Up with Eos and out into a magnificent day of clear sunshine. I left my bags with Leo the concierge and strode out to the Place de la Concorde. As I rounded the corner of the Hotel de Crillon a very fresh breeze made me wonder why I had left my jacket behind. I could have nipped back but didn’t want to miss any of this light so I thought I’d risk it.
The arch at the top of the Champs Elysees called me and I couldn’t resist it.
There weren’t many folk about yet. This was All Saint’s Day, a national holiday. It had scuppered my plans for museums which I would now have to cram into tomorrow.
I saw a café so red it was like something out of The Fantastic Voyage.
When I got to L’Etoile I got a look at M. Rude of Dijon’s sculpture on the side.
I took the Metro for the heck of it. I wanted to get to the Eiffel Tower but the 6 wasn’t running so I did a work around. Ridiculous really. Up to Place de Clichy and then down to Invalides where I was going to catch the RER. But someone had decided that All Saint’s Day was their day to exit this earthly realm and had thrown themselves across the tracks. I walked out onto the quai where the sunshine made it hard to even contemplate suicide.
Walking over the Pont d’Alexander the Bat-O-Bus (actually a great name) was getting up steam. I hopped on and we went downstream to M. Eiffel’s vertical Forth Bridge.
This was proper tourist stuff but it was fun.
We got a grebe’s eye view of the houseboats and wondered what that kind of life was like.
The bus – with the handling of a punt – did a messy u-turn and puttered off in the other direction. I got off an hour later at Jardin des Plantes and sunk a quick Ricard before walking back.
Ile St. Louis is one of those really romantic places, at least it always had been for me, and conjured up those heady days with G… BC.
In Cafe de Lille – on the point facing Citè – and had a superb and fluffy omelette and green salad. A glass of red Sancerre to go with.
The leaves were turning outside. The wine had made me drowsy. I hailed a cab on the embankment. I wasn’t sure that’s how you got a taxi but he stopped anyway. Moaning how bad business was on a bank holiday.
That evening I strolled down to Pont d’Alma where the Bateau Mouches were moored and caught another scenic tour of the river.
Perfect timing. The boat ready to go and the sun only just underground. The Catherine Deneuve (I would have preferred the Isabelle Adjani but beggars can’t be choosers) had 1000 tourists on board. A great raft of a thing.
The bridges were pretty and it was still warm enough for just a sweatshirt. Hard to credit it was now November.
‘A superb row of mansion houses typical of the Belle Epoque vernacular.’ said the stilted voice on the tannoy.
‘The Seine has always been a major commercial thoroughfare. Here we are 395 miles by water to the sea.’
I tapped noise cancelling on my earpods and tuned it out with Gérard Depardieu
The dear old tower was lit up in the colour or a Golden Rain firework. What a day. It made me think about what I had planned for tomorrow and to abandon it. So beautiful was this lovely city that simply walking its streets was a luxury. After all I was an Englishman and always carried my umbrella.
