Antiquity-sur-Mer

From the Bay of St. Tropez, the little settlement of Port Grimaud is a palette of ancient Mediterranean pastels; its houses are tall, tiled and close-standing; sailboat masts bob gently above their rooftops. At dusk, old-fashioned gas lamps (converted to electricity) glow softly. The impression of a quaint old setting is so strong that many visitors are convinced they are in a rebuilt medieval village. One tourist last week asked his wife whether she did not remember seeing the place in ruins five years ago, and insisted: "They've done a wonderful job of restoration."

The wife remembered no ruins at all, and she was right. Three years ago there was no Port Grimaud--only a swamp.

Since then, a master promoter has created instant antiquity on a 105-acre network of canals and quays. The canals evoke Venice; the squinched-together houses say Portofino, and the town hall is admittedly Mallorcan Municipal. Some find the pastiche unattractive--"A patent fraud," sniffs London's Sunday Observer, "the most magnificent fake since Disneyland." Nonsense, says Baroness Marie-Antoinette de la Paumeliere, who moved to Port Grimaud after 30 years at St. Tropez. "On its first birthday Port Grimaud already had a soul. This is the first time in my life that I've seen something new in France that is lovely and agreeable."

All of this is just water off the oil skins of Franc,ois Spoerry, the man responsible for the Riviera's most spectacular new marina. Spoerry, 56, is an Alsatian architect and boat nut. He bought his swamp (for $600,000) in 1966; he dredged it and built the quays; he designed the houses and has been putting them up ever since. "I have tried to integrate the boat into the life of the vacation house," he says. "I built Port Grimaud for people who love sailing and the sea." And naturally, for profit.

By 1971 there will be 1,700 houses, all that the space can hold. People are buying them as fast as they're built, which is at a one-a-day rate. Most are two-level, three-room "bungalows" or larger "fisherman's houses," with price tags between $36,000 and $50,000--twice what they cost in the beginning, when Spoerry had to sell below cost to lure buyers. Some run as high as $150,000.

To avoid monotony, the houses have different window arrangements and varied heights, as well as variety of color.

Spoerry notes happily that the authentic 18th century Provencal roof tiles he has collected attract moss rather nicely. There are no TV antennas to mar the roof lines: all TV, telephone and electrical wiring is underground. Port Grimaud has a hotel, restaurants, cafes and shops, but no nightclubs (one zips across to St. Tropez, two miles away). Cars are allowed only when residents are moving in or out, and there are no neon signs. Silent electric boats get residents around the canals.

The carlessness and the quiet appeal to all of Port Grimaud's regulars. Actor Jacques Charrier, Brigitte Bardot's ex-husband and one of the Port's celebrity set, says that "I've tried every kind of holiday in the south of France. I've rented the most luxurious villas. You end up every time driving your children back and forth between the house and the beach. You spend half your vacation in your car." Still, it is the proximity to boats that truly delights. As one man puts it: "I jump out of bed and into my boat and I'm off!"

Naval Architect Claude Graf wanted to change houses at Port Grimaud, but refused to sell his old one until he got an offer from a sailboat owner. Why did Graf choose Port Grimaud in the first place? "When it comes to requiring special attention, boats are worse than babies. And in bad weather it's practical to have them so close at hand." Fortunately for the sanity of those who are not all that crazy about boats, there are exceptions to the nautical mystique. Annette Englebert (of the Belgian tire family) owns a villa ten miles up into the hills above the coast, but two years ago bought a house at Port Grimaud as well. To park her yacht? "Oh, no," smiles Mile. Englebert. "We mostly use the place for cocktails and for changing in and out of swimming clothes. I hate boats."

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