Travel diary: Cassis - Marseille - Nice - Amsterdam

Cassis is extremely touristy and crowded, but worst thing about it is the relentless noise of the the crickets, the 'cigales'. They drive me round the bend.

I drink many bottles of water and wish I'd brought my migraine tablets. I find a shady spot somewhere and wait until I can take the 4.30pm bus back to Marseille.

Monday 9/8 Marseille - Nice

Up at the crack of dawn to catch the 8.35 back to Nice. It turns out to be a sleeper train that's come from Brussels. There's a bloke asleep in my seat and the whole place is a bit stinky. I'm in a sour, sour mood (hormones - I really am very, very unlucky this holiday). Hate everybody and want them to perish in flames.

I sleep most of the way but wake up for the last hour and want to stuff people's mobiles ('I'm on the train. Putain. Another hour to Nice. Putain. Putain. Putain. Putain.') down their throats.

My hotel in Nice is next to the train station. The staff at the Ibis are so rude I suspect they're Dutch. Thank god my room is ready for me. Nice double bed, air conditioning, clean bathroom. Relative bliss. After a while out I go out to take pictures of Vieux Nice. I struggle with the bright sun - a lot of pictures turn out overexposed. I eat a dates & figs flavoured ice cream (too chicken to try out the basil, tomato, lavender and many other whacky flavours).

By 3pm I return to the hotel to make use of their tiny pool which is unfortunately infested with some rather annoying Italians. Computer salesmen from the looks of 'em, splashing water at each other getting other guests wet in the process. A sickly looking pregnant woman and smug looking Asian husband ('I got her pregnant, me.') join us. The sun goes behind the tall Ibis building - it's immediately chilly.

In the evening I go to the promenade to take pictures. On my way I spot a nice looking restaurant with a 13.50 Euro menu which I return to after it gets too dark to take photographs. The 13.50 menu's only for two. Single peeps always get ripped off.

Despite the worrying decor (old cartwheel and other farmland paraphernalia), this restaurant is very comfortable. It is a quiet night and the only other people in the restaurant are tourists which is a little worrying - but it's fine. The others guests are two (separate) Scottish couples and two deeply tanned and very tall German men who look like they walked straight off the Careless Whisper set - white linen drawstring pants, designer shirts.

The starter is a choice from the salad bar - all home cooked. Lovely thick vinaigrette to go with it. I pick some kind of stuffed fish rolls with fennel sauce as a main course but the minute I taste it I realise I crave red meat. Pity. The bearded cook (husband of the patronne?) can be seen through a small window. All in all a nice dinner with lovely service from the patronne. She, 45+, looks stylishly casual in her red summer dress.

In fact most people look very well dressed in France, especially elderly women. Neat skirts and dresses, acessories, the whole works. And dogs. Dogs everywhere. Little fluffy ones. There's dog shit everywhere too - stinking up the sidewalk. Worse than in Holland.

Tuesday 10/8 Nice - Amsterdam

'I'll have breakfast at Nice airport,' I say to myself, but there's no food past customs - orange juice and water keep me alive until the vile sandwhich on board the flight. The worst thing about going home is that the holiday ends at the departing airport, when you start hearing your own language spoken again.

In line at check in, a stuck up and dissatisfied Dutch-Indonesian woman complains over the fact that the busines class desk isn't open yet. Because waiting in line is just too common. She just goes on and on about it to her children and long suffering husband. Her son is a (Dutch idol) Jamai look-alike, with trademark specs. Her daughter doesn't seem too bright. The woman claims she'll write a letter to KLM to complain. 'They don't know how to organise things,' and in her voice I hear a lifelong mistrust and faintly racist attitude towards the Dutch. I recognise it because it's only too familiar.

An American couple complains about the seats on their ongoing flight from Amsterdam to New York - the ground stewardess is unable to book them two seats together. A full ten minutes she tries to draw better seats from the system but she has to give up in the end. When she finally starts helping me the husband returns to complain once more: "We are a married couple. It's eight hours on the flight!"

Sir, your marriage will last an average of 7 to 12 years. What's eight hours on that? The ground stewardess and I do a simultaneous rolling of eyes. Followed by grins.

When the flight attendant comes by she offers me "Tchjeese or Tchjikun?" I opt for chicken and read the label on its wrapper as I chew the tasteless KLM bun. It's labelled 'turkey'. Ditz.