So anyway: with the lingering taste of the barnyard floor on my tongue (see Pt 1), Wendy and I set forth up the slopes of Montmartre. If you haven't been to this part of Paris, it's wonderful: more like a small market town than the heart of a great city.
The streets are narrow, twisting, often cobbled, and lined with tall trees and Victorian-looking streetlamps. The houses and shops press together along the pavements, shoulder to shoulder like a crowd of spectators hoping for a glimpse of some passing parade. It's completely charming.
It's also pretty steep, and famous for its long flights of steps, so by the time we found the Avenue Junot, we were more than ready to dump our bags.
You find Hotel Particulier behind an electronic gate, up a cobbly path, and past a big, odd-looking lump of stone known locally as Rocher de la Sorcière: 'The Witch's Rock'. Then, past another, older gate of black timber is a little garden, and a beautiful old, converted townhouse.
We started to feel that we'd really got a bargain here. Especially when we saw the Eames furniture in the bureau, and our very large, very beautiful suite. I've never had a private steam room before.
Hotel Particulier only has five rooms - all suites, and each designed differently, in collaboration with a contemporary artist. Ours was one of the more restrained: walls hung with beautiful brown silk; opulent curtains; an enormous bed. The art came in the form of a cabinet on the wall, full of sculpted models of food and - er - well, let's call them 'intimate playthings'. At least I think that's what they were. All splendidly bonkers, anyway.
Photo by permission of Hotel Particulier
Vespers, views and vertigo
Freed of our baggage, and feeling we'd got away with commercial murder on the room rate, we headed off to Sacre Coeur, which it turned out Wendy had never seen.
After almost getting enmeshed in Mass (we found ourselves standing among the congregation, holding orders of service in our hands, before we could blink), we escaped and found the way up to the dome. This is reached by way of 300 narrow, winding, spiral stairs, which bring you out among the rooftops of the cathedral - and in our case, into a biting wind.
Apart from my vertigo, and irrational fear that the little boy running delightedly around the dome was about to be blown clean off the roof, it was wonderful.
Not only was there a clear view over the whole of Paris, but we were in time to see the sunset begin in earnest - my cue to take about 175 pictures like this one:
The lights of Paris - La Ville Lumiere - came twinkling on, and we gazed out at it all feeling very lucky, completely bewitched, and really very chilly.
The chills were solved with coffee back at Hotel Particulier, and a steam for Wendy. I'd have tried out this novelty too, except my arm is currently in plaster (don't ask), and the doctor had been very clear on the question of moisture.
My dinner with Jarvis
By now, our stomachs were rumbling. So we asked the very nice lady in reception where we should go for dinner. She got on the phone to her friend Momo, who owned a little restaurant two minutes away, and sorted us out with a table.
'It is very small,' she said, 'and very friendly. Red and white tablecloths. Good wine. Good, Frenchy food, you know?'
She was right on all counts. Au Virage Lepic was exactly the sort of restaurant you hope to stumble across in Paris. Not much bigger than an average front room, with as many tables as possible crammed in together. Every wall was plastered with flyers and photographs, mostly of film stars. The bar groaned with bottles and glassware. And the very jolly, friendly host bustled cheerfully about.
Not sure what Health & Safety will say about those lampshades.
My terrine, and the steak au poivre that followed it, were delicious, and trumped only by an absolutely exquisite tarte tatin. We ate and drank happily, trying to decide if the dark-haired American girl at the next table really was Liv Tyler. We decided she wasn't, but the night was not without its stars: as we neared the end of our meal, the bell over the door tinkled and a rumpled-looking Jarvis Cocker, all trademark specs and tousled hair, drifted in with an unidentified woman.
Escaping the tourist trap
It was all very marvellous. And then we made a mistake. Keen to see more of Montmartre, we decided to have a drink somewhere else, and headed off up the hill.
We went into one of the large cafés set around a pretty square - and stood staring in dawning misery at the bright lights, shiny menus and efficient waiters. It was like abandoning The Olde Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street for a bar at the Trocadero. And it would never do. We scampered back to Virage Lepic, calmed our nerves with Armagnac and coffee, and vowed never to leave again.
We had to, of course, but that was okay: there was brandy at the hotel too. Not just brandy either, but wonderful Camus cognac that cost an arm and a leg, and was worth both. Then it was up to our room with a Hitchcock DVD from the hotel's collection, which we dozed happily off in front of.
Not really The End
And that was only the first day. But don't worry - I'm not about to launch into as long a description of the second.
That was lovely too: a lazy morning followed by a nose around the splendid Shakespeare and Company (thanks, Amandine), and then lunch and lots of mooching around the limitless chambers of the Louvre. (Note to self: never eat at the Louvre again. Bag of crisps: €2.60.)
But it was that first day in Montmartre, the discovery of the gorgeous Hotel Particulier, and our night out at Au Virage Lepic, that was the really magical part of the trip. For two knackered, over-worked parents, it was an enormous treat that left us refreshed and rejuvenated. (Suckers for punishment can find more of my Parisian pics on Flickr.)
So thanks very much to David, for picking me out of the hat; to Sarah at We Are Social who arranged the tickets; and to my mother-in-law Jean, who took care of our two boys while we were away.
And thanks to you, for indulging my reminiscences here. Sorry they're so long. But trust me, they could have been much, much longer. C'est tout. Au revoir.
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