Three things go wrong on the French Riviera, and they go wrong to almost everybody.
The first is the road. Between Nice and Monaco there are three of them, stacked up the hillside, and in July the lower two do not move. A journey that takes twenty five minutes in April takes an hour and a half in season, and every dinner reservation made without accounting for that becomes a rushed arrival. The corniches are beautiful and they are also the reason people miss their tables.
The second is the calendar. The Grand Prix in late May, Cannes a fortnight before it, and around both a week where hotel rates quadruple and minimum stays appear. Nobody minds paying for the Grand Prix if they came for the Grand Prix. The problem is arriving in that week by accident, having chosen the dates for other reasons entirely.
The third is the beach. Almost every good stretch between Cap d’Ail and Saint-Tropez is a private club, and the good ones sell their front row by the season to the same people every year. Turning up in August and asking for two loungers by the water is not a request that can be granted, however it is phrased. It can be arranged in March.
None of this makes the coast difficult. It makes it a place that rewards being arranged in advance and punishes being improvised. The pleasure of it, once the logistics are handled, is that the whole stretch from Menton to Saint-Tropez is close enough to treat as one place: lunch in one country, an afternoon in another, dinner back where you started.
That is the part we handle. The driver who knows which corniche at which hour, the club that already has your name, and dates chosen with the calendar open rather than closed.
The coast is not somewhere we run a fixed day. It is arranged from a blank page, which is what private travel design means in practice.