My father lives in Bali. I wanted to treat him to a holiday where all he had to do was relax and enjoy my company. How hard could that be? One week together with nothing to do but talk. All the minutiae I don't have time to cover over the phone and in e-mails would be discussed over croissants on La Croisette, on a road trip through the south of France. The Hertz rental car was a manual convertible which meant he had to do all of the driving. Most of what I said was: "Hang on," "Look out!" and "You passed it!" And most of what he said was: "Don't talk to me while I'm driving."

My father is seventy-something. He is amiable and pleasant. People like him. I'm used to the look of sympathy he gets when they realise I'm the daughter. My father would have no problem sleeping on a mattress in a room with no window. I on the other hand have no problem switching hotel rooms three times if there's a weird odour or a strange noise. I'm used to standing in front of the manager as he sniffs the air in the room while I'm saying: "See? It does smell of chicken and pickles!" But upon arrival at the small boutique hotel Le Grimaldi in Nice, I could not find a thing wrong. The room was spacious and stylish and the bathroom was the size of a ballroom, with L'Occitane products.

Most hotels in the same price range offer lotions that smell like the inside of an aeroplane. But best of all, the room had tons of closet space. This worked for me, since I had three suitcases. My father, staying in the room next door, adored the hotel and told me so as he sat on the edge of my bed and watched me unpack. Suddenly he looked concerned. "But we're only here for three nights" He trailed off once he realised it made no difference. What he did bring, though, were his lists. He's a list-maker and I'm realising it's hereditary. Our lists are very different, though. Namely, his lists are things he needs to talk to me about doing: health insurance, taxes, etc. My lists are things he's passed on for me to do. So, while his lists are getting shorter, mine grow with all the things I haven't done.

The hotel is a two-minute walk from the Promenade d'Anglais, and over a pleasant lunch at a local bistro, I brought up my favourite topic and one that's not on his list: death. What would happen if I were to find out I was seriously ill? Would he move to New York to look after me? "You are seriously ill," my father joked. Then he told me not to worry so much and to enjoy the time I have left.

The last time my father had been to St Paul de Vence, outside Nice, Picasso and Matisse had lived there. Suffice to say, things have changed. We explored a bit before lunch, but there's something disconcerting about seeing a medieval village crammed with tourists and tacky art galleries. At the hotel-restaurant La Colombe d'Or, we sat on the terrace shaded by fig trees beneath a tremendous Léger mural. Then, at the end of the meal, I picked up the cheque and my father was touched.

There are very few things in life my father doesn't enjoy, but dreary weather does get him down. We had just arrived in St Maxime. The skies were grey and I was thrilled it was the one day I felt my equilibrium return. Our next few days would be spent at Le Beauvallon, a palace hotel built in 1913 across the bay from St Tropez, a six-minute ride away by private launch. While Le Grimaldi was tranquil, it had been centrally located in the middle of town. By contrast, Le Beauvallon is more of a destination hotel. Because of the time of year, it was particularly quiet. St Tropez was so close and yet so far. My father took the boat over. I slept late. Never was there a better reason to stay in bed. Le Beauvallon has a pillow menu. Would I go for the back-support pillow or the Mediflow Waterbase pillow that reduced neck pain? Sadly, there weren't enough nights to cover my ailments. I rang my father and suggested he try the snore-reduction pillow. He wasn't amused.

We had dinner that night at Les Colonnades, the hotel's restaurant. The following day, my neck free of pain, we were on the road to Cannes. The finale was the five-star Hôtel Martinez, but not just any room: the penthouse suite. Staying on the seventh floor of the Hôtel Martinez is so decadent, it's not a hotel stay, it's an event. Even for one night it's worth mortgaging your home. It's like going to the opera, only instead of sitting in box seats, you're soaking in a bathtub the size of Portugal. We were guided into the suite where Francis Ford Coppola and Julia Roberts have stayed during the film festival 5,000 square feet of art-deco splendour with a panoramic view of the coast. We had our own wing with a butler and a wraparound teak-wood terrace, complete with olive trees dropped in by helicopter.

My father looked startled. His own butler? He couldn't believe it. But by late afternoon he had adapted and was asking Alain to get the Jacuzzi ready. "I could get used to this," he marvelled. To unwind from the stress of such extravagance, I went for a massage at the hotel's Givenchy spa. I lay there worrying about how my father would ever be able to go back to pouring his own milk. For one more evening, he didn't have to. Dinner was at the Michelin-starred La Palme d'Or. I'd never been to a restaurant where there was a separate stool alongside the chair for my purse. It was our last meal together for a while and I wanted to savour every last minute. Luckily, it lasted four hours. I could tell my father was ready to get back to Bali and recover even though the general manager of the Martinez generously invited him to stay on. He wished me safe travels.

I realised how lucky I was to have a father who was so well liked, so hopeful and positive. I might never be like him, but at least I could treat him to a holiday every now and then. The day of our departure, we parted at the airport. We hugged goodbye. I was curious: had he any new insights into me? "Nope. You haven't changed in 30 years." That would put me at the age of seven. Since I've returned, people have commented on how much joy I must have got from this trip. And it's true. Taking a parent away is like logging Air Miles - you can cash the gratitude in later. The next time my father is upset with me because I haven't followed up on something or been "fiscally responsible", I'll pull out the Colombe d'Or. "Remember the time I picked up the cheque and you nearly fell off your chair?" So yeah, in that sense, there's nothing better.