Glam rocks

Joanna Houseman heads from Nice’s glittering promenade to the Provencale hills. [Sep 04]

Stupidly rich, ridiculously famous and impossibly beautiful, the French Riviera is what every seaside resort wants to be when it grows up. The panting summers and mild winters along this 40-odd-mile stretch of Mediterranean coast, from Nice to the Italian border, have been tempting the world’s wealthiest oil paintings for the past 200 years - first the British, then the Russians, then the Americans. The vapour trails of glamour they’ve left behind them are everywhere - you want sports cars, yachts, film stars, footballers? You’ve got Ôem. But fly into Nice, the Riviera’s capital, on a clear autumn day, and you’ll realise why, beyond the glam and glitz and palm-lined promenades, this sun-dried slice of south-eastern France still exerts its golden pull.

Just up from the shimmering swimming pools, the snow-capped peaks of the southern Alps drop like lazy jewels into the bluest sea. Think deserted mountains, wooded hills, limestone gorges, unspoiled villages, eagles’ nests, wild honeysuckle and more butterflies than you can shake a jam-jar at. This was once an inhospitable shore with few natural harbours, where tiny communities huddled round feudal castles high above sea level, and today these hilltop towns are the secret jewels in the Riviera’s glittering crown. Writers and artists came in their droves - Picasso, Matisse, Chagall, Gide, DH Lawrence - and it’s not hard to see why.

A 45-minute bus ride from Nice brings you to the outrageously pretty St Paul-de-Vence, with cobbled medieval streets and seriously panoramic views. Relax on the Vieux Moulin’s terrace with a glass of rose, then amble down to the Fondation Maeght, an art gallery in the woods that’s home to bewitching sculptures and ceramics by Chagall, Miro, Giacometti et al. A couple of miles north, Vence is packed with ancient houses, fountains and chapels. DH Lawrence and Chagall both snuffed it here, and Matisse rocked up towards the end of the second world war to escape the Allied bombing of the coast. Check out his doodles at the Chapelle du Rosaire (he used a paintbrush fixed to a six-foot-long bamboo stick). Further east, Grasse serves up more stomach-churning views of the coast. This is the capital of French perfume, and they’ll talk you through it entertainingly, from the French noblewomen who smeared themselves with lavender essence to ward off fleas, to dubious ingredients like civet (extract of cat’s genitals).

Nice itself is the perfect base for exploring these gorgeous pockets of Provence. A great combination of big city and beach, it’s not exclusive like St Tropez and is everything that Cannes (Bradford with money) isn’t. You’ll soon get a feel for the layout of the city, stretching along the Bay of Angels where the Alps and the Paillon river meet the sea. All faded glamour, Old Nice spreads westwards from the hill of Le Chateau into a rabbit-warren of little streets with baroque pink-ochre facades. You can walk everywhere, and one of the nicest shopping streets is St Francois de Paule, home to Elton John's favourite restaurant when he's in town: La Petite Maison. Nice was part of Sardinia until 1860, and the resulting Provencale-Italian cuisine is predictably yummy.

Now’s the time to go, with the summer crowds and traffic jams dissipated. Get up close to that sweep of bay immortalised by Dufy and tread the most immaculate pebbles on the Cote d'Azur. Everyone has time for you here, and even the bus drivers smile.

Short break Llwyngwair Manor Holiday Park

"It looks like Jurassic Park." They should copyright this description 'cos one mention of 'those enormous weird plants' and people know instinctively that you're talking about Llwyngwair Manor. Not that you'd get an inkling of the popularity of this hidden gem of a campsite just a mile (seems loads longer when you're walking it, half-cut, come closing time) outside of Newport, so sprawling and surprisingly private is it. The pictures on the website don't do justice to the sheer scale of the place. It's breathtaking, even on a (rare) grey and drizzly Pembrokeshire day, with one mother of an imposing forest hemming you in and a babbling brook to soothe you gently to sleep come lights out. Facilities: well, there's the Preselis out front to keep you busy, a tennis court, children's play areas, private fishing, games room and nearby walks to the beautiful beach (half-hour direct road route, hour and a half if you like the cowpat-dodging kind of meander). Stop at The Golden Lion in Newport on the way home for some seriously fine grub and the best juke box in three counties or splash out at Llys Meddyg - the local gastronomes' haunt. If it's booze you're after, then there's lots of it, for very little money, at one of the many traddy pubs in 'town'. The walk home will sober you up, after all.

Llwyngwair Manor Holiday Park Newport, Pembrokeshire. Ffi: (01239) 820498

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