Parc Montsouris

RER line B is always busy. Even around 6a.m. you find yourself squeezed in, the sheer volume of people being the only thing keeping you upright as the train lurches its way through the tunnels towards the Gare du Nord and Charles de Gaulle Airport. Serving these crossroads of arrival and departure no doubt contributes to the crush, with gigantic wheeled suitcases and holdalls sometimes taking up more carriage space than their owners. Boarding the train at St. Michel-Notre Dame or Châtelet Les Halles – the latter apparently Europe's largest underground station – usually means walking a long way to find the correct platform, crossing streams of people moving in all directions and negotiating countless sets of ticket barriers and turnstiles, meaning that a degree of confused numbness has set in even before you have to deal with entering the carriage and the fine art of darting through the automatic doors just as the horn announcing their imminent closure starts to sound.

Travelling in the opposite direction can be quieter. As the train tends to shed its passengers passing through the centre it is usually quite uncrowded by the time you reach Luxembourg station, which is conveniently situated for exploring the gardens. A few stops further on, at the limit of the central Parisian travel zone, sits Cité Universitaire. Here the Parc Montsouris wraps itself around the train tracks. Walking along its hilly paths you find yourself above the trains at one moment, then somehow passing underneath them a little further on, admiring the majesty of the viaduct ironwork and the industrial tapestry of the network of overhead power lines. Beyond the park railings you can see trams, their shining bright, light newness and chiming bells contrasting with the carbon dust coated RER trains and their gruff, metallic grinding noises. Rising up across the street is the arched gateway to the Cité Internationale Universitaire, a complex of student halls of residence. The sense of youthful hope in the air is almost palpable.

The park seems to be a popular weekend destination and every path, lawn and bench was alive with animation on Saturday. Kids climbed up on empty statue plinths to eat their snacks like living works of art whilst other junior beings shouted and laughed constantly, their cries ringing out from the swings, tiny train and other amusements laid on for their benefit. An elderly couple strolled arm-in-arm, bickering as they went, and an independent-looking cat sauntered nonchalantly between groups of picnickers and lawn loungers, in search of any spare morsels of food or fleeting moments of affection that would induce a purr. The hills brought out the daredevil in many of the scooter wheeling or bike riding children, parents struggling to keep up as their offspring rapidly disappeared from sight. For joggers the gradients proved more problematic, with many a brow beaded with sweat and wrinkling with effort underneath the plastic halo of sturdy workout headphones. Everywhere there were balls – footballs, rugby balls, basketballs, thrown, kicked, bounced and chased in an unceasing barrage that required great vigilance on the part of the ordinary walker.

Nestled in the gentle curve of a grass covered slope sat a low, square building made from that peculiar kind of grey concrete that betrayed its 1960s construction. Half hidden by the mound, a small sign identified this as an outpost of “France Météo”, the national weather service. Nearby were associated instruments, fenced off in a small paddock to keep them safe as they collected raindrops and logged sunlight by the hour. There was also a tall concrete tower, standing in the park like a lost, marooned lighthouse, no doubt contributing to the study of the increasingly brisk October breezes, or perhaps probing stray low clouds at close quarters.

Taking one of the narrow paths back to the RER station we could see something dazzling in the distance, the unmistakeable glint of sun on gold leaf. The statue of a man slowly became visible, and what a man! He was posed in a louche manner, hand on hip and head cocked as if to suggest a happy-go-lucky attitude. Dressed in what seemed to be plus fours, buckled shoes and tights, he had a slim, nipped in waist and a cheerful countenance. Who could this fine fellow, this absolute dandy, be? Upon closer inspection he turned out to be Thomas Paine, author of “The Rights of Man” and subject of many undergraduate seminar discussions in Politics, History and Philosophy. I don't know why, but I'd always imagined him to be more serious looking, dour even, not one who would end up immortalised in gold, resplendent and looking, it has to be said, rather camp. “I bet that surprised a few residents of the Cité Universitaire too,” I chuckled to myself, clasping my husband's hand and walking back into the station to catch the train.