Saturday found us driving to Peillon, a village perché not far from Nice. “Perched” this village is––viewed from the valley below, it looked as if it were about to teeter over the cliff. I go a bit unnerved gazing up at it. We took spine-tingling switchback after spine-tingling switchback driving up. Eek. About a kilometre out, I made the Chief Twit stop the car at a pullout and we walked the remainder of the way, passing ancient farms with their terraced olive trees and grape vines. The village was eerily quiet and medieval in its austerity. You just climb, climb, climb the cobbled passageways, past low, wooden apartment doors and huge stone urns. (This was no St-Paul with its tumbling flowers.) The auberge was closed for a wedding; upon hearing that guests would be soon be arriving, we decided to scram back to the car and make it down those hairpin turns without the angst of oncoming traffic. As we made our descent, we passed the mint-green Ladurée truck driving up to deliver what could only have been the wedding cake. It was a relief to reach the valley.