In our life there is a single colour, as on an artist’s palette, which provides the meaning of life and art. It is the colour of love.

So said Marc Chagall. Chagall is famous, of course, for his Surrealist art; his paintings hang in the greatest galleries in the world and his ceiling fresco draws eyes heavenward in the Opéra Garnier, Paris. But he is also remembered as a resident, for the last two decades of his life, of a little medieval hilltop town in France which features in my latest novel, Concerto.

St Paul de Vance is an artist’s heaven. Matisse and Picasso lived nearby and visited often, and to this day the town is known for its art galleries and museums, such as the Maeght Foundation, which houses more than 12,000 pieces of modern art. It is easy to see why so many artistic souls have been drawn to the town, not only painters, but writers and musicians too: the quirky little twisting streets, the far-reaching views, the sense of history at every turn, the peace, the sky – so much sky. Even the cemetery in St Paul de Vance, where Chagall lays at rest, has beautiful views.

In Concerto, Umberto takes Catriona to St Paul de Vence for their first date. Here is Catriona’s first impression of the town:

The medieval town of St Paul de Vence stood perched high up at the very heart of a vortex of hills. During the day one could see it for miles at the top of a fertile sun-kissed plateau, jutting out between two valleys with the ground falling sharply away from it on every side but one. There, a narrow passage not more than eight feet wide with three archways, each protected by a massive iron-studded portcullis, was the one point of entry.

They entered the town through the sturdy old gateway and climbed the steep cobbles, winding their way from narrow street to street through ancient arches. The surroundings were so medieval it was as though the present had been banished altogether.

They passed by beetling walls, pierced with tiny unglazed windows, their original worm-eaten shutters closed to the night air. Some of the old dwellings had been turned into shops, their narrow doors reached by worn steps. With the merest flight of fancy one could picture a peasant in his tattered greatcoat and old-fashioned breeches climbing the slope that led to the top or some old-time priest wending his way with swinging cassock, dreaming of ecclesiastical matters as his fingers moved along a rosary.

Umberto leads Catriona through a gate in the wall at the top of the hill. After walking down a narrow, arched avenue lined with plane trees, they reach their destination for the evening, a private restaurant in a converted church. The interior is stunning: a vaulted ceiling, stained-glass windows, beautiful statues and paintings. But it is the view through the great arched Gothic windows that is most spectacular. I write:

The night was of the softest blue as wisps of cloud moved slowly across a pale full moon, while below the walls cultivated land spread in ordered, terraced symmetry either side of steeply tumbling paths. In the distance the sea seemed to have withdrawn into remoteness, the ocean waves suddenly frozen under Cap d’Antibes’ flashing lighthouse beam. For Catriona tonight, there was no grander or more exhilarating view in the whole world.

Catriona tells Umberto, ‘This place is so beautiful, I wonder if I’m dreaming.’ When I wrote that line, I had in mind another quotation from Marc Chagall: ‘Love and fantasy go hand in hand.’ In such an amazing, almost fantastical place, beneath a sky painted that single colour that provides the meaning of life and art – love can blossom.