For the past fifteen years I've spent a good part of each summer in the south of France. While making arrangements for this year's trip I began to reflect on how these annual sojourns have evolved. I arrived in Nice by train one sweltering July day having left my flat in Paris with the intention of being gloriously idle for a couple of months. I had packed in my small valise only the barest essentials- swimsuits and a few shirts, and had with me nothing more formal than my travelling outfit which consisted of cut-off jean shorts, a white linen shirt and suede Gucci loafers. By chance I happened upon a small family-owned hotel that seemed to evoke a primitive charm. Although it lacked many conveniences it was centrally located and extremely cheap. So there I stayed. For six weeks. I made many friendships that first summer and they have endured. I also fell in love with the Nicois. They stretched out their arms to me and led me through the maze of their history, customs and cuisine. They took me for weekends at Cap d'Antibes, and nights in Monaco; on drives along the Corniche to beaches, chateaux, and village after village drenched in beauty.

I was timid about speaking French. By that time I had been living in Paris for nearly a year but I'd never really used the language. In that city it is quite easy to get by on just a few phrases. In Nice, however, only the tourists and establishments that catered to them spoke English. If I really wanted to know the region and the people I would have to penetrate their speech, wouldn't I? I needn't have worried. After a few tentative phrases, and the patient encouragement of those around me, I was able to string along sentences and even whole paragraphs. The French that I had unwittingly absorbed in Paris came pouring out with surprising fluency. I left Nice at summer's end buoyed by my experiences there, vowing to return.

Today I fly from New York in great comfort and taxi straight to that same hotel. Over the years the owners have prospered and the once gently fading building has been renovated and modernised; two more stars twinkle brightly next to the listing in hotel guide books. I can always depend on an exuberant welcome from the family and staff who run the place so well, no matter how popular the hotel has become. But my stay here is only for a few days, time enough to renew and review. We raise a glass to Nice, and all of la Cote d'Azur, while we're at it. We gaze down a long road and remember humbler times.

I am a guest each summer at a friend's villa and so head off in my journey further south to a tiny village bordered on one side by the gulf and on the other a jolly port crowded with the yachts of the superrich. My host is a man who knows everyone and always manages to assemble an interesting and varied crowd. It is no longer a surprise to me to be greeted upon my arrival by a half-naked, slightly sunburnt, and decidedly drunk prince- the longtime friend of my host. Our party usually consists of a few celebrated giants, often without their significant others; one or two notorious characters anxious to denounce or promote their latest front page scandal; and a few innocent bystanders (the group in which I plant myself firmly). There are, I think, a dozen or so guest rooms in the main house and four little cottages so there is always plenty of room. My usual and favourite room is low-ceilinged and square, dominated by an ancient carved four-poster bed. The balcony overlooks the shingled rooftops that dot the valley below.

Our days are spent simply though somewhat hedonistically, sprawled around the pool, our every desire catered to by the household staff, or along the golden stretches of exquisite beach. In the evenings in groups small or large we might head into the village centre- a convoy of sleek sportscars blazing over cobbled roads. The shops and restaurants and discotheques seem to exist only for the likes of us- the 'summer ones' (we can't really be called tourists) often engaging the world's greatest chefs and deejays. What a group we are. Photographs show us as a bronzed and expensively-dressed, multi-national, long-limbed gaggle of gazelles. Some of us are incredibly beautiful. Some of us are world-weary and a bit jaded. Together we unite, a world clique of champagne drinkers.

Some things never change however, and I know that at one point I shall leave the sybaritic life of the villa and go off on my own for a day or a week. There are other friends to see in the neighbouring villages. There is the scent of bougainvillea to inhale in deep draughts, and sunsets to contemplate. There is a world of wonder and love and adventure round every corner.