'WHY Monte Carlo?" The question came from Jack, one of Oxford's colourful characters, as we sipped elevenses from cardboard cups in Christ Church Meadow.

"I've never been," I replied.

"I don't suppose you've been to Margate for that matter," he said with accurate perception. "Monte was never my cup of tea - by the way, are you ready for another?"

Jack had been a jet-setter before severe illness and an expensive divorce forced him to accept it was better to live for the day.

"You'll find it's like Oxford, but not as pleasing to the eye. Cars fighting for space; Bentleys and Porsches by the dozen. I'll give you a fiver if you spot a Morris 1000. Ridiculously high apartment blocks! If the flats didn't cost a couple of million apiece, they'd be called tenements."

Still, I went, Somerset Maugham stories and the legend of Princess Grace firing my imagination. But he was right in one respect.

On arriving from Nice airport, I spotted the first of many frustrated tour guides, furled umbrella held aloft, trying to round up a multi-tongued flock.

It could have been Broad Street on any given day.

AT THE time, it was not funny. The train to San Remo was full. Across the aisle an English couple sat facing each other, the wife next to a young man of Middle East appearance.

The carriage lights were erratic and as the rocky coastal line passes through many tunnels, there were several periods of blackness.

The young man took a book from his bag. It was the Koran, which he began to read and pray aloud.

Such are today's suspicions that the couple stared fearfully, as did many nearby passengers. The silence, broken only by the prayers, was ominous. There was nowhere to go.

Suddenly the Englishman's mobile phone rang loudly. All around leapt - except the young man. However, the signal was lost as we entered another tunnel. Seconds later, his wife's phone rang, her husband's rejoining the contest as she spoke.

Just as no devout Muslim would travel without his Koran, it seems no Westerner can venture forth without a mobile.

Meanwhile, the young man remained at prayer. But even he found it impossible not to glance around - and smile.

ALL eyes turned as the tall, honey-blonde arrived on the beach and sat down, gazing out to sea. Even the women in our party agreed she was exquisitely beautiful.

She had neither companion nor book, and resorted to running the fine shingle through her fingers and down her long, tanned legs.

The rest of us chattered or watched the children as they played. The girl blended into the beautiful scenery. It was only when we left that I noticed her again.

She was weeping, tears streaming down her cheeks.

To try to comfort her would have been an intrusion, yet it proved that being in a millionaire's paradise doesn't keep one immune from sadness.

AS JACK predicted, I didn't see a Morris 1000, but instead a scene of supreme crassness: loud American tourists, cameras flashing as they photographed the grave of Princess Grace - inside Monte Carlo Cathedral.