In my new book, Concerto, the story begins in Nice, on the French Riviera. My heroine, Catriona, is an aspiring opera singer who lives with her mother in Vieux Nice, the old town, at the foot of Castle Hill.

I chose this setting for the opening of the book with one feature in mind: the breathtaking panoramic views from this part of the city.

From down at street level, Castle Hill, the Colline du Château, dominates the city skyline and draws the eye from wherever you are. It was the Greeks who first established Nice, back in the first century BC (they called it Nikaia, after Nike, the Greek goddess of victory), and built fortifications on the hill. By the 11th century there was a castle on the hill, a hub of local activity, but then in 1706 Louis XIV had it demolished. Today, you can climb Castle Hill – via steps or the ascenseur, an elevator set into an old well – and see the ruins of the castle, along with beautiful parkland, which includes this stunning waterfall:

But the castle ruins and the waterfall, and even the cemetery where lie some notable names from history, aren’t so much the draw of Castle Hill as the view – oh, what a view! On one side of the hill you can look over the Old Port of Nice:

On the other side, from the observation deck above the waterfall you can take in panoramic views of Nice and the Bay of Angels (so-called because legend tells it was here that the angels brought Adam and Eve after they were ejected from Paradise).

In Concerto, Castle Hill is a place of quiet reflection for the heroine. I write:

Catriona climbed one of the steep streets at the back of the town towards Castle Hill. At the top was a public garden, backed by a sombre mass of fig trees, looking out towards the blue horizon of the harbour and La Baie des Anges. Overlooking the Old Town, it was Catriona’s favourite place, where she went to think whenever she had a problem.

She sat on one of the little rustic benches facing the view. The early evening light was still bright, and in the distance the old citadel of Nice, deprived of its ramparts since the eighteenth century, still watched over the busy human hive humming at its feet, as far as the line of the Paillon River. Closer, nestling into the hill, lay the maze of narrow streets, old houses and ruined palaces. An atmosphere of yesteryear reigned, with crowds of fishermens’ wives crying the centuries-old ‘A la bella poutina!’, as their menfolk spread their fine mesh nets close to the beach to catch la poutine, the baby sardines and anchovies, a speciality of the Cote d’Azur. Local food sellers were plying a busy trade, including those young peasant girls who had come down for the day from neighbouring villages, selling flowers, cheeses, cured meats and other specialities from all over the Provençal region. From their lips poured forth laughter and song in one of the most striking dialects of the Mediterranean.

In this instance, I wrote very much from experience. My own home in France is in Ste Maxime, about 100 kilometres along the coast from Nice, and I have visited Nice often over the years, for shopping, meals out, the theatre – and of course sightseeing. I have sat on Catriona’s ‘thinking’ bench and drunk in that view. It’s a beautiful spot, and very inspirational for a dreamer and writer like me.