are resorts where you go to schlep about for a couple of weeks, not caring how you look and forgetting about the social trappings of life back home. And then there is St Tropez. Here, keeping up appearances is an art form. Unfeasibly large yachts with helicopters perched on deck, access to "see and be seen" clubs and the worst dress sense money can buy go with the territory.
St Trop - or St Too Much as the rest of France calls it - has always been a magnet for a certain kind of pleasure-seeker. Long before Brigitte Bardot unwittingly made it fashionable in the late 1950s, the likes of Errol Flynn and Anais Nin were treating it as a playground for debauchery. These days George Michael, Elton John and Mohammad Al Fayed have villas in the vicinity, and Geri Halliwell, Robbie Williams and the Beckhams have all sought refuge in them.
I had arrived expecting the worst the South of France had to offer: the fall-out from the excess, extravagance and conspicuous displays of wealth. But on a sunny weekend in May there was little evidence of what Bardot called "the tide of human filth". To be honest, I was a little disappointed. An unofficial dress code of thongs in the supermarket I could live without, but where were the women who changed their swimwear four times a day and sunbathed in full make-up?
Then the advantages began to kick in. For a start the narrow streets and little squares were mercifully free of flashy Eurotrash and instead populated with stylish Tropezians. It's only at times like these that you remember St Tropez is a pretty fishing town. Albeit one with designer shops and a £1,000 fee to moor in the harbour.
Le Yaca, a little haven in the middle of the pink-tinged old town, embodies the chicer side of St Tropez. Discreetly positioned in a tiny street just up from the port, the hotel is a collection of 18th-century houses (one of which was Colette's home in the 1920s) arranged around a compact courtyard packed with lush flora and fauna and a small pool. The owners, M and Mme Huret, have placed a nicely unpretentious stamp on the place, completely opposite to the over-the-top shenanigans usually associ ated with St Tropez. It's the perfect setting for a laid-back and chi-chi weekend rather than a flash, glitzy one. (By the way, if there's one meal you must sample, it's the spaghetti in parmesan sauce at Le Yaca's terrace restaurant - cooked before you in a giant scooped out cheese.)
In an attempt to blend in with the super-chic locals, I nipped into a glam-looking bikini shop near the hotel before hitting the beach. Hip Up is the swishest swimsuit emporium in town, eschewing designer labels for a tantalising range of unbranded mix-and-match pieces. I was lulled into buying a complete beach "outfit" for £75. The girl in the cubicle next to me bought 11 - she must have been there for a week.
In the height of summer, it can take more than an hour to drive from the town to the beaches at Pampelonne. It took us about 10 minutes. (Or you could avoid land altogether and hire Le Yaca's boat at £60 a day plus fuel.) Our destination was Le Club 55 - the exclusive restaurant and private beach which sprang to life after Roger Vadim mistook the Colmont family's shack for a restaurant while filming And God Created Woman in 1955.
Half of Hollywood and most members of the rock royalty have at some point traipsed down the wooden-slatted walkway through the sand to the oasis hidden behind a screen of rushes. It's a simple but devastatingly chic combination of white cushions, sun-bleached driftwood and Provençal blue-clothed tables under a cover of tamarisk trees and awnings. Although not as crowded as in July or August, it was buzzing nicely with photogenic people of all ages.
Rather than flaunting garish designer swimwear and tons of gold jewellery, the clientele were dressed in tasteful white linen or faded chambray and khaki three-quarter-length trousers. Still the giveaway status symbols were there: the Rolex watches, designer sunglasses and carefully-styled hair (for both men and women), and the ubiquitous JP Tod's driving shoes. If you looked carefully enough, there were a few clues to what will be big in fashion this summer: gingham, Pucci prints and Chanel sunglasses with rimless pink lenses.
After several bottles of local rosé and the divine Salade de Pampelonne (goat's cheese, tomatoes and mint cr me fraiche), the atmosphere was warming up nicely. Nearby, a woman stood on the table, took off her knickers and waved them in the air. Time to retreat to the beach.
We procured a few blue mattresses and a beach umbrella for the princely sum of £50 and sat back to indulge in some high-class people watching. A steady flow of casual but expensively-clad folks disembarked at the jetty, brought to shore from their yachts by the Club's launch and guests drifted from the restaurant carrying white fluffy dogs like precious bundles. Only here did I spy any hint of St Tropez's legendary show-off fest. As one local told me: "If you sit on the beach at Cinquante Cinq, you will see absolutely everything!"
At last, I spotted a woman wearing bright red lipstick while she sunbathed, then an auburn-haired, toffee-hued madame strolled by in high-heel sandals and a suede-fringed hipster skirt revealing a leopard-print thong. Her necklace bore the words "Sexy". Of course.
Le Club 55 closes at sundown. The neighbouring Key Largo stays open for dinner, though. A Thai restaurant on the Côte d'Azure may sound odd, but it works brilliantly. Sitting al fresco with incense burning in the ether, meditative music playing and the Mediterranean sparkling in the distance was an enjoyably surreal experience. And the food was wonderful - particularly the cr me brulée made with jasmine oil - though not cheap at £50 a head.
It was sheer perversion that led me to the Caves du Roy at the Byblos hotel that night. Billed as the swankiest nightclub in St Tropez, I should have known what I was letting myself in for, but I hoped to be proven wrong, as I had been with St Tropez itself. Shortly after midnight - nobody arrives before then - we were greeted by a slightly excessive number of bouncers and let through a thoroughly over-the-top red rope in to . . . well, a naff nightclub circa 1970-something. The combination of lit-up steps, ageing male clientele, bimbotic hostesses and £140-a-bootle champagne caused us to flee after about five minutes.
As we made our way through the town in search of a more inviting alternative, a steady flow of badly-dressed punters flocked in the opposite direction, obviously en route to the Caves. I might be missing something here, but they can keep the glitz and glamour, I'll take the laid-back and chi-chi every time.
Way to go
Gillian Rhys travelled to St Tropez with Mason Rose. Single rooms at Le Yaca start at Fr1,300, doubles from Fr1,600 and suites Fr3,600 (all inclusive of tax and service). Book through Mason Rose (020-7235 3245 or reservations@ masonrose.com). British Airways (0845 773 3377) flies Gatwick to Nice for £108 return plus £19.10 tax.
