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This collective helped me plan our trip to Nice, so it seems appropriate to report back on how it went.

It started long before the crack of dawn on Sunday: Herself and I left home at 4 a.m. to drive gingerly on icy roads to the airport in order to check in for an early-morning flight. We arrived in Nice at 10.30, found a bus to the gare, and located our hotel.

The hotel, which we had chosen on the basis of gleanings from the web, seemed a fairly typical French railway-station area hotel, with the advantage of being located in a quiet street. What I mean by typical is that it was not luxurious, did not have much public space, had no bar, and the maintenance programme was a little behind  the rate of dilapidation. But our room was clean, the bed was comfortable, the television worked, and the tiny shower room was satisfactory. And it was cheap. What we found a little unusual for a hotel of this type was the friendly manner of the proprietor and the staff; the norm in such establishments is politesse rather than chaleur.

We were installed before noon. As we had only three days available, we set out to start the real holiday experience.

First target was the vieux quartier. It is, as members of the rec.travel.europe advisory committee suggested, a fun place of narrow streets and interesting buildings, slopes and steps, shops and restaurants. As it was a Sunday at the end of February, it was a bit quieter that we might expect on a Thursday in July, but at least we could progress without being pushed along by throngs or bumped into by witless visitors. We had a reasonable lunch in a cheap restaurant and did some watching of the world go by. The main entertainment was a dance class taking place in the small square in front of us: a young woman was drilling two little girls aged about eight in what appeared to be the basics of a stage routine; over and over again, without flagging, and with great persistence, for about 40 minutes. One or two passers-by stopped, watched, and even joined in briefly in good humour. But the little cadre worked on and on relentlessly (they weren't particularly good dancers, but that didn't matter).

Then, again following advice, we climbed towards the remains of the chateau. The hill is very nicely developed as a park, and local people were out in force, walking babies, strolling, roller-skating, generally enjoying themselves -- probably thankful to have their turn in their own city without being inundated with tourists like us. The view from the summit is worth the climb: the sea (azure even in February), the city with its mediterranean red roofs, the encircling mountains, the more remote of which were snow-capped.

From the summit we heard a driving percussion rhythm, and established that it was coming from the port area. It was imperative that we investigate, so down we went. There was an assembly of hundreds of young people in fancy dress, flour-bombing anybody incautious enough to come within range. We chose caution, and so didn't discover what the event was. They moved off in procession, and we moved further out of range -- there were some franc-tireurs ranging around the place. An inspection of boats was a must. What an assortment! At one end of the scale there were traditional open boats, some so small that I would hesitate to cross the harbour in them, let alone go to sea. At the other end of the scale there were private yachts of 25m. or more, and with more accommodation than a good-sized house -- toys for rich boys.

By now we had walked a lot, and no longer had our bearings. So into a cafe for refreshments and map consultation. We established where we were in relation to our hotel, and set out to return there. After some walking, herself suspected that we were not going the right way, and suggested that we consult the map again. Fine, I thought, and more coffee is always welcome (one of our security strategies is to avoid consulting maps or guidebooks on the street). So into another cafe, and I waited for her to produce the map; and she waited for me to produce it. No map. It was on the table in the last cafe.

No problem. I am a confident navigator, especially when I am wrong, so we resumed our peregrinations. And a gare is easy to find. Sure enough, I led us back to the hotel, and by a route that was no more than three times as long as the most direct one.

It was now early evening. We had almost no sleep the previous night, and had done more than four hours' walking. A nap seemed a good idea, and then we went out and found a restaurant near the hotel for dinner. Too footsore to seek out anything special, we ended up in a modest and moderately-priced place near our base. The food was quite acceptable, and our neighbours were quite entertaining: three English people. apparently unused to France. The man had a steak "bien cuit", and sent it back to be burnt some more; one of the two women was toying with a spaghetti carbonara which looked quite good, but she was apparently disappointed because it did not have a meat and tomato sauce; the other woman had chicken which she pronounced flavourless (if you want flavour, why order chicken?). It was obvious that they were not enjoying their meal. Yet they tipped the serveuse generously and said nothing to her about the food -- but said among themselves, for all their neighbours to hear, that the French don't know how to cook.

And there ended day one, and so, like Pepys, to bed.