It's nicer in Nice

The English have been in love with Nice since the 19th century when they'd travel to the South of France to inhale the medicinal sea air.

The Hi Hôtel, which opened in March, is a challenge to London snittiness and a masterclass in Gallic pretension.

The hotel is about five minutes from the sea, in a residential area where the locals are mainly perfectly preserved old dames and their toy poodles. On arrival, through a pair of Star Trek sliding glass doors, we were greeted by French ambient music (played day and night throughout the hotel) and Audrey. Audrey is the receptionist and, like all Hi staff, looks and dresses better than the guests. But she proved lovely and patiently explained the nine different room concepts.

Yes, this is a 'concept' hotel and we soon learnt we were staying in the Indoor Terrace concept. 'The shower is open: it's in the main room and has clear glass,' said Audrey, grinning. 'You're lucky,' she continued, registering our prudish Anglo shock. 'At least you have a separate toilet. Some rooms are completely exposed.' Which appears to be the concept. Matali Crasset, a Philippe Starck protégée and the hotel's principal designer, wanted to 'take off the walls'. So everything is open, from the reception to the wardrobes to the kitchen.

Pretension aside, our room was impressive with a deep blue squidgy resin-coated floor, light blue walls and exposed cupboards. The bed and shower were on a raised terrace with a few strategic reeds to conceal the bather's modesty.

The loo was in a separate shed in keeping, I suppose, with the horticultural theme. Nice little touches included dinky bedside tables that slide out and our very own goldfish. It isn't quite polished enough to satisfy the most Wallpaper*-conscious, but fits in perfectly with the sunny outside environment. We unpacked - instantly making our room look messy - showered (closing the blinds so as not to give the aged neighbours a coronary) and then set about exploring Nice. Despite now having a boutique hotel, the city remains reassuringly familiar: the life-affirming sea air, the perfect blue vistas, the sense of faded grandeur pervading its every architectural pore. We strolled down the promenade, past the Rollerbladers and dog walkers, to the old town, the most picturesque quarter. Here it's a tangle of streets and churches and noise. The best spot to sit and watch the flâneurs pose is cours Saleya, the flower market just yards from the sea. Most of the restaurants here are a bit touristy and the food only OK, with the notable exception of Le Safari where we settled down to a splendid meal of sea bass and white wine from nearby Cassis.

It felt appropriate to explore the other Londonfriendly addition to Nice: Le Before bar. On first impressions, this subterranean bar could have been in any city in the world, with its chic leather seats and DJ booth, but the clientele were pure Côte d'Azur: young, beautiful Vanessa-Paradis-circa-1989 girls and older men in sockless loafers who bore more than a striking resemblance to Picasso during his lecherous period.

The next day called for some culture. After breakfast, we climbed a hill of wedding-cake mansions to the Musée des Beaux-Arts. This has to be the loudest museum in the world: on the day we visited, there was a coachload of old ladies (minus their dogs) who appeared to have confused the building with their local day centre. Nevertheless, some great artists such as Dufy and Rodin are represented here, as well as one Jules Chéret whose work, to the untrained eye, looks rather like the pavement pastels Dick Van Dyke did in Mary Poppins.

If it's sunny then Sunday is a beach day for the whole of Nice. And, before our flight home, it would have been churlish not to join them. The beach may not be the most inviting - it's pebbly, and curiously the pebbles seemed to be the lumpiest we'd ever encountered - but it's certainly good fun with toddlers and grandmothers and groups of flirty teenagers all out enjoying the weather. On a nearby newsstand, we caught sight of the local paper, Nice-Matin, and its front-page splash - the Beckhams' new house in neighbouring Var. The English, Londoners, the Beckhams - this Niçois love affair might be turning into a marriage.