Wine and roses in the Riviera

Chilled rosé wine, a rose garden, blue skies in the Cote d' Azur: what more could a girl want?

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After our first lazy couple of days in Nice, we decided to focus less on the eating and more on the sight-seeing... that worked out well. I'm honestly surprised at the amount of things - and food - we managed to cram on our last day.

I was the first one out of bed, and, seriously hungry, decided to abandon my companion and head out into the sun for breakfast. I was seriously tempted to just go back to Fenocchio's but decided to keep the gelato as a treat... and in any case I had yet to do the cliché thing of sitting outside with a café-crème and a croissant, so walked off to La Femme du Boulanger (the baker's wife), a cute little place tucked away on a side street.

I sat outside, in the sun (which would later turn out to be a mistake as it became hotter and brighter), and felt all glamorous and French ordering that coffee and croissant I'd been craving so badly.

There is an undeniable pleasure in having breakfast, uninterrupted, unrushed, where you allow yourself to ease into the day with the rich, warm aroma of a well-made coffee, a book by the side. I haven't had this kind of luxury in months.

By the time I came out of my reverie, it was already brunch time and La Femme du Boulanger was advertising its lunch menu. Sujji wasn't here yet, so why not.

I opted for a 'tartine poilâne' - a heavily garnished open sourdough toast, which came with different toppings - forest mushrooms, goat's cheese and honey, ratatouille. I opted for a vegetarian version of the latter, and they obligingly adapted the recipe and added huge chunks of warm goat's cheese on top.

They served the gigantic platter with a pot of honey (for the goat's cheese) and, predictably, the salade mesclun which seems to tag along with every single dish you buy here in Nice. Not that I'm complaining.

The tartine was excellent, and soon Sujji joined me, beaming with excitement at having accomplished the feat of purchasing pastry in a French bakery in French.

We set off to the city centre, where, of course, we had to greet the bright sun with gelato. We made a quick pit stop at Amorino's, the gelato branch all over Europe that's famous for making rose-shaped ice-cream cones.

If you come across one, give the basil and lime flavour a go; it's unbelievably fresh and zingy and feels like you're having a mojito (minus the alcohol). I chose passion fruit and chocolate to go with it and saw heaven for a few moments.

Now, there's only one thing that beats gelato on a hot sunny day, as I found out: splashing in water fountains.

It didn't take much to unleash our inner kid.

We (almost) shoved other kids out of the way to play with bubbles, before getting distracted by the jets of tantalisingly cold water from the fountain. There was only one thing to do...

^ Pretending to be a water-bender while Sujji looks all pretty and dreamy below.

When do we lose sight of the kid inside us? I confess to being very self-conscious initially - for no valid reason whatsoever. I think I'll adopt the philosophy of 'what would a kid do' in life - I'm sure I'll be a much happier person for it!​

The water was utterly refreshing. We twirled, made ripples, danced and shrieked with laughter when we were caught in the sudden eruption of the fountain

I think we were so silly that even kids wondered who had unleashed these two lunatics into the respectable society of Nice...

We reluctantly dragged ourselves from the Fountain, as we were headed to Matisse's Museum and the Monastery, up the hill, both of which close quite early.

Pictures weren't allowed inside the Monastery. The building was cool, made of stones. The voices of the resident monks rose in a surreal choir, permeating the old walls.

We emerged into the sunlight after that brief, strange visit, and headed straight for the gardens attached to the Monastery.

It was a different world together.

Gazebos covered with trailing roses overlooked the city and the bright blue sea.

Roses of every possible colour bloomed everywhere.

Their scent carried faintly on the breeze rolling in from the Mediterranean.

The tinkle of a water fountain mixed with the laughter of children and old people and the wind in the trees.

And I made a new friend.

Decrepit but friendly. he seemed purrfectly content to snooze in the sun and let himself be cuddled.

Didn't some wise person say that the earth laughs in flowers?

The golden hour sun made everything look particularly magical.

Can you blame us for sticking our nose in?

The beauty of the place made us giddy with happiness.

To the point that we were utterly silly when we visited the Musée Matisse. Although, given our record with Chagall the day before, this was to be expected...

#monsteramondays were clearly a thing even back then.

Leaving behind the Musée, and with only a couple of hours before my flight back to London-town, we went back to Tote et Mamie Charlotte, a tiny brasserie that we'd discovered the day before, and which had won us over with their amazing hot chocolate, served with a side of sass by the waitress.

Rich and made to a secret recipe, apparently.

Conscious that I was cutting it very fine to get to the airport, we headed towards our AirBnB ... and, unsurprisingly, were sidetracked by a wine cave; Cave Bianchi, a 150-year old, family-run establishment, that we'd wanted to visit but had always found closed.

It was like Alibaba's cave. Bottles of unique wines were piled in crates, whilst some venerable looking ones bid their time on shelves. We were greeted by the owner - I'm afraid I forgot his name, but I know he's originally from Corsica - who poured us both a glass of rosé.

We engaged in conversations about politics, the history of wine, and travels and felt we might have been sitting in the parlour of a particularly wordly uncle; sadly, Easyjet waits for no man and we had to leave - with promises that we'd come back.

That was one way to end what had been a perfect, idyllic holiday.