The terraces, hill after hill

From 1976 to 1979, while the first holidaymakers were discovering camping, my father never really slowed down. The roads, the terraces, the pitches carved into the hillsides – all of it was built year after year, in red dust and the noise of machinery. Each levelling opened up a new view. Of the sea, of the massif.

That is the secret of Esterel Caravaning: no two pitches are alike. My father guarded that with his life.

Another dimension

One day, a certain Mr Houlton knocked on our door. English, affable, the kind of man who always has a brilliant idea over a beer. His: installing mobile homes for rental on the campsite. In France, in the late 1970s, this barely existed. The concept was purely British, and Mr Houlton knew his business well. He even offered to handle sales across the Channel. Won over, my parents took the plunge.

In the first year, a hundred mobile homes were installed on the terraces. Three years later, there would be 245. White and green, white and brown corrugated metal – you could spot them from a distance. Inside, they offered every comfort: two bedrooms and a panoramic lounge. Some may remember the curtains: orange with large brown flowers. Seventies through and through!

The summer that changed everything

My parents made a perfect, complementary duo. My father handled the construction and site development, always the first to get his hands dirty. My mother ran the management and sales with equal energy, from the offices.

At the time, our pools were treated with bromine – a revolutionary process. One day, a leak occurred. The fire brigade was called, the lifeguards were on hand. My father cleared everyone away. A freediver and experienced diver, he was convinced he could handle it alone. He fixed the problem – no gloves, no protection. The bromine level in the water was so high that his body was exposed to it severely. In the months that followed, he began to fall ill. Then came the diagnosis.

Between us: Before Instagram, there was Jacqueline Laroche

To get noticed in the 1970s, there was no internet or social media. My mother, never short of ideas, would go to the exit of the Fréjus motorway toll booth to hand out flyers to drivers towing caravans. In beach car parks, eyes peeled, she had an unmatched eye for spotting cars with a towbar and leaving a leaflet on the windscreen. Today, we’d call it a “hyper-targeted acquisition strategy.” Jacqueline Laroche called it going to work.