Five places in five days

It's been a bit of a mad few days but I wouldn't change any of it for the world. P and I celebrated our six months anniversary (is that even allowed?!) on Friday and we spent the weekend in France meeting his family. Getting back to the daily grind this morning was a bit of a jolt to the system - especially when my heel snapped on my shoe at Clapham North station - so here's to a precis of the last five days in three different countries.

1 Client debauchery at Chiltern Firehouse. We took some clients out to the place to be seen on Thursday night. We kicked off with bottles of champagne in the bar where there's lots of plush fabrics, barmen in white jackets, flowing greenery and a well-groomed dog or two. Coupled with a celeb spot of Zoe Kravitz, Lisa Bonet, Jason Mamoa and Michael Fassbender, it was always going to be a good evening, right? We ate at the Kitchen Table - ordering round after round of seasonal martinis while devouring the bitesize crab donuts, carrot blunts, chicken wings and chunky tuna tartare. I had steak tartare for main and it was silky and smooth, with lashings of seasoning. No selfies but a quick sneak into the secret garden was worth the hype.

2 Anniversary eating at Bob Bob Ricard. Faced with mammoth hangovers, we contemplated cancelling our long-awaited table at London's finest English-Russian collaboration but after some stern words to ourselves and some bloody good Red Snappers at Mark's Bar, we made it. We made ourselves comfortable in the bluest of blue booths and naturally, pressed for champagne. Then we moved onto caviar and ice cold vodka, then indulged in the purest comfort food of lobster macaroni and cheese. An oozing, melting baked St Marcellin finished us off.

3 Wine tasting in Riquewihr. It was then up at a blisteringly early 3.30am to catch a flight to Basel to then drive to Strasbourg to meet the in-laws. But first, we stopped off at the beautiful village of Riquewihr, renowned for its cobbled streets and chocolate box buildings. And wine. The finest producers of Alsacien wine are based in Riquewihr with acres of vines circling the town. We headed to Hugel & Fils where Loic took us through their very best bottles. From Riesling to Muscat, Gewurtztraminer to Pinot Gris, I am now a total sweet(er) wine convert and I'll be eschewing the tired old Pinot Grigio for something a little different.

4 Tartes flambees and cheese on cheese and cheese.
Then came Strasbourg proper and more Aperol Spritzes than you could shake a stick at. One night, we headed for late night tartes flambees at Binchstub. An achingly hip hangout with industrial scaffolding seating and the most laissez-faire waiters you'll ever meet. For the uninitiated, tartes flambees are a regional speciality akin to white pizzas - crisp bases topped with cheese and a variety of toppings. We went for the comte, nuts and lardons; the munster (a very strong regional cheese just like Stinking Bishop), and the tommes aux vaches with nettles. So hot it'll burn the roof of your mouth but perfect when washed down with light, chilled Pinot Noir and a digestif of Ron Zapaca 23 before a slow wander through the tiny, stunning Strasbourg streets.

And of course, a weekend in France wouldn't be complete without the fullest cheeseboard you've ever seen.

5 Al fresco swimming at Resort Barriere, Ribeauville. What better way to end the weekend than two hours in an outdoor thermal spa looking over the Vosges mountains? Naturally heated to 34 degrees, the pools and jacuzzis washed away all our traffic-related angst and set us up for the inevitable easyJet delays and the torrential downpour that awaited us in London. It's open all year round and is set to be spectacular in winter when the mountains are capped with snow and the flakes settle around you in the darkness. Return flight, anyone?

Where to stay: Mykonos

It seems like the entire universe is in Mykonos this summer. Endless blues and whites across Instagram. Sunsets and swimming pools. Beaches and beach clubs. A month ago I was there too. Soaking up the glorious sun in late May, just before the season kicked off, on the annual mother-daughter holiday.

We stayed a week at Mykonos Ammos Hotel; a 5 star boutique hotel listed in the Small Luxury Hotels of the World guide. A pristine white complex of forty rooms, it's the perfect mix of calm relaxation (around the pool) and then upbeat beach bar a few short metres away. Loungers aplenty, there's lots of people-watching to keep you occupied on Ornos Beach - one of the less busy but still vibrant parts of the island. Deep house and club chill out on just the right side of low volume brought the holiday vibe without making us want to tear our hair out.

The rooms were well-sized with decent enough beds (twins, natch, but we heard the doubles were roomy) and enough pillows to sink into. The ground floor rooms, like ours, let you spill out onto the balcony with wine which you can then oh-so-easily take onto the daybeds or hold above your head as you swim about (civilised, of course) in the pool.

Two restaurants are open for business all day from breakfast to after dinner cocktails. Brunch includes a breakfast chef and enough cheese, ham, local pies, fruit and cereal to keep you going back for seconds, thirds and sometimes fourths. Lunch was easy too with Greek cuisine sitting easily alongside Japanese sushi (Kuzina is the only restaurant on the island to use black sushi rice at dinner, there are Japanese chefs at work), and dinner was always going to be a 'roll me out of here' affair. Don't even mention the deconstructed millefeuille. Portion sizes in Mykonos are favourable, to say the least, which is good bearing in mind that prices tend to be around the London mark.

The staff, as you'd expect, swish serenely around the place in sleek grey uniforms. Incredibly friendly and chatty, we saw everyone falling in love with the waiters and hostess Esmerelda has some very good beach and yacht trip recommendations (more on that later). Mykonos Ammos is a real gem and somewhere we wholeheartedly recommend - it's probably a little crazy (like the rest of the island) now it's high season but go either side of the busy months and you're in for a treat.

Koh Rong, Cambodia

From Sihanoukville, we headed to Koh Rong. One of a few islands off the shore, the slow boat takes about two hours to meander its way across the bay and drop you at what promises to be a pretty hefty party island. But we weren't stopping in the main bay. We hired a flat bottomed fishing boat to take us to our home for the next three days: Sok San Beach Bungalows.

At the top end of a stunning 7 kilometre stretch of white sandy beach (often described as the most beautiful in Cambodia), Sok San is a small cluster of ten wooden bungalows built and run by Australian, Julian. He keeps things gloriously basic with wifi and electricity only running from 6pm in the evenings; a product of the two solar panels soaking up the endless sun. We spent endless hours in and out of the water with beers and coconuts in hand, barely able to believe how clear the water was. (My bungalow's the one in the middle on the left).

At night, we swam in the phosphorescence, the sea lighting up around us as we disturbed the plankton.

One day, we decided to join one of the day trips. We snorkelled over coral reefs, cast lines out in the deeper bit of the bay in an attempt to catch fish, barbecued our spoils on the beach and watched the sunset before heading back to the bungalows. There was time for a final, pitch black jump into the ocean to swim with the phosphorescence again before returning home exhausted but happy.

A few other spots have popped up in this sheltered part of the bay, priced at budgets to suit everyone, so whether you're backpacking with pals or celebrating your honeymoon, you'll find the perfect spot. It's a little bit harder to get to but worth all the effort.

Otres Beach, Cambodia

The tan might be starting to fade but the memories definitely aren't. Two weeks in Cambodia was my Christmas present to myself; it had been years in the offing but I finally got the logistics to work and spent the first half of February sunning myself in one of my favourite parts of the world.

After a pretty stressful journey out there (involving a lost Kindle and a lost purse containing my money and all my cards, a frantic call home, money wired halfway across the world and an 12 unexpected hours in Bangkok airport), I finally made it to Phnom Penh a day later than planned. A quick night's stop in the capital city then an early six hour bus to Sihanoukville.

I made a beeline to Otres Beach to meet up with a friend of mine who now calls Cambodia home. This chilled, palmed beach spans miles and is a haven from the bustling town you arrive in. Dumping my stuff at Sunshine Cafe and a bungalow right on the beach, it was time to settle in with an ice cold $1 beer and catch up.

I was lulled to sleep by the sound of the waves and greeted each morning by the Cafe's kittens.  The rest of the day was spent slipping into the quiet, serene and empty sea before settling on a lounger and reading for the rest of the day, fresh coconut to hand. Rinse and repeat, with the occasional $5 hour long massage before heading out for drinks and beach barbecues each night.

My entrepreneurial friends have set up two successful nights since moving to Cambodia five years ago. Saturday night is all about Otres Market (read the Vice article calling it 'Cambodia's most debauched night' about it here) - a creative collective of local stalls and food sellers combined with bands, DJs and flowing drinks in a vibrant part of Otres village.

The other night worth heading to is Kerfuffle on Wednesdays. Set deep in the heart of the jungle in a glade, it's a techno house haven complete with its very own ferris wheel to whisk you into the night. I had one of the best nights of my life dancing until dawn with pals old and new and it has firmly cemented that little spot in Sihanoukville as one of the best places on earth.

Put them both on your list and tell them I sent you.

Hotel Americano, New York City

(via)

A couple of weeks ago my boss flew me over to New York City for two days for an important client meeting. A whistle-stop visit, I left London on late Wednesday afternoon after a couple of hours delay and arrived late evening New York time. After a hop, skip and a jump through immigration and a torturous wait in the taxi queue, I was soon in a yellow cab flying through tunnels into Manhattan. That first close up of the skyline just before we took the Lincoln Tunnel gave me butterflies - my last trip to the city was a whole eight years ago with three schoolfriends on a travel bursary.

My boss stays at Hotel Americano so we booked me in there too. A Design Hotel in the heart of Chelsea, it's a seriously sexy looking place to stay. Arriving at midnight with an early alarm already set, it was like a dream come true to be greeted with this room. Low lighting welcomed me in along with the in-room iPad softly playing Classical music (I later discovered they had some pretty good playlists for party preparations) and that bed? It was deliciously comfy and the perfect way to end the day after a quick shower with everything Aesop.

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The meetings went well so we celebrated in style, starting at the rooftop bar which turns into a pool during the summer. We raised a few martinis to the Manhattan skyline before heading off for some very luxurious cocktails at Baccarat, a hotel that's just seen a cool $60 million refurb, and gives drinkers $10,000 thrones made from coyote fur to lounge around on. Truly decadent.

The rest of the trip involved walking crosstown from 20th to 51st and back, some much deserved wine, guacamole and chips in the downstairs bar and some more wine before I left for the airport for another delayed flight home. A short but very sweet stay in one of New York's most stylish hotels. I'm just trying to persuade my boss to take me back!

As above, so below

We'd spent the last three weeks on buses. First, it was the beaten and battered one that we'd had to fight to get on to. We'd claimed our places on the long bench at the very back, next to one of the two open doors that passengers would use to clamber aboard, hands reaching down to pull them on. Or that the sellers would use to swing in, proffering baskets of fruit, cold drinks, and lighters. All of them were fascinated by how pale my skin was and it wasn't long until hands were touching my legs or stroking my hair - had I not been with my friend, I think it may have been difficult to get them to stop. We bounced on this broken bus for the next six hours through jungle roads and rivers, misguidedly destined for a small village on the west coast of Java.

Our stay lasted just one night; we hotfooted back to Jakarta on the same uncomfortable and unbearably hot bus the next day, but it felt different this time. We'd survived the storms on the beach, a few miles from seeing Krakatoa, that lit up the night with purple fronds of lightning, rocking the fishing boats on the horizon; we'd made friends with a volunteer at our hostel and later left her to her book; and we then made friends with a family who offered us their best room if we needed somewhere to stay in Bandarang. They even took to pushing away prying hands and eyes becoming our personal guardians as we all wilted on the sticky leather seats.

The second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth buses were a little more comfortable; the sleeper coaches ever popular with us backpackers that wound their way across Vietnam this time, up hills and corners so tight you gripped onto whatever you could, hoping you wouldn't be plunged to your death. Ho Chi Minh City, Dalat, Nha Trang, Hue, Hoi An, Hanoi - each journey was different from the one before, whether they had midnight stops, were party buses or took on locals and their chickens who slept on the spaces between beds on the floor. I always chose the upper bunks because I felt I could see more of the jungles, the clouds, the towns, the sea.

After three weeks of buses, we were finally here. We'd then spent our first night in the bay on the traditional Vietnamese junk boats. Ornate, almost luxurious, we'd been lashed to two others and we danced on the roofs until morning and then dived off the side into the cool, green water. A few days before, a typhoon had hit and the boat we were supposed to have been on was lost; sunk to the bottom of Ha Long Bay amidst the lost floating villages were fishermen built their livelihood on crates and discarded driftwood.

But here, here we were. Our night on the deserted island and it was beautiful; a small stretch of sand with a few bamboo platforms for us all to sleep. They towed a small pontoon a little way off the shore and we flipped lazily to and from it until the sun went down. The evening was spent with alcohol, packs of cards and exchanging the tamest and bawdiest stories we could think of, until there came a natural lull and everyone beatifically split up onto the beach. A few of us took one look at the water, and another at each other, and plunged into the silkily cool sea. There were no clouds - just endless miles of perfect stars where we'd already identified our very own Orion, a reassuring wordless presence above.

But it was what was below rather than above that sticks with me today. As we slipped through the water towards the small pontoon that we were ready to claim, the sea came alive with light. Thousands of iridescent sparkles shone, phosphorescence shaken up by the very typhoon that had claimed so much of what was above to the sea's depths, and as my hands pushed through the water it was like sheets of glittered satin, whole constellations, were flowing through my fingers. We reached the pontoon and hauled ourselves onto it, lying back to catch our breath, to smile, to take this ridiculous situation in. How were we all here? A world away from lives back home; the jobs, the partners, the friends, the family and all those minutes we'd lived before this place. Quiet contemplation took over and it was almost as if we'd lost our voices for a second.

For what could ever beat this moment? What could ever beat swimming with stars above and stars below.

Italy: where we ate

Terrazza Goffredo

The night we arrived in Conversano, our hotel had booked us into the gorgeous little rooftop restaurant for an introduction into Italian (and Apulian) cuisine. Having spent most of the afternoon travelling and learning to drive on the wrong (right) side of the road, we were in need of some Italian hospitality and boy, were we not disappointed. Over a romantic, candlelit table for two (mum and I), plate upon plate of ridiculously amazing food was set in front of us and we ended up so full I could barely shuffle back to the room afterwards.

They kicked off the fare with two platters of typical Puglian appetisers. On one, a gorgeous swordfish ceviche with tangy fresh lime juice and tart red peppercorns; a pearl barley and cucumber salad; and a fresh seafood salad of prawns and octopus served in a clamshell and squeezed with lemon. The second, deep fried courgette flowers; a cheese souffle; and aubergine stuffed with minced pork and vinegary slices of red onion, all drizzled with local balsamic vinegar. Following this, in typical Italian form, was a primi of pasta - handmade orrecchiette pasta in a fresh tomato sauce made with the tastiest olive oil - small bites stuffed with softly roasted warming cherry tomatoes. Then for the secondi, we had grilled sea bream instead of the veal and after that, vanilla pannacotta with tangy blackberries and fruit coulis.

We coupled this with a dry Apulian red and lashings of self-congratulation. And a reduced appetite for the rest of the holiday.

Taverna dei Duellanti

We discovered this little place whilst making like the locals and 'promenading' late at night. It was belting out some great funk music and people were pulling up as many chairs to tables as they could, with kids scattering around as their parents sat back and ordered more wine, more food, more everything. There was a very limited pizza menu and I went for the pizza with crudo, stracciatella and lemon but I could have chosen everything on it, the toppings and flavour combinations were to die for. The light and creamy coolness of the cheese mixed with the salty meat and the citrus tang teamed up to make the best pizza I've ever tasted. Finished off with a shot of limoncello, this was one achingly understated but perfect little late night meal.

Osteria del Porto

One thing that we'd been craving whilst in Italy was fish. The Adriatic Sea was constantly within our eyeline yet we were surprised that, despite being only a few kilometres from the coast, restaurants serving fish in Conversano were a little thin on the ground. When we moved hotels on my birthday and were even closer to the coast, we knew we had to do something about it and after a quick bit of Trip Advisor searching, I chose the Osteria del Porto in Savelletri for my birthday meal. We managed to book a table and a taxi to take us down and were greeted by a little nautical-themed, harbourside restaurant teeming with local customers and really friendly staff. We ordered a bottle of Verdeca (a sparkling Apulian white that we'd learnt about during a casual bit of wine tasting) and decided to forgo the four course tradition with some cleverly chosen dishes instead.

Mum went for the classic Caprese - fresh twists of mozzarella, tomatoes, basil and olive oil with grilled bread to mop it all up with - whilst I started with the plate of bresaola and grana padano cheese. We then had to have the gamberetti al brace (grilled king prawns) that came in a steaming buttery bowl of garlic, chilli and fresh herbs. Searingly hot to tear into it, they were the sweetest prawns I've tasted in a very long time and we eagerly mopped up every last morsel, sad to see the end of them. So sad, that I ordered another portion just because you don't turn 25 in Italy with prawns every day, right? After that, we each ordered tartufos (pistachio for mum, chocolate/amaretto for me) and a shot of Disaronno each, as the waiters buzzed around us with whole fish baked in salt and live lobsters. Much to my embarrassment, Mum told them it was my birthday so they very sweetly brought out an amaretti ice cream with 'happy birthday' looped around the edge. Thankfully there was no singing but we were very sad to leave what was one of the best meals of the holiday behind. 

Italy: where we stayed

So I'm back. Home. A year older, a year wiser? In the week or so since my last post, I've spent the five days in Italy, moved house and started back at work. No rest for the wicked, huh?

So how was it? In one word, relaxing. It was just what I needed after a crazy few weeks at work, and being able to switch off in 30 degree heat in rural Italy was just what the doctor ordered. We booked the trip just over a month or so before we went - hours and hours spent trawling for the perfect Greek hotel were fruitless and after lots of searching, we ended up buying the deal through Secret Escapes. Simple, easy - a five day 'twin centre' break with car hire in a little known area in the heel of Italy's boot.

We spent the first three days in the Relais Corte Altavilla in Conversano. In the heart of the medieval town, the hotel was built on the site of William The Conqueror's son's house and is made out the beautiful local stone. A sweet little boutique, there's a spa on the ground floor (which we used on the Saturday of our stay, more on that soon) then three floors of rooms with the restaurant up on the rooftop.

Completely unexpectedly, we were given an apartment with two double rooms (that is actually my room in the photo) and a balcony for the perfect pre- and post-breakfast sunbathe. As part of our stay, we were given breakfast everyday, a four course meal on the first night (again, more on that soon), a two hour wine tasting (yep, more soon) and time in the spa. Could it be any more relaxing?!

After three nights, we moved to our second hotel, the Masseria Don Luigi, nearer the coast in Fasano. An achingly chic farmhouse set in the heart of ancient olive groves, everything was perfectly whitewashed and teamed with cool grey decor, entwined with lemon trees. They even have their own lemon orchard. 

Rooms are dotted around the pristine pool and each have a private patio perfect for sipping wine, eating the fresh fruit they bring or devouring two huge authentic pizzas on our last night. There was a bit of a mix up with the rooms and the language barrier made it a little tricky to get to the bottom of things but it was a great base for exploring the rest of the area and getting to grips with Apulian wine.

I spent the majority of the holiday devouring books and my bodyweight in mozzarella and bresaola. Staying in hotels rather than an airbnb flat, like we did in Nice last year, meant that most of our money was spent eating out - having said that, food (and wine) was so ridiculously cheap that asking for another portion of huge prawns was definitely a thing. Yep. And I wasn't even ashamed. 

A demani

I'm off here for the next five days, accompanied by as such seafood, meat and prosecco I can get my hands on. In the meantime, there are a couple of scheduled posts on their way. Ciao.

Triptease

I'll admit it, I'm obsessed. When Triptease invited me to have a look around their new take on a travel review site, I jumped at the chance. Described as a cross between TripAdvisor and Instagram but better, and as someone who's had the opportunity to travel a bit and is always trying to stave off the perpetual wanderlust, anything that lets me live vicariously through incredible photographs and tried-and-tested recommendations wins my vote. But that's the thing, there's not much out there. TripAdvisor leaves me cold, and Lonely Planet and Rough Guide are great but not nuanced enough...so up steps Triptease to bridge a gap in the market.

Triptease believes 'travel reviews are a decade out of date. Travel, perhaps the most photo-worthy of all pastimes, is overrun with dull, anonynmous text reviews. It's time for a makeover. We put photographs at the heart of Triptease. The process is easy but the result is powerful.' And powerful it is. The whole site brims with the most gorgeous photographs and insider knowledge from those who've been-there-done-that. The creative in me absolutely adores the slick and simple design of the website. No fuss, no frills, just really clean lines and effortless user experience. 

I'm just getting started but I've already added some teasers to my profile (click the image above). As my bank balance won't quite allow me to venture overseas again quite yet, I'm starting with what I know best and mixing up some of my recent reviews from here on thenotsosecretdiary, and adding them to my profile. But wait - I'll be uploading some of my favourite places abroad as part of some new collections. 

Talking of collections, you can go absolutely wild. The homepage (currently featuring me!) throws up editor's picks for you to dive into and add to your own 'I want to go there!' wishlists. Triptease is a network for people to share their travel experiences, tips and tricks, so jump in, chat to those in the know and maybe you'll find your next holiday destination? I know I definitely will.

St Tropez

Last but not least, St Tropez. Made famous in the 60s by Brigitte Bardot and other French starlets, St Tropez's actually a small fishing town tucked away on a peninsula between Marseille and Nice. We'd saved this until the last day, hoping it to be the perfect way to end our trip...but it wasn't quite as easy as its fake tan brand counterpart.

A friend of ours, who skippers this rather lovely yacht, recommended we take the boat from Nice port - a leisurely two and a half hour journey that takes you along the coast and back for around 60E each. Shaking off any hope of a lie-in, we were out bright and early to get our tickets but were met instead by a queue of very confused people. The wind had caught up in the night and the captain wasn't taking any chances so all boat bets were off. Disappointed but undeterred, we caught the tram to the train station, then the train to St Raphael (the nearest train station to St Tropez, 90 minutes between where we were starting and where we were going). Off-season timetables meant we had another 90 minutes to kill before the bus to St Tropez left so we sheltered from the blustering wind - the Mistral - with a hot chocolate at one of the hotels on the sea front.

Battling our way onto the bus (no queue etiquette and lots of people with the same idea), we finally made it to St Tropez - almost seven hours after we'd set off. We realised that we had just two hours to kill before we had to get the return bus so headed straight to the harbour to check out the yachts. With it being regatta season on the Cote d'Azur, there was no lack of beautiful yachts moored up.

Semi-accidentally, we ended up having lunch at the most expensive place on the harbour for lunch - Le Girelier. All white tablecloths and silver service waiters, it was understandably and reassuringly expensive. Mum had a courgette tagliatelle with crevettes, lime foam and jasmine rice and I had a steak frites (when in France...) With a large glass of rose each, we got little change from 100E...but we justified it as well-deserved.

From there, we explored a little of the town. Again, very Mediterranean with pale yellow walls, little flowers and cobbled streets, it's easy to see why people have been flocking here for years. We came across some visiting monks having their photo taken in front of the very choppy sea, and climbed up to the old castle ruins for a view across the bay. As our short but sweet time in St Tropez came to an end, we couldn't help but have one last look at the yachts...and fell in love with Shamrock V, a 1930 J-Class racing yacht. We both agreed we would have run away with it had we the chance.

After an extraordinarily slow and tiring journey back, we arrived in Nice 13 hours after we'd left it. With a last few glasses of red to bid adieu to the apartment, Nice had been every bit as nice as we expected...

Grasse and Cannes

Grasse - the perfume capital of the world. The setting for Patrick Siskind's novel (and film) and also the place of Edith Piaf's death. Nestled in the hills about 90 minutes bus ride from Nice, Grasse is another pastel-coloured town that is popular with tourists.

Grasse was originally known for its leather, and became the French outpost of the tanning industry. In an effort to combat the unpleasant odour of the tanned leather, a man called Galimard began using the perfume and, after sending a gift of scented gloves to the Royal Court, the popularity swept across Europe. Soon, the fragrance business took over from the tanning and Grasse was surrounded by vast fields of jasmine, rose and orange blossom. As trade ships brought exotic spices and perfumes back from around the world, the range of perfumes grew and grew...and now, there's over 2,500 essences in the world. Grasse still accounts for almost 8% of the global perfume production, and over 10,000 local residents are directly involved in the perfumery business.

We jumped on the 500 to Nice and wound our way inland to the small town. A lot of places were closed - it was a Monday - so Grasse was a lot quieter than it usually is. We meandered to the Fragonard perfumery, Grasse's oldest factory, and did everything backwards - the shop, then the museum, then the guided tour.

The tour explains how they create essences today (they still use cold water and distillation to separate the oils for the perfumes but no longer spend three months replacing jasmine flowers daily), how it is bottled (in distinctive aluminium bottles rather than glass, as sunlight degrades a perfume three times as quickly), and how all perfume noses are trained in France and can identify over 3,000 different scents. Perfumes can feature between 5 and 250 essences, combined in top, middle and base notes, and can take up a year to create. Responding to abstract briefs, the noses (mostly male) have to create something that will last and work on as many people as possible - perfumes settle and smell very different from person to person.

As someone who's worn the same perfume since she was 16 (Dior Addict), I'm not phased by the flippant new releases of floral perfumes but loved trying to identify the notes from the bottles in front of us. Perfumes are like signatures and I think it's tricky to get it right - we all tried one of the colognes for me (perfume for men doesn't exist) and all agreed favourably on the fresh scent. Agreeing on a majority choice for us women, on the other hand, was impossible. But I liked that.

After Grasse, and an obligatory stop for ice cream, we headed down to the coast to Cannes. Despite a promise of the boat show (always one to stop at yachts), we found Cannes pretty unremarkable and a little underwhelming. The film, literary and advertising festivals breathe life into the infamous coastal town but off-season, it's home to bumbling tourists and we left a little disappointed. Not before tracking down the various handprints of movie stars (Hollywood, eat your heart out) and snapping a photo of the internationally renowned Carlton - said to be one of the best hotels in the world...

Nice (again)

Sundays are meant for relaxing. And eating. Something that the French take very seriously. Whilst us Brits see Sundays as another opportunity to hit the shops, the French shut theirs and are nowhere to be seen. Knowing that this also applied to public transport (which can be patchy at best normally) we decided to stay in Nice and venture slightly further afield than before.

We decided to walk to Cimiez, which now stands on the ruins of Cemenelum, a Roman city built to rival Nice back in the day. Uphill and winding its way past some evidently affluent residences, it was nice to see another side of Nice. We were heading for the Musee National to check out the Marc Chagall exhibition. I'd briefly touched on Chagall at university as part of artistic representations of war, so was intrigued to see an exhibition devoted to Chagall's self portraits, as well as his famously bright creations.

Entry to the museum is 10E for adults or free for under 26s (like a lot of galleries, museums and landmarks in France) but we skipped in without having to pay anything. The exhibition charts over 40 years of Chagall's work, from quick self portrait sketches on napkins to vast painted religious scenes. Born in Russia, he moved to France before fleeing the persecution during the war. As part of a group of other persecuted artists, he was amongst some of the most prolific artists of the time.

From there, we battled onward uphill to the 16th century Franciscan monastery of Cimiez. We ducked into the church briefly and were met with heavily incensed air, lots of gold, faded artwork and even the remains of a saint. There's also a Franciscan monk buried in the church, having gone on a mission to China to spread the word, and returned burned to die amongst his brothers. The monastery gardens are well-tended and full of rosebushes and herbs with views all the way down to the bay.

And as part of both, the old cemetery overlooks the foothills. The French are renowned for their mausoleums as memorials to their dead. Particulary evident in la Pere Lachaise in Paris, it was a sign of wealth and prestige as well as somewhere to mourn (Oscar Wilde's tomb is covered in lipstick kisses from admirers). We sought out Matisse's final resting place but weren't successful, but these are picturesque nonetheless, non?

Eventually we headed back down the hill (after some lengthy waits for public transport), grabbed a baguette and a tart from a boulangerie and made it back to the apartment just in time for the skies to open and the rest of the day to be clouded with torrential rain. 

We spent the evening indoors with baked prawns in garlic and herbs, baguettes and wine, practising some very unmonklike decadence.

St Paul de Vence

Saturday, we decided to go inland. France is renowned for its medieval villages and St Paul de Vence certainly doesn't disappoint. After a slightly stressful wait for the bus (the English really are the only ones who know how to queue), we hopped on the bus for another 1E50 and headed away from the sea into the foothills of the Alps.

St Paul is one of the oldest 'towns' on the French Riviera, and its quintessential feel has attracted many an artist. The village's most famous hotel and restaurants, La Colombe d'Or used to host struggling artists such as Matisse and Picasso, who used to pay their bills in kind, leading to an impressive art collection.

Tiny cobbled streets wind their way around this rocky outcrop, and you can even step up onto the old ramparts for some amazing panoramic views down to the sea. The village is full of art galleries so pop in on a few and meet the locals.

When it came to lunch, there's also a lot of choice - from crepes at the main gate to restaurants at 5* hotels, there's no wrong pick. As we stopped to look at a menu or two, we were captivated by this very friendly pup.

We couldn't refuse that face so popped in and sat on the terrace, underneath grape vines, with a glass of wine and a humongous salad each, and the amazing view.

Energy restored, we pottered around for a bit more then waited for the bus (this is definitely a pattern in the south of France). For some ridiculous reason, we decided to hop on the bus going further afield to bring us back (the constant pushing and shoving drove us to it). Upon arriving in Vence and having to wait a rather miserable 45 minutes, we vowed to learn from our mistakes.

That evening, the port was hosting a large celebration to celebrate 10 years of the party, Lou Festin. Hosted by the local government, there were three stages dotted around the port with food stalls and parades entertaining the crowds in between the live bands on the stage. We danced around our apartment until fireworks heralded the end of the evening and we closed the shutters on another successful day's adventuring.

Monaco and Menton

On our third day away, we decided to venture a little further afield and try to get to grips with the French public transport system - no mean feat. Always a gamble as to whether you're at the right stop, going in the right direction or even going to get on (or off), it makes for a slightly less relaxing holiday experience. Nevertheless, costing only 1E50 for a single journey - can you really complain?

You can't go to the south of France without visiting Monaco. A principality with its own royal family, Monaco is synonymous with wealth and it's not difficult to see why. With capital city Monte Carlo being home to one of the most famous grand prix, the rich and famous flock here to follow in Grace Kelly's footsteps. We jumped off the bus after a very scenic (but busy) journey along the coast, that took in Villefranche-sur-Mer, Eze-sur-Mer and Roquebrune, and headed straight for the sea. On the way, we passed the infamous Cafe de Paris, the Casino and the Hotel de Paris, all flanked by gleaming supercars and sunglasses. And, of course, Monaco wouldn't be Monaco without all the designer brands - Hermes after Celine, after Chanel, after Gucci...

But, it was all a little underwhelming. We jumped on the bus and headed east to Menton, a smallish seaside town on the way to the Italian border. With the bluest sea and the quietest beach, we strolled along the promenade (the French love their promenades) and shared a pizza at the table below. I grabbed a bikini from a local shop and we hit the beach for some serious sunbathing and snoozing, before stopping for a kir royale and ice cream.

We caught the train home and indulged in enough wine and baked Camembert to feed the five thousand. After all, being a wannabe Monaco starlet's thirsty work...

Nice: Day II

After our first night, we decided to try and get our bearings in Nice before planning adventures further afield. So before breakfast we set off around the old port (which our apartment overlooks) coveting all the yachts, big and small alike.

Sadly we didn't manage to catch a ride on either boat so came back to the apartment for breakfast on the terrace, with a still-warm baguette from the boulangerie. After UN petit dejeuner des rois, we set out to explore the remains of the old chateau, le Lou Casteu. With settlers dating way back to 3BC, but more recently an 18th century stronghold, the ruins of the castle stand proud above the city. Although it's nothing more than rubble, the winding staircase to the top gives you the most incredible views of the bay, the town and the foothills of the Alps.

There's even a waterfall tucked away to discover too...

We then headed down into the Vieux Ville amongst pastel pink buildings and thick heavy doors. We picked up some essentials from the local épiceries and whipped up a quick and easy meal (with a not so easy to access bottle of wine) and watched the sun go down on our first full day à France.