There was a time, not really that long ago, when given an unexpectedly free weekend in a foreign city and the keys to a rental car, my mind would set alight with possibilities.
Whether it was a mad dash to Zagreb, an icy climb to Stepantsminder or wind-in-your-hair cruise to Palm Springs, the car wasn’t just a means to an end – it was the end in itself.
As I’d sink into the stiff slightly unfamiliar seats of the new car and head out on the highway, distance seemed part of the challenge.
How far could you get in a weekend? What adventures lay ahead as you charged along hundreds of miles of highway across foreign lands. Would the car break before you did? Would you get trapped in snow without snowchains or blow a radiator on a desert highway.
***
Whether it was the increasing age or just accumulated tiredness, but as my BA flight swooped down along the Riviera coast into Nice late one Friday evening, I had a very different plan. My mind drew back from the far corners of Europe to something much closer.
I needed the car I’d booked, but I began to hatch a plan to spend as little time behind the wheel as possible. Rather quickly, and with exacting detail I knew how I wanted to spend the weekend.
Perfect weekends are sometimes thrust upon you, but like luck, it’s best to plan on making your own, rather than waiting for it to seek you out.
***
So, I thought, through the airport and a left turn onto a quiet autoroute; I’d make the short drive to Grasse, nestled in the hills above the Cote d’Azure.
I wanted to wake late on Saturday morning in a big comfy bed in a simple rustic hotel.
Then to wander in to the old town centre, to sit in the early morning sun, whilst there was still a slight chill in the air. To order an espresso, a croissant and perhaps – throw caution to the wind a tartine – and to while away the morning working my way through the Weekend FT and the New Yorker.
I wanted the merest faint smell of cigarette smoke in the air, mixing with the smell of pine sap, and perhaps the most indiscernible hint of an interesting perfume from the overly quaffed women with outsized sunglasses two tables over.
As the sun crept slowly higher I’d lose the protective warmth of a scarf and begin to pick up a hint of colour on my winter skin. Perhaps a second espresso.
Retiring to the car I’d drive a short distance to the next hotel with a deserted swimming pool but ample sun loungers.
The early spring sun would be gently warming but not enough to have to worry about needing sunscreen whilst I dozed. I’d have time for a quick snooze before taking off into the hills for a three hour run. Through the pine trees and the dappled sunlight
For dinner I’d climb briefly back into the car for a short trip to pick up an overly large pizza before retiring to bed with said pizza and Netflix on a macbook.
I’d wake to late to leisurely buffet breakfast and one too many coffees.
With a late checkout, I’d retire to the still deserted pool with an abundance of fluffy white towels and FM4’s Sunny Side up – without which no Sunday morning is complete – playing through my headphonees. 
By mid-afternoon it would be time to head back. I’d make the short drive back along the cost road to the airport before dropping off the hire car and jumping on the train for work.
***
I was distracted from my dream by the thud of the undercarriage on the tarmac and the plane’s reverse thrust kicking in. I pulled my bags from the overhead locker and went to pick up my car. And just before I hit the autoroute I had a little dither whether I’d turn left to a weekend of relaxation or right to head out on the highway.