In front of the Hôtel de Paris in the centre of Monte Carlo is one of the most prestigious parking spots in the world. It sits almost in the middle of the road, and it is more of a stage than simply a place to park your car. Today it is occupied by a red Ferrari 458. There are a lot of Ferraris in Monte Carlo. Slightly fewer Lamborghinis. Bentleys are as prevalent as Mondeos.

I’ve come to Monte Carlo, home of Sir Roger Moore, Lewis Hamilton, Dame Shirley Bassey, Bono and countless other luminaries, to try to get some insight into the environment grazed by those we perceive as success stories. I’ve interviewed plenty of sports stars, music artists, actors, entrepreneurs, authors, but now is the time to see and explore the place that a handful of these people call home.

Circling the manicured roundabout in front of the Casino is an old Fiat 500, and behind it a vintage Alfa Romeo. That’s encouraging then: the quirky sits just as comfortably here as does the hyper-expensive.

The 458 will probably remain outside the Hotel for a couple of hours before someone richer arrives with an even more super supercar. At the height of the summer season that might be a few minutes away, but for now the owner can rest assured that the Ferrari has pride of place.

The Casino Monte-Carlo

It seems to me that to be a prominent spectacle among the town’s coruscation of gleaming, rumbling sports cars, you have to rise above the trends. Either via the insanely pricey or the extravagantly whacky. Certainly not of the latter class is the showroom-shiny Rolls Royce with the Russian plates. Nor it’s owner, who emerges clad in pristinely tailored evening suit and, accompanied by an impossibly doll-like girlfriend, ambles over the road towards the steps of the Casino.  Glamorous types proliferate the town; it takes a lot for a lady to stand out. But she’s good. They all try to appear at ease with the gawping tourists of course while quietly revelling in the attention, but this one is busy texting as she walks. Not having some contrived over zealous dialogue, but genuinely engaged in something other than the attentions of a hundred curious onlookers. Actually nonplussed. She leaves her man at the foot of the steps to the Casino, guarded by its imposingly polite doormen, and takes herself off for the afternoon.

Before her other half passes into that exclusive domain to pit his millions against the house or his opponents at the table, I manage to stop him and ask why he’s come all this way. Is it just to be seen in the right circles?

‘No, it really isn’t,’ he replies in cultivated English with the barest scintilla of a Russian accent. You probably have an image of some rotund oligarch, stomach stretching the silk cummerbund to breaking point, but you’d be wrong. He is young, early 40s at most, and athletic in stature. Think Roman Abramovich rather than one of James Bond’s nemeses.

‘I’m competitive,’ he continues. ‘We all are.’ By which I assume he means the fantastically wealthy as a species. ‘There’s a genuine desire – a need perhaps – to prove ourselves against our peers. Poker is a test of skill. The money, like always, is just a means of keeping score.’

And the mrs – what’s she here for?

‘Shopping,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘And she’s always on tilt!’ He laughs, and I do too. Not out of courtesy but because it’s genuinely funny. I don’t want to keep him from his cards though and anyway, his driver, who emanates not only expensive cologne but also that scent redolent of eau-de-I-could-snap-your-neck, seems to be getting twitchy, so I wish him luck and wander down towards the water.

The marina at Monte Carlo

In the marina, motionless on the water, a fleet of superyachts lies at anchor. It’s all sparkling chrome and pure white bows, the sun’s reflection swimming in a filigree of soft light on broad flanks that bear the names and home ports of these vast vessels. I’m not sure what the techincal definition of ‘superyacht’ is, but these, unquestionably, are they. And staring at them I realise that this, perhaps as much as anything else, is the manifestation of my definition of success. I don’t mean having the biggest boat in the lot: I’m talking about the freedom that comes with having something capable of transporting you across the ocean. The owner of a vessel such as these could set sail from a rainy Poole Quay and cruise in comfort past France, around Spain and into the benign waters of the Mediterranean. Access to every bay and cove. The world at your feet.

The marina at Monte Carlo

But for some there’s more to it than simple freedom. For some it is all about having the biggest and shiniest yacht in the marina. In being the operative word: with daily mooring fees nudging a thousand Euros in Monte Carlo, there’s a certain label attached to parking your boat in the marina itself rather than anchoring in the bay outside. Image is everything. And everywhere you turn, the more something costs, the better.

Or almost everywhere.

In fear of turning this into a travel piece, I nevertheless draw your attention to the bright yellow awnings of the restaurant Le Pattaya, with gently melodic strummings and the soft voice of a live guitarist drifting out across the water. Le Pattaya enjoys pride of place slap bang alongside the imposing bows of the super yachts. Dine here and you feel like you’re eating in the very heart of Monte Carlo. Alright, not geographically speaking, but if you Google an image of the town, chances are the returned pictures will mostly evince the waterfront area. But you know what – a savoury crepe and a beer will set you back less than twenty euros. Not bad when you’re within a handshake of 800 euro-a-day parking spaces.

Speaking of which, Monte Carlo’s marina charges are considerably cheaper than another glamorous town further along the Cote d’Azur…

It’s time to head west, because while I’m in this neck of the woods there’s another jewel on the Blue Coast that’s been calling to me for some few years now. And I’m not disappointed.

Saint Tropez is the closest thing to a perfect town I’ve ever set foot in. It has all the elements you, whatever your tastes, could wish for. And that surprised me. I was expecting another exhibition town, a place to be seen. And yes, here you’ll find Dior, Louis Vuitton, Dolce & Gabbanna; harbourside restaurants frequented by Hollywood actors, rock stars and politicians alike. But you’ll also find the old locals playing petanque in the town square, unassuming cafes, and if you’re looking for je ne sais quoi, this is the best example you’ll find.

Saint Tropez

Except I think I know what the ‘quoi’ is. It’s symbiosis. It’s the harmony of residents living side by side in happy accord with wealthy tourists. The sun-weathered old chap sipping his coffee at the corner cafe and the designer-outfitted cosmopolite toting a brace of Armani bags. The many masks of success.

In some instances though success is the mask. And there’s no shortage of wannabes happy to don it on a temporary basis. Down at the marina there is a babble of excitement around one of the yachts, a vast white vessel which to me looks like a small ship. The cameras are aimed at two things: the yacht’s stern, from which is emitting a deep rumbling now that the engines are turning; and the owner. He’s dressed casually. An ageing polo shirt, faded shorts, and the inevitable deck shoes. He comes out onto the rear deck, knowing the onlookers are all speculating over his identity, and effects an air of nonchalance. Apart from the fact I don’t recognise him though, something about his demeanour doesn’t quite ring true. He’s trying for a casual air, ambling about the aft deck, but there it is: a crew member, busy with the processes of casting off, politely directs him to an appropriate seat and in that gesture it becomes clear that this is not the boat’s owner; he’s on unfamiliar ground, albeit not quite…at sea (sorry). Sure enough, a quick search online reveals that this is a charter yacht. It, and its complement of crew, are available for hire at a rate of fifty-thousand euros a week. That’s an exclusive rental charge, I grant you, but this is a vehicle designed to carry 12 guests in expansive luxury. Or just over four thousand euros per person per week. That’s more than my weekly holiday budget I can assure you, but it’s not beyond the realms of comprehension. It’s a luxury holiday, yes, but not super-prestige. And so I realise that the real success stories, at least here in Saint Tropez, are the people you don’t see.

I later discover that while I wander the shady streets and snorkel in the glass-clear waters which warmly lap the town, the likes of Sylvester Stallone, Elton John, Isla Fisher and Leonardo di Caprio are all here too. But quite where they’re hiding, I don’t know. Make no mistake, it’s not cheap to wear the sheen of glamour here, but Saint Tropez’s true success stories adopt the cloak of discretion. It’s the nature of the town and that, I presume, is how the glamorous and the rustic cohabit this place so comfortably. And maybe that’s the mark of true success: to have achieved much, and yet to retain, in some fashion, a sense of humility.

I find Saint Tropez’s allure so enticing that I return the following day. The town has its own beach, but a mile back along the coast the sand is nigh-on empty, the turquoise water clear as glass. I’m snorkelling with my family, alternating between the sites above the surface and below it; out in the bay is possibly the largest yacht we’ve seen yet. A helicopter squats on the rear deck, rotors drooping, and it looks like a toy compared to the boat on which it has been landed. The boys nudge me and draw my attention to the seabed below our feet and a star-shaped impression. I dive down, scoop my hand under the shape and return to the surface with a blue and red starfish. I’ve never seen one before – at least not in its natural environment – and although it’s no giant, this echinoderm represents a moment of discovery, which to me is the purpose of adventure. Watching it flutter back to the sea floor, I realise that to live my life here, doing this, on my own terms, would be something very close to success.

The Gulf of Saint Tropez

My thanks go to my hosts in Nice, Greg and Cyrielle, who offered the perfect base for exploring the Cote d’Azur. If you’re looking for a place to stay you could do far worse than theirs, which can be found here