Alpes-Maritimes: From summit to seaside

For three blissful hours we had walked across the mountain tracks of France's Roya Valley without seeing a single other person. The river snaking far below us like a ribbon had been the only guide we needed. And now here we were, 650 metres above sea level, arriving at a village that was perched like an eagle's nest on a precipitous rock face.

It was noon. We emerged from a dark passageway in the mountainside into an explosion of bright light on ancient stone, and a blaze of window boxes and tubs full of marigolds. Blinking like moles, we looked around. This was obviously the village square. But - here was the strange thing - the place was deserted. Everything was still and silent under the midday sun - the houses shuttered, the crooked alleyways eerily empty. Only an upturned toy tricycle and a child's pavement game drawn in different coloured chalks across the flagstones gave a sign of any human presence.

Negotiating a crooked corner of steep stone staircases, we climbed higher. We were now on a balcony square at the very top of the village - this time presided over by a grand and graceful church with a Baroque bell tower. Again, there wasn't another soul in sight. But the village's invisible inhabitants had been carefully tending the scene. The hedges around a small war memorial were well clipped and watered, and real daisies had been intermingled into a pot of white plastic lilies. And - lo and behold - a table and two chairs were waiting for us. It was as though someone had known we were coming.

How much more encouragement did we need? Claiming our places at the table, we lost no time in unpacking our rucksacks and settled down happily to the most pleasant of picnics. Setting out earlier that morning from the mountain town of Breil-sur-Roya, we'd bought some boursotous - local pastries filled with spinach, leeks, rice, cheese and anchovy paste - to go with the obligatory baguette, cheese and bottle of wine. At best we'd hoped to find a bench to sit on. And now we were feasting like royalty in a magical private restaurant. There was even a ruined castle on a promontory just beyond us.

The name of the village, we later found out, was Piène Haute. Balanced on the spine of a narrow ridge, it's one of the most picture-perfect of the villages perchés (literally, "perched villages") that populate this area of France. The region is the Alpes-Maritimes, where the spectacular rugged mountain peaks of the southern Alps roll majestically down to the sea. And that was the route - more or less - that we were following in our walk.

The journey looked ideal for novice (not to mention lazy) walkers such as ourselves - although, as we were learning, descending from mountain to sea doesn't mean that it's downhill all the way. The final ascent to the vantage point at Piène Haute was quite a climb. But, on the whole, the terrain is surprisingly gentle, with route maps and clearly signed walking tracks on hand to guide you through silvery olive groves and woodland gorges. The climate is famously temperate - from spring onwards, walkers will find themselves bathed in warmth and light, surrounded by clouds of butterflies and beguiled by the perfume of endless banks of wild flowers and herbs. But, above all else, it's the contrast you experience that is exhilarating. The route takes you from cool mountain villages right down to the palm-fringed beaches of the Côte d'Azur.

The cool mountain village in which we found ourselves next was some six kilometres from Piène Haute. Pretty Sospel, a medieval settlement, is about 350 metres above sea level and straddles the Bévéra river. Its buildings are painted in pink and yellow, the traditional colours of Liguria - and a reminder of how close this whole region is to the Italian border.

Sospel was once one of the most important staging posts along the old Route du Sel ("Salt Road") - the long mule track that formed the trading route between Nice and Turin until well into the 18th century. The village's main street, which was part of the old road, still has the circular drinking trough that was provided for weary animals as they passed through. The picturesque medieval bridge across the river was formerly a toll bridge.

Sospel is a crossroads for three of France's Grandes Randonnées, the country's excellent network of national footpaths. Its cobbled streets, church squares, old stone fountains and colourful houses - many with elaborate trompe l'oeil façades - make it a charming destination in itself. But it's also an excellent place to base yourself for overnight stays as part of a walking trip.

Jean-Pierre Giannini has run the Auberge Provençale, up on the hillside above the village, for 10 years, and is a mine of local information. His small hotel is fabulously quirky - he trained as an artist in Dijon, and the walls are crammed with his canvases (many of them, rather bizarrely, straight copies of notable 19th- and 20th-century paintings). Joining us at a table under a chestnut tree on his lovely terrace, he happily answered our questions about Piène Haute. Mostly it's now a holiday retreat for wealthy city folk with weekend homes there, he explained. But one or two locals remain, and it is they who keep the village so beautifully tended.

The following day, the sea beckoned, and we began our descent to the coast. I'd never been to the French Riviera, but had seen enough film clips from the Sixties of glamorous women in sunglasses and headscarves being driven around in sports cars, to suspect that this section of the trip was going to be a bit different from eating baguettes on goat tracks. But nothing had prepared me for the extraordinary vista that confronted us three kilometres out of Sospel, when Jean-Pierre dropped us at the setting-off point for the walk (some 1,000 metres above sea level).

It was breathtaking. A whole urban stretch of the French Riviera - extending from Nice, through Monaco, and into Italy - was spread out below us. It could hardly have been more different from the people-free landscapes of our earlier walks, but it was equally as thrilling.

I got in touch with my inner Sixties starlet, put on my shades, and prepared to join the Beautiful People (although I'm honour-bound to confess that this spiritual shift provided the perfect excuse for completing the last leg of the walk by taxi.)

We were staying at Menton, a coastal resort with lovely gardens, some stately Belle Epoque buildings and - to the east of the modern centre - a charming Old Town climbing back from the harbour. But now that I had the sand between my toes, so to speak, it was time to hang up the hiking boots and head for somewhere a little more glamorous.

The chic seaside town of Villefranche-sur-Mer, less than half an hour away on the coastal train, fitted the bill. So many films have been shot there - including Cocteau's 1950 classic Orphée - that it's a miracle the place doesn't charge an entry fee. Its hip little harbour-front has made it a playground for rock stars. Keith Richards and Anita Pallenberg hung out at Villa Nellcôte when the Rolling Stones were there recording Exile on Main Street in the early 1970s. More recently, sightings of Bono have been reported at the waterfront cafés. And Tina Turner, it is said, has a villa high above the town.

Sadly, there was no sign of Tina on this, the last day of our adventure. But everything else was a delight. Villefranche is that rare thing: a place that manages to be fashionable but still remain remarkably unspoilt. Built on a wooded slope, complete with citadel and picturesque old town, it circles one of the prettiest and most colourful harbours in the Mediterranean. The houses on the quayside form a luminous mosaic of Italianate ochres, pinks and oranges - the hot, bright colours sharply offset by contrasting shutters. There are plenty of expensive Italian restaurants by the quayside. But it's (just about) a working town. Fishermen still haul in catches and attend to nets on the waterfront.

And there are still strange and magical places to be found. The vaulted 13th-century Rue Obscure runs like a tunnel beneath the town and is one of the oddest streets in France - more like something from a North African kasbah than a European port. It's covered for more than half its length. As we emerged into the sunlight from its darkened archways I felt, just for a moment, that we were back in the mountains. But this time we were turning not upwards but downwards, where the blue of the Mediterranean was glinting seductively at the end of an alley and the smell of fresh fish in frying pans was calling us to lunch. We'd arrived.

TRAVELLER'S GUIDE

GETTING THERE

Linda Cookson travelled with Inntravel (01653 617 906; www.inntravel.co.uk) for her walking break. A four-night "From the Alps to the Riviera" trip offers two nights in Sospel followed by two nights in Menton at £298-£328 per person, inclusive of taxi and train transfers to and from Nice-Ville rail station, walking notes, and luggage transfers. You can reach Nice from London Waterloo in nine or 10 hours via Paris (involving a transfer across the French capital) or Marne-la-Vallée (with a direct connection) on Eurostar (08705 186 186; www.eurostar.com).

Alternatively, Nice-Côte d'Azur airport has flights from the UK airports, and a quick bus connection with Nice-Ville station.

STAYING THERE

The Auberge Provençale in Sospel (00 33 4 93 04 00 31) offers double rooms at €126 (£90), with half board, or €84 (£60) with breakfast only.

MORE INFORMATION

Sospel tourist office is at 19 Avenue Jean Médecin 06389 Sospel (00 33 4 93 04 15 80; www.sospel-tourisme.com).

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