Summer was like a flakey friend. She left while I was away in Paris. Couldn’t be bothered to wait to say goodbye!

It is distinctly more autumnal this morning. This seasonal shift was confirmed when I arrived last night at the Old Rectory, having returned from Paris, to see that the Sweet Pea Lady, down the road, sadly, had taken down her summer time teepees. Each year she lays out rows of wicker teepees in her front garden, and when the blooms appear, she cuts them and puts them in jam jars, on a wooden trolley, outside her front gate; they are £1 per bunch. They make our house full of sweet scent.

Hugo has moved into ‘digs’ near Warwick Uni; I shall miss him. Another disappearance!

The days are getting shorter. Instead of nudging 10pm, at sundown, at the height of the summer, it was pitch black by 8pm last night.

Paris was warm and balmy, on Friday night, on arrival around 5pm. It was still summer.

The hotel was just off the Tuilleries Gardens in the 1st arrondissement, midway, near the Place de la Concorde. The sight of greenery in the park enticed me to walk to the end of the street. I could see the roof of the Grand Palais to the right and the Eiffel Tower further afield.

That is Paris for you. Everything that matters is compacted into the heart of it, like a treasure chest, so that all your eye beholds is beauty, and it feels at the end of your fingertips. As if you could stretch and stroke it. As I stood there, I felt that I could reach for the Louvre to the left, a bit further to Notre Dame Cathedral on its little island, the Musee D’Orsay straight over the Seine on the other side of the Tuilleries, the Arc de Triomphe to the right up the avenue and the Opera behind me over my left shoulder; a bit further afield on a tall hill, if I really stretched, the Taj Mahal-like Sacre-Coeur Basilica, watching over the city.

The city is neatly and precisely designed and formed; it is meticulous, mechanical, an equation that adds up to perfection. Unlike London, which is an ad hoc splattering of satellite gems. It is spare like Coco Chanel’s original creations.

All around me, the sound of French voices. What is it with the French language? The language of love? It is so beautiful when articulated. Even if the telephone book was being read, it would sound like Proust to my untrained ear.

Travel is tiring. I was early to bed. I had a score to settle in the morning. I needed to muster my strength. As a member of the Hurlingham Club, I am entitled to the reciprocal hospitality of a number of clubs around the world. They can come to the Hurlingham, and we can go to them. One of these clubs is the Cercle de L’Union Interalliee, on the smartest street in Paris, the rue du Faubourg saint-Honore, parallel to the Champs Elysees  and next to the Prime Minister’s residence.

Some years ago, I heard the same word all day from a number of quarters in Paris. “NON.” But none more than at the Cercle de l’Union! They obviously did not like my Aussie accent. I shall tell you about that tomorrow. It was a stuffy establishment. And very formal. The menu for the men had prices. The women’s did not!

I was not a welcome guest

Beautiful dining room, but chillingly formal. You might freeze to death in there.

Today, I will try to recover from miles of walking in Paris. And too many carbs. Who can resist the pastries and bread in Paris? I could not!