Sunday: Nice
My 13th day in France and the first at leisure provides a chance for sock rinsing. I’m no fan of those liquid-soap dispensers clamped to the wall in a certain type of hotel bathroom but I discover they double perfectly as travel wash. It’s good to be back in Nice after a long Saturday spent journeying from Le Havre to the Med but a restorative walk along the Promenade des Anglais emphasises that things really have changed since I was last here, on holiday almost 20 years ago. Back then every other woman sunbathing on the crowded beach was topless; today no one is. An unforeseen consequence of the #MeToo movement?
Monday: Nice
Early start: for €50 a head, a two-hour round trip to England’s new base in the foothills above Antibes with 11 other reporters in two mini-van taxis. After admiring the spectacular views and discussing how expensive France is, we chat to the entertaining Toni Duggan. The Barcelona forward remains gloriously resistant to all attempts to school her in the art of the anodyne soundbite and provokes headlines on “Phil Neville: the new Pep Guardiola!” Phil-tastic or what?
Tuesday: Nice
The pre-match press conference at the stadium, held inconveniently late at 8pm local time, prompting a stressful rush to file copy for the first editions of Wednesday’s papers. With what little public transport there is in the vicinity shut down for the night, taxis are called for the 20-minute drive back into Nice. At least they turn up – after England’s opening win against Scotland, none were available, a promised media shuttle bus failed to materialise and I stood with two colleagues in a suddenly deserted road outside the stadium wondering what to do. Eventually a lone car appeared, braked sharply and offered a lift into town for cash. Talk about welcome opportunism.
Wednesday: Nice
Match day v Japan. It’s a 9pm kick‑off so I’m required to file my report as the match plays out. Roughly half my 850 words are sent at half-time, another chunk partway through the second half and the introduction and pay‑off five minutes before the end. It’s a contradictory, nuanced, slightly messy performance that is not easy to sum up. A bit like real life, in other words; as Sir Bobby Robson said: “It’s all about shades of grey.” In some ways match reporting is reminiscent of the English comprehension tests we did at school.
Thursday: Nice
We return to our hotel at 2am after the media shuttle bus finally shows up. Up at 6.45am for another trip to England’s hillside retreat to talk to Neville. Mid-tournament fatigue kicks in; uncannily similar to the feeling after an overnight long-haul flight without sleep. In stark contrast, Neville’s energy appears boundless, although England’s manager reveals he swerved his daily 6am run in favour of a pre-breakfast swim.
Friday: Nice–Lille
Who says the French dislike us Brits? Virtually everyone I’ve encountered so far has been unfailingly nice with this morning a high point. Crawling through slow traffic en route to the airport I bond with my taxi driver. To the point where he charmingly wheels my case into the terminal and escorts me to check-in. En route a woman rushes over, exclaiming: “Bonjour, madame. Bonjour.” She is another taxi driver, who drove me on my first day in Nice and it’s a lovely, memorable moment that mitigates the trauma of self-service luggage labelling. Well, slightly. I still fret it’s not stuck on properly and the case will be lost.
Saturday: Lille–Valenciennes
With my case safely unpacked, breakfast reading in elegant Lille confirms the impression that the French are falling a little in love with Neville. Le Monde describes him as “guide bienveillant” and it seems our benevolent leader’s courtesy and emotional intelligence trump the cold sarcasm of France’s enigmatically taciturn coach Corinne Diacre. A reminder that manners really do maketh man?
