A French Road Trip with Bentley

A dawn start from west London in our trusty pair of wheels, sleepy dust rubbed from infant eyes in the back, triple espressos jolting the drivers awake in the front. With a Tetris-style approach to packing up the car for a three-week jaunt to the south of France and back, we set off on our  “relaxing” summer break. Two children under seven, resolutely no iPads and just seven hotels on the way. We brace ourselves.  

Whistling down to Folkestone as the sun’s embers begin to peep above the Sussex hills, we soon board the first Le Shuttle to Calais, the smoothest way by far to get across (or under) La Manche. Before long, we are tearing through the northern French countryside, with the sandy dunes of Le Touquet in our sights. Here, life slows to bicycle — or pony — pace, where quiet avenues studded with houses of faded grandeur lead to white sandy beaches. Based at Le Grand Hôtel, days are spent playing golf, making sandcastles on the endless beaches, or riding adorable steeds. We down oysters and Picpoul at Le Bar à Huîtres and scoop up armfuls of fresh peas in pods and strawberries at the bountiful grocers on the busy but charming main drag.  

From here, we have our next destination — and our shiny new motor — in our sights and take a mosey south around Paris, nudging Versailles, until we reach the serene, bucolic idyll of Le Barn. It’s a place where foals nuzzle their mothers in buttercup-strewn pastures, while butterflies flit between herbaceous borders and jewel-hued dragonflies dart over a cooling pond.  Living out a Swallows and Amazons sojourn, the girls play hide-and-seek in ferny woods, bathe with bobbing swans in the dark, clear water, and ride sturdy equines through knee-deep turf.  

We hear the growl of the engine before we see it. Our ride for the next two weeks pulls up — the Bentley Bentayga Speed, a 641- horsepower, 4.0-litre twin-turbo V8 steely grey powerhouse with all the mod cons — TVs in the back seats, heated steering wheel, a tilt-and-slide panoramic roof and mood lighting. Leaving our UK car in the safe hands of the hotel, we transfer our voluminous cargo and set off for the next adventure.  

Winding our way south, agricultural swathes give way to medieval hilltop towns. Living off (excellent) service-station jambon baguettes, we make a pit stop at the ancient city of Orange in Vaucluse, which offers us a welcome chance to cool off in the Roman amphitheatre’s cloisters. The gladiator contests are brought to life with their VR headsets — an absolute highlight for the girls. Then it’s onwards south — the Bentayga cruises along so smoothly we have to watch our speed — and after a four-hour stretch (where Eye Spy is tested to extremes), the olive-flecked mountains and Provençal vineyards hove into sight.  

Terre Blanche emerges, the sound of cicadas cacophonous against the warm calm of the early evening, as hills decorated with rows of olive trees fade under the dwindling light. The resort is spread over 750 acres with two 18-hole championship golf courses, a capacious kids’ club with the most adorable children’s open-air restaurant — complete with a French-style three-course daily menu — and a magnificent swimming pool that has plenty of space to accommodate all generations. Rooms are cast into the hillside, affording sweeping views of sun-drenched farmsteads. We head to Château d’Esclans, just a half-hour drive away, for a tasting of Whispering Angel and Garrus Rosé, and as dusk falls, explore the pretty, art-filled hilltop village of Tourrettes, where crisp glasses of Bandol at La Vigne Vincent are the perfect refreshment. At the hotel, the girls spend their days on nature trails, making scented soaps and honing circus skills in the kids’ club while we hike, golf and relax in the spa.  

Now the ocean is calling, so we pack up the car once more — its engine purring at the ready. We set off, mountains looming and our last leg south ahead of us. This is a good chance to try the sports mode; the curves of the Var mountains are no match for the car’s well-tuned traction. Hitting the coast, we curve past sand-hued fortifications in Cagnes-sur-Mer and grit our teeth as we try to negotiate medieval streets in Nice, praying our shiny alloys stay intact (these roads were made for horse and cart,  not family SUVs). But unscathed, we enter the magical town of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, where mega mansions are hidden behind towering electric gates, and we are joined by the purr of fellow supercars making the same beeline as us: for the fairytale palace of the Four Seasons Grand-Hôtel du Cap-Ferrat.   

Sitting in lush gardens of cloud pines, oleander and ferns, the majestic hotel resides in a 17-acre estate, with the famous view to the sea and steps winding down to the Club Dauphin beach club and saltwater pool.  Our room in the newer Pierre-Yves Rochon-designed wing comes with a large terrace, complimentary mini-bar and helium balloons adorning the ceiling, which delights the girls. We gleefully swap our travel clothes for swimming gear and head straight to the water. After a refreshing mango sorbet, the children head to the pirate ship playground in the kids’ club while we catch rays.   

With families — including dogs — clad in matching Dior and babies flanked by multiple bodyguards, the Four Seasons doesn’t mess around, so we put on our best frocks for the outdoor evening BBQ. Here, turbot sizzles over hot coals and a strolling band takes requests for John Denver and  K-pop hits. We feast on homemade pistachio ice cream and île flottante before heading for slumber.  

We take to the road once more, to snake north to the town of Lyon, where the Rivers Rhône and Saône wend through the city and layers of history, from Roman to Renaissance, form this gastronomic stronghold. Based in the Cour des Loges, A Radisson Collection Hotel, Lyon, the girls play hide and seek in towers, and we dine on fillet steak and frites in the library with glasses of soft Burgundy. My eldest is convinced our room, with its ancient fireplace and wooden beams, is haunted, but luckily, we sleep soundly until morning.  

Our final two stops beckon — first, the much-talked-about Abbaye des Vaux-de-Cernay, where oh-so-soigné Parisians decamp for the weekend. Under the exquisite eye of Cordelia de Castellane, rooms swathed in Toile de Jouy and baskets of fresh garden apricots greet us, along with organic linen backpacks and plush toys. The Tartine et Chocolat kids’ club is the most photogenic we have seen, where mini worlds of toy vets, grocers and doctors hold little imaginations for hours, although it’s a hard task dragging ours from the games arcade next door, a light-and-sound show of dopamine highs.  For sugar highs, the daily complimentary teatime is a must, with towers of madeleines and raspberry tarts, and mugs of rich hot chocolate. We work it off with tours on house bicycles around the lake and to the farmstead, where we pet goats and feed hungry hogs. An evening of karaoke in the stag-head-lined restaurant sets us up for our last leg.  

After retrieving our car from Le Barn, we reluctantly hand over the Bentley outside  Paris, then slowly wind into the centre to the majestic Peninsula. Rubbing the lions’ heads for good luck, the girls pose with the famous Peninsula Pages, and we take a tour of the Eiffel Tower by vintage Rolls-Royce, before tucking into Peking duck in the LiLi restaurant. On our final morning, we swim in the underground spa pool, complete with underwater Beethoven, before saying our final farewells.  

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