Bonjour Paris, and au revoir...

It is worth explaining that Paris has been calling to me for years, whispering sweet temptations and singing soft lullabys that would find me floating past Notre Dame slipping through cobbled back streets and waltzing under a curtain of man-made stars, by way of the Eiffel Tower after dusk. It was a siren call, drifting tantalisingly across the English Channel and it isn't that I ignored it, I've been visiting Paris in my sleep for a long time, turns out it just took a long while for me to go in person.

I guess we all have that silly wish for perfection when it comes to reality being within touching distance after wishing so long for it to come true.

I will admit, I had wanted to race into the centre; in my mind, I would just blitz my way to the middle and suck in greedy mouthfuls of Parisian air, I would feel emboldened and alive from both the achievement of cycling there but also, because it's always felt like it has been my destiny to get there, one day.

But that day heading into Paris was miserable. So cold, that my sodden trainers contained a chilly layer of icy water that sat around my feet and after a while, it was just plain painful. My toes began to feel like they were on fire, until eventually, they went dead and unfeeling. And I cried. I cried because sometimes, the frustration of things being hard and dreary is too much to bare. It was the culmination of two big victories and I felt let down by my own body's inability to just cope.

We stopped, stripped out the inner soles, rubbed my feet and toes enthusiastically until they felt less like they belonged to someone else, changed my socks and carried on.

Then 5km down the road, a car nearly hit me on a roundabout, not giving way to me, but driving straight in front of me, too impatient for me to pass them. It was my first near miss. I cried again.

Feeling let down by the entrance to Paris....what was all this jeopardy?? I was all booked up for celebration and wonder, not some emotional roller coaster ride into the city centre!

Round two. James hugged me, staring vengefully after the driver who had not paused to apologise or even acknowledge his lack of care, but sped off in a different direction to where we stood. James consoled me as I sobbed, for longer than I am proud of, outside some random green grocer's shop in a district of Paris that still escapes my memory. I guess everyone has days where they just need a hug, right!?

Rest assured; we both made sure to curse that red Renault Clio with a vigorous hand shake. The kind that wobbles your arm fat. Fear us now!

My melt down under control, we continued on and after a few kilometres I began idly wondering how long it would take or indeed what to expect, because James had mentioned a particular route we must go down for glory points. We rode into a slightly more open area, the buildings cleared and I was somewhat distracted by the odd road markings when James shouted at me, to look up.

And there it was. How I had missed it, I have no idea....the Eiffel Tower stood before us, all status and majestic wrought iron. I fell in love with that moment: with the metal structure in front of us, with the noise of the traffic, with my trusty bike, with unfailingly supportive James, even with the rain, that had dulled to a drizzle as if it knew it was time to back off just for my benefit. Just so I could ride my ass to the spot I had seen in travel literature a thousand times or more.

I looked at James. He had planned the whole route to arrive for the 14th; we'd just zigzagged our way down from the Midlands, we had overcome rain, hail, a crazy amount of punctures, sore muscles, faulty breaks, horridly low temperatures and right then we both couldn't stop smiling.

We had done it. I had done it. My first big milestone and the realisation of a decade long dream. We had a week in the capital. A rest we had earned after five and a half days straight of riding. And we were hungry for Paris.

We went to the catacombs, where underground tunnels offer dimly lit glimpses at the bones of over six million bodies, dug up from over flowing or sinking cemeteries of times past. It is less creepy than you would imagine, especially when taking into account the often comical messages written on the walls or plaques.

We also found ourselves at the Notre Dame and Sacre Coeur, which of course have a reputation for a reason and it didn't disappoint, with their colossal heights, beautiful stained glass, prayers in process and most importantly of course: the machines that dispense coins featuring JP2. James bought one, naturally. Clearly we had not been sucked into spending two euros on an item worth a quarter of that. It was a memento! (Such a special trinket, that on a cold night at a random train station, James tried to use it to buy us a packet of peanut M&Ms and subsequently lost it forever in the bowels of a vending machine. Poor JP2; sainthood doesn't mean you can prevent all disasters, apparently.)

One of my favourite things we saw was actually not in the centre. Versailles is absolutely stunning: if you can swallow the gaudy and totally over the top display of wealth (unlike the revolution did, obvs) then it's kind of wonderful. The gardens are truly breathtaking, with both formal and informal areas, the most magical water features and walkways to help you feel lost inside centuries gone by.

The house is colossal, the artwork vast, the painted ceilings awe inspiring and copious volumes of money splashed out on every available surface. The hall of mirrors was the kind of room you imagine might feature in some otherworldly story, straight out of a novel and placed in front of your eyes, simultaneously unbelievable and yet blissfully tangible. The chandeliers hang in such a way, it seems like perhaps they could be floating. It is a room meant for dancing, meant for merriment and decadence. And the best part is that all these years on, it is still spellbinding.

Petit Trianon, where Marie Antoinette lived away from the prying eyes of her husband, was a highlight. We only wished there had been more detail on the debauchery that took place there, it was a time I wished the walls could talk. Rumour has it that Louis' young wife was insatiable and effervescent, taking lovers and friends to bed at any opportunity. As you can expect, we wanted the gory details of their lives, but Château Versailles appears to want to paint them in the most positive of lights. [Wikipedia, here we come! ;)]

We climbed the Eiffel Tower. Postcards or images don't really seem to justify the scale of it, which was the first thing I thought when I saw it. It's huge! The second thing was the colour, it is always depicted as midnight black...it isn't. Not today anyway. It is a rusty brown and I found the shade made it oddly more handsome and distinguished. There were hardly any other people there that day, we had most of the whole thing to ourselves, which was unexpectedly amazing!



We are now a few days from it all after riding away from Paris. It is behind us. And though the sights and sounds of the city still lay at the start of our tracks before we left, I realised just now, typing this out that I have a love hangover after gorging on such beauty.

 I cannot deny Paris will forever hold a little piece of me and I am not embarrassed to reveal a slither of my soul sits at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, where I first stopped pedalling and smiled for a picture that captures a thousand words.





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Final question for your brain: Ever wondered how many macrons is too many, in one sitting? The answer is 16. We have tested. You're welcome.