Parisian weekend part I

"There are only two places in the world where we can live happy: at home, and in Paris."  So said the famous American writer, Ernest Hemingway.  I, too, fell in love with Paris, a decade ago, when I was young and idealistic, playing in a world that was half-life, half-dream, as much imaginary now as it was real then.  Today it seems like a thousand years ago, but with the passing of time, there remains an inextinguishable torch that, from time-to-time, calls me back to the City of Light.

A beaming, involuntary grin stretches across my face as Lizzie and I climb, hand-in-hand, up the final steps that link Rue Muller below, with Rue Lamarck atop the Butte de Montmartre.  Eight seconds later, the Sacre Coeur ghosts into view, surreal and spiritual, a guardian angel watching lovingly over the city.  From the front of the church, every landmark in the city can be seen - Les Invalides, the Pompidou Centre, Notre Dame de Paris, Tour Montparnasse, and everything in between.  It's a great space to be introduced to Paris, but it's even better if you already know what you're looking at, pointing out the landmarks sprinkled all over the city centre.  For us, in a dim and breezy evening, it's a stroll down Rue des Abbesses, and dinner in a quintessentially Parisian restaurant, Villa des Abbesses - baked camembert with honey and figs, roasted half chicken with pomme frites, the best profiteroles I've ever tasted, and tarte au pomme, simply delightful.

Next morning, in a crisp, blue-skied world that shows Paris off to its winter best, we hop aboard the metro, destination Ile de la Cite and Ile Saint-Louis, the oldest part of the modern city.  The only two natural islands still remaining in the Seine in Paris, and the location where the medieval city was re-founded (let us not forget, of course, that Paris was first a Roman settlement - Lutetia,) there's very much a natural air of history and intrigue to the islands.  Dominated by the vast and stunning Notre Dame de Paris, which in a certain light appears to be made of nothing more than ice cream wafers, it's a gothic masterpiece of breath-taking proportions, and an easy rival to any of the world's great churches.  Our visit, on a quiet and restful Friday morning, sees the place at its best, with the calm waters of the Seine lapping gently against the island, the peace broken only by the flapping of pigeons, tweeting of sparrows, and the clip-clop of the mounted police patrolling the roads.  Ile Saint-Louis, with its upmarket shops, is a perfect place to stop, buy a pastry, and take in the view up the Seine.

Crossing the river for the Left Bank and the Latin Quarter with its student ambiance, we wander up the iconic Boulevard Saint-Michel (instantly recalling the Peter Starstedt hit - You live in a fancy apartment, off the Boulevard Saint-Michel; where you keep your Rolling Stones records, and a friend of Sacha Distel, yes you do) where the bookshops are slowly and sadly being replaced with designer stores.  We're deep into Hemingway territory at this point - to the left lies Rue Mouffetard, where the author once owned an apartment, whilst to the right sits one of his favourite spots (and, if rumour is to be believed, where killed and ate pigeons during his poorest days,) the Jardin du Luxembourg.  It's one of my favourite spots too, for the park, in the city's 6th arrondissement, really is the people's park.  A wonderful escape from the bustle of the streets, its 23 hectares covers tree-lined promenades, flowerbeds, a splendid boating pool and, in the centre of it all, the Luxembourg Palace, once a royal residence for Louis XIII's mother, and more lately a legislative building and seat of the French Senate.  A stroll around the park in the winter sunshine is an absolute delight, and one that city dwellers obviously appreciate, for this is indeed a busy park - runners on the soft sandy paths create a rhythmic backdrop against which children sail boats, old men play boules, energetic sorts scamper around tennis courts, and the more lethargic sit peacefully watching the world go by.  The good nature of the park is quite infectious - it's impossible not to like, and admire, Parisians' mass use of the space as the city's biggest and freest leisure complex.  And at the end of the day, could there be a more fitting embodiment of the Revolution?

Aside from the general atmosphere and lovely gardens, the Jardin du Luxembourg is also home to a variety of sculptures, including the original model of the Statue of Liberty.  This is Frederic Auguste Bartholdi's first model of the world-famous lady, standing in peaceful solitude surrounded all around by trees.  Rumour is, in fact, that even this model is only a replica, the real original having been moved to the Musee d'Orsay in 2014.  Nonetheless, it feels like a nice touch of history, and for us, a precursor of things to come later in the year.

Our evening begins in classy style at Charles de Gaulle Etoile, where the enormous Arc De Triomphe bathes in golden light, and is the one monument above all others in Paris that never fails to impress.  Radiating out from its centre (which also includes the nationally sacred tomb of the unknown soldier) are twelve avenues, which includes the world famous Avenue des Champs-Elysees.  It's a funny old road, a mixture of restaurants, souvenir shops, ultra-expensive boutiques and (somewhat bizarrely) myriad car salesrooms.  It may be something of a let-down for the serious shopper, but there's something about an hour's evening stroll through the crowds that has just a hint of magic.  Indeed, it's worth the metro ride here just to watch the traffic make its way around the Arc, surely the world's most neurotic roundabout, where drivers on all manner of vehicles fight and jostle for position, often with terrifying consequences.  For us, the main draws are the Swatch Shop and the Disney Store, before we make for Avenue Montaigne (couture lovers take note, for this is where the highest fashion houses - Louis Vuitton, Dior, Ralph Lauren et al - gather) and across the Pont de l'Alma, for one quick glimpse of an illuminated Eiffel Tower.  Tomorrow brings promises of Paris's alternative tower and a river cruise, before we head back to the most atmospheric of all the city's neighbourhoods, the 18th arrondissement, Montmartre.

February flowers

On a weekend where snowflakes swirled wildly in the air, and hail stones smashed to the ground under thick green-grey clouds, it really has felt like we're in the grip of a long, hostile winter.  From the outside, the garden too takes on this facade of the season, but in a rare half hour of sunshine, where the bitter winds seemed to briefly drop, the onset of spring - even in its most embryonic state - was almost tangible.  This winter has been endless, and the dark, cold months have had a much greater effect on me than usual.  Maybe it's the lack of sunlight, the soullessly damp evenings, or the unfulfilled need to care for, grow and nurture, but I'm impatient to once more spend warm mornings and sunny evenings planting, pruning, and communing with nature.

Last year, our patch of early daffodils were brutally shredded by winter storms, and never really showed their beautiful flowers.  Fast forward to now, and a lovely surprise on my ascent up the steps, which almost saw my heart skip a beat.  They're a particularly early variety, and a very welcome sight, basking in the glory of their own fineness.  I think I get Wordsworth now - perhaps his host of golden daffodils was the first sign of life he saw at the end of a long winter.  

Bulbs are the kings of the early gardening season.  As well as the daffs, croci and tulips are beginning to poke their heads up, with a promise of things to come.  Meanwhile, up in the shady corner of the winter border, another bulb, winter aconite, has began to bring its unabashedly yellow heads above the soil.  Winter aconite has become a favourite of mine, and suits this spot perfectly, where it will flower and die back before the towering trees come back to life and cast their thicker shade.  They share their border with the hellebores - which are also now showing their buds - and the cyclamen which, having flowered all through the darkest part of the year, are now on the wane.  

The other stalwarts of the season are, of course, primroses.  Trays of these have been popping up in garden centres across the country over the last few weeks, but there's something especially satisfying about seeing last year's plants coming back into growth, and dotted all around the garden like little paint specks on a canvas.  Primroses are a good choice for any early pollinators and we will, in the next few weeks, be moving into a critical time for all manner of insects, from bees to early butterflies.

Beyond the early flowers, my other source of delight is the somewhat mystical, old-worldly, mysterious witch hazel, whose bare winter branches make for a fascinating visual exploration, and whose catkin-like flowers are a sure sign of February.  To me, witch hazels seem come from another time, from deep forests filled with mythical beasts and wizards' huts, through which only the bravest of knights would dare to pass.  This may not be accurate, but its presence in our garden brings a sense of ancientness and history to the whole garden.

The birds are singing, there's flowers coming up everywhere, the days are getting longer, and the sun - when it does show its head - is a lifter of spirits and moods, and a sure sign that spring, the greatest and most affirming of seasons, has finally gathered its courage and is on the march towards our liberation.  I can't wait.