Well, that just about sums it up… Flâneur for the day. Paris was clearly in a good mood this morning, glorious sunshine, not too hot, not too cold, the sort of weather that makes you feel like you should be lounging outside a café pretending to read Proust instead of just people‑watching with a coffee.

I’d decided to walk from my digs near Gare de l’Est down to the Jardin des Plantes. The plan was straightforward: head east, hit Canal Saint‑Martin, and then confidently follow it as if I had any real idea where I was going. In fact to be fair I did, as I’ve stayed up in Republic before and thought it was a great area- so I retraced some of my steps. As I wandered along the bustling Parisian streets (a delicate dance of dodging scooters, cigarette smoke, and sharply dressed suited locals with no socks…really?), I kept scanning for a suitable petit déjeuner stop. Eventually, a boulangerie appeared like a buttery, crumb strewn mirage. It was less a bakery and more a shrine to carbohydrates. Every conceivable breakfast delicacy was on display, all looking like they had better life prospects than me. I went for three “mini” canelés. Now, I have history with canelés. I first discovered them in Bordeaux, where I learned they were born thanks to winemakers using egg whites for wine clarification and generously passing the leftover yolks to nuns. The nuns, clearly culinary geniuses, added a few ingredients and created the canelé. Then, at some point, someone added rum, almost certainly a wandering pirate from Cornwall- and turned it into something dangerously addictive. I liked them so much that when in Bordeaux I purchased the moulds to make them…used once and have sat in the cupboard ever since. I’ll never be able to replicate. The funny thing about the morning in Paris near a boulangerie is it is full of people who look like they are eating a paper bag. Parisians (and maybe other French cities) have an obsession with running down the road eating pastries on the fly out of .paper bags. I kept looking behind me to see someone on my shoulder closing in with a paper bag rammed in their mouth…odd.

The fact they were “mini” meant I could have three. This is basic arithmetic. Unfortunately, this decision caused visible distress among some ladies behind me, as I appear to have wiped out the entire remaining stock. Napoleon may have had Waterloo, but today I had canelé supremacy. The bakery itself had a ceiling so ornate it looked like it had seen far grander days, possibly whispering stories of aristocrats in powdered wigs ordering pastries with more dignity than I managed. This prompted me to spend the rest of the day looking up in shops across Paris. If you’re ever here, look up… but perhaps not while crossing the road. Paris traffic shows no mercy, particularly with the new bike lanes everwhere…

When I reached the canal, things became unexpectedly theatrical. A set of locks and a swing bridge were in action, and just as I crossed, the sluice gates opened dramatically, releasing water like a stage effect in a very niche French opera.

“Aha,” I thought, with absolutely no authority, “something is happening.” After much churning and splashing, a boat appeared that can only be described as a “Canal Hoover”- its sole purpose being to scoop up all the rubbish.

Quite impressive, really. Moments later, the bridge lifted, and the Hoover boat trundled through, followed by a Bateau Mouche full of children coming the other way, all part of an unexpectedly coordinated aquatic performance. It did strike me, though, that while Paris takes great care to keep its canals pristine, the pavements are… less curated. Today’s sightings included three dead pigeons, one dead rat, and what I can only describe as half a crow. I suspect they all died getting run over trying to avoid the dog poo.

Arriving at the Jardin des Plantes, I was greeted by what appeared to be a dinosaur lurking in the bushes, because of course Paris has a surprise dinosaur. The gardens themselves opened into a beautifully formal space, with multiple paths to explore and even a zoo tucked away somewhere in the middle. Then came the real surprise: a collection of glasshouses that felt like a mini Kew Gardens. Tropical plants, towering greenery, completely unexpected and oddly magical. It was peaceful, tranquil… until a school group arrived and reintroduced the full spectrum of “youthful enthusiasm” into the ecosystem. Still, it was entirely worth the walk, Paris beyond the usual tourist chaos is a very rewarding thing.

From there, I made my way toward the Île de la Cité, cutting through the Latin Quarter. I passed a sign that reminded me not to feed unicorns- I’ll bear that in mind….This area holds fond memories, some from rugby tours that are best left vague, others from slightly more respectable visits. I passed Shakespeare and Company, which continues to draw extraordinary queues. It’s nice to see a bookshop so popular… though one suspects a fair number of people are queueing for a photo rather than a copy of Death in the Afternoon. A quick stroll along the Seine past the little green bookstalls (selling everything from antique prints to suspiciously identical “vintage” posters), and then down into the Metro at Cité, mentally calculating how much people were paying to sit in nearby cafés looking effortlessly stylish over €12 coffees.

The afternoon’s destination was Montmartre. Yes, it’s always outrageously busy, but I have a soft spot for it. I took the Metro to Anvers and queued for the funicular, only one car was running, which is never reassuring- the second was actually missing. I briefly imagined the missing one having slid dramatically down the hill on a rogue patch of dog poo before plunging into the Seine. Montmartre itself was absolutely packed, tourists everywhere, restaurants full, caricature artists working overtime. But I had a mission. I slipped away from the crowds to Rue d’Orchampt and Place Émile Goudeau, with a respectful nod at 49 Rue Gabrielle along the way. This is, for me, sacred ground- the birthplace of modern art. H It is this area that was for me the birthplace of modern art. In ‘La Bateau Lavoir’ on Place Emile Goudeux were the studios and meeting places of so many of the 20^thcentury greatest artist. Probably best known for one of Picasso’s studios (his first studio in Paris being 49 Rue Gabrielle) the studios hosted a who’s who of artists. These include: Henri Matisse, Georges Braque, André Derain, Raoul Dufy, Marie Laurencin, Amedeo Modigliani, Jean-Paul Laurens, Maurice Utrillo, Jacques Lipchitz, María Blanchard, Jean Metzinger and Louis Marcoussis.  Writers like Jean Cocteau and Gertrude Stein hung out there, and the art dealers Ambroise Vollard, Clovis Sagot, Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler, and Berthe Weill no doubt did well from the clientele within. Whenever I’m in Paris I like to just go and grab a bench on the ‘Place’ and think what it would have been like back in those days to be involved in the ‘scene’. Even before Picasso became prominent there post 1900, artists like Henri De Toulouse-Lautrec had been well ingrained in the nightlife of Pigalle. This square mile of Paris probably had the greatest influence on art anywhere in the world. The original Bateau Lavoir sadly burnt down in the 70s, but the replacement building (I believe) is still artists studios- talk about standing on the shoulders of giants!

I always sit for a while on the square, imagining what it would have been like artists wandering in and out of studios, heading for bars, arguing about colour theory over wine. Even though the original building burnt down, the spirit lingers. Sitting there, you really do feel like you’re perched on the shoulders of giants… slightly sweaty tourist‑covered shoulders, but still.

Eventually, I headed down to Pigalle for dinner at Bouillon Pigalle (again), which did not disappoint. I took a high seat by the window overlooking Place Pigalle, perfect for people‑watching. The square is far more civilised now than in years gone by, though it still hints at its more colourful past.

Across the way sits a blocked‑off stretch of corrugated iron, hiding Avenue Frochot, one of Paris’s more discreet and exclusive streets.

Once home to wealthy artists and writers seeking luxury close to the chaos, it feels like a secret hiding in plain sight. As I tucked into my white asparagus, I couldn’t help but imagine the antics this area must have seen over the years. Fin de siècle Paris must have been something else—art, excess, energy… probably a fair bit of questionable decision‑making.

After dinner, I walked back to the hotel through the Grand Boulevards, one of my favourite parts of the city. I made a necessary stop at À la Mère de Famille, a delightfully old‑school sweet shop that hasn’t changed much in centuries. Naturally, I stocked up. The family will be expecting high‑quality chocolate, and I am not one to disappoint. I love Rue du Faubourg, it’s full of life and interesting restaurants, at the far end being the great (but seriously busy these days) Chartier. I’ve not been there for years and I’d love to tell what it is like these days, but I’m not queueing for 2 hours to tell you. I remember when you could just walk in pre ‘insta’ days…

So, back to the hotel- another excellent Parisian day wrapped up.

Tomorrow, I head back to the UK. I’m slightly dreading the journey, not because it should be difficult, but because fate enjoys these moments. Eurostar to St Pancras, then GWR back to Cornwall… and, of course, I’ve just seen there’s a Tube strike.

I had originally planned to fly, but decided instead to complete the grand train‑and‑ferry odyssey. Let’s just hope the wheels don’t quite literally fall off during the final act.

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