Nice is the word

Shortly after dawn on Saturday morning Philippa and I were getting ready for our big weekend in the South of France. Not only did Jeff and Heather have to spend the weekend running in circles after Tom, but Jeff actually got up with us to take us to the airport - beyond the call of duty!

EasyJet did what EasyJet does and a few hours later we were smiling in the warm sunshine of Nice and picking up a hilarious little convertible called the Citroen Pluriel with (non-gearheads look away now) a flappy paddle gearbox that certain of us found great fun to play with even if it was about as responsive as Tom when you ask him what he did at school. First gear, click, um what? Oh. hmmm? Sorry. Oh yes second gear. But anyway, back to the plot...

After fifteen minutes we were curling into the hills and then zigzagging up an increasingly narrow mountainside road to the precarious village of Peille with a quiet church at the top and small boys conferring in the shade of a tree. Philippa filled our water bottle from the village pump and we set off into the hills along the track to Peillon about 5k away. The sun was now building strength and the crickets and cicadas were rattling and chirping as we ambled up the rocky track, gaudy butterflies flicking in front of us. The air smelled of rosemary and by an old stone bridge we found wild mulberries. OK so we weren't on quite the path we meant to be on, but thanks to a combination of map and compass we found out that we were at least going in the right direction and after ninety minutes or so, there was Peillon. Its bigger than Peille and as the guidebook said, not as pretty on the outside, but more interesting on the inside. We explored its twisting alleys and ended up in a classic French cafe with a distracted waitress and a friendly chef who whipped us up a couple of huge crepes and a jug of soft cider.

And then back to Peille on the right track this time, though but for the map we would never have found it. It took us through sunlit woods and acres of ancient stone terracing, now grown over. We passed a little cottage where the owner had diverted the stream to irrigate his melon patch. And then Peille emerged again, balancing on the top of its little peak.

And so to Chateau Chevre D'Or where we had a golden evening ten years ago on our drive around Europe. Its in the heart of an even steeper ancient village high in the Alpes Maritime between Nice and Monaco. "We 'ave a leetle upgrade fer you" said the guy at check in, and indeed they did. From the smallest, cheapest room in the place, to a spacious suite with a terrace overlooking the sweep of the bay. Philippa was almost jumping in the air with delight. Ten minutes after arriving they brought something cool and sparkling in champagne glasses with a little ginger cake and foamed cream, flecked with vanilla to dip it into. It is a magical spot but what really makes the place is the way everyone who works there makes you feel special. We wafted into dinner and though it really didn't quite stack up to the legendary meal we had there on our honeymoon (that would have been asking too much) it was pretty spectacular, with endless little mouthfuls of something the chef wanted us to try, between plates of food set out like a still life. Four glistening sardines on a flat square of beetroot, surrounded by a sea of saffron sauce...

Breakfast was brought to us on the terrace of course. Silver pots of coffee flashing in the sunshine and orange juice that had been in an orange about ten minutes before. At the prompting of our friend at the front desk - Gonzales - we stayed for the afternoon, swimming in the pool and marvelling at the view. We re-visited the exotic gardens at the very summit of the hill, with their cacti and castle ruins, and finally tore ourselves away; a little sunburned, rather full and completely happy.