The image screams luxury and decadance, although what it doesn?t convey is the warmth of the day; temperatures on the French Riviera in January can reach the high 60s, which makes it hugely popular destination for the elderly, rich, and rich elderly. So the thick furs are entirely, as they say in those parts, de trop!

They are, I discover later, handling crucifixes. Old vamps, but not vampires, then. One points a taloned finger to a selection shown them by the marketeer.

‘Combien?’ How much?
’This one?’ he replies.
’Non, tous’. No, all of them.

Two pieces of knowledge prove invaluable when visiting Ventimiglia from France. Firstly,  no trains return to the French Riviera between 7pm and 11.30pm. Secondly, there’s almost nothing to do at this time of night, and hardly anywhere  to go. So it’s fair to say that, after dark, it’s quite the most boring place for miles.

Friday morning and early afternoon are best spent ambling through the town’s weekly market, which sprawls along the promenade, its myriad stalls selling wares that range from good quality, inexpensive and delicious food: cheeses, oils, olives, and dried meats; to outrageously naff designer rip-offs; handbags, belts, sunglasses, bling, blang, best ignored  — you could end up arrested for selling contraband at the French border.  Trains return to France infrequently after 3pm, and we found ourselves stranded until 11pm after an evening spent trudging around in search of a decent restaurant by the bay (on a Friday night!)

My mother and I were reduced, for nearly two hours, to sipping (delicious) red wine, in near silence, at a tiny café opposite the town’s cinema. Near silence, for those of you who know my mother, is rare, but we were rendered speechless by the tangible sense of inertia that seemed to hang, like dustsheets in an abandoned house, softly over the town.

So watch Heroes, stick to Milo, and give the town a miss.