Versailles

I didn't want to give it back, the hired Gitane with the unpredictable gears and the plastic chain guard that rubbed dangerously at the battered old hem of my jeans. The bike enabled me to dodge past ambling tour groups and speed out of the way of excited, barking dogs. It wasn't a particularly comfortable or smooth ride, over dusty tracks and cobbles, held back sharply at times by the pull of the harsh brake, but it felt good to see the fields around Versailles, with the quietly grazing cattle looking down at the lakes and the chateau in the distance. We had done this many years ago, too, as an antidote to the crowds encountered here. Then we were on holiday and it was a weekday, the chateau concourse filled with Spanish teenagers from a school party, intent on facing each other down in the muzak-playing golf buggies available to hire as an aid to mobility on the vast estate. Quite by chance we had discovered that access to the gardens was free and in this tranquil haven we found sunshine, statues, bikes and a really good restaurant, all distant from the thronging masses.

We had turned up hoping to relive this experience on Sunday, rather stupidly not realising that the weekend crowds would be larger than before, particularly under the bright gleam of clear autumn skies. To compound our sense of disquiet we found that there was a fee to pay for entry to the gardens due to the “Grands Eaux Musicales” - a co-ordinated series of watery jets played out to the sounds of baroque music, but currently restricted a little in scope due to there being a drought. We saw some of these musical fountains. It may have been a great spectacle to some, but we were rather underwhelmed by it, sadly, preferring other pursuits instead.

We hired the bikes to counteract the half hour wait for a table in the busy Petite Venise restaurant, electing to be active rather than just standing and waiting in hope by the door. Last time the hire kiosk had been staffed by a short man with a moustache who wore a boiler suit and had a slight whiff of bike oil about him. This time it was teeming with fresh looking young employees who had computers and barcode zappers. There was not a hint of romance or a sound of guttural French anywhere, just the beep and whirr of high-tech, clean business transactions. The bike itself, though, brought a sense of freedom from the moment its kickstand was flipped up and it was set loose. We were escaping from the touristy hoards, off along the paths taken by native French families to get the best views of the chateau's grand proportions from afar, surveying it in the full glory of its own lavish parkland. A mere flick of the bell and those walking ahead would part to allow us to cruise through. Yes, this is what it must have been like to be royal, to be a king and queen in charge of a palace built in your honour, riding through grounds constructed for your enjoyment. Except that the royalty didn't have to pay four Euros for half an hour of such a privilege.

Returning exhilarated to the restaurant we now had more patience, but thankfully the wait to eat was not long. Famished by physical exertion and heads still spinning slightly from the fun of the cycle trip, we enjoyed a large, long and convivial repast. As the lunchtime crowds departed the staff became visibly more relaxed and friendly. As we drank more wine our confidence at speaking French sentences increased dangerously. The food was of the same high quality as it had been all those years before, except that then it had been spring and we had sat on the terrace outside in warm sunshine. On Sunday it was bright but quite cool and the terrace tables were empty, save for a rapidly deepening carpet of fallen leaves. Over delicious fish blanketed in piquant black olive tapenade we reminisced about our previous visit, laughing and talking through the chocolate desserts until the tiny, delicate glasses of coffee arrived to signify the end of the meal.

We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering by the enormous, clear lake and gradually making our way back to the chateau through the neatly clipped hedges of the formal walks. We passed the odd person sitting on a bench or walking along munching a sandwich or an ice cream cone – ha! What fools! They should go and sit down, sip prosecco and linger over the three full courses of a proper dinner. They would feel so much better for it... and poorer too, it has to be said, so we decided that perhaps for the sake of their wallets we ought to just “let them eat snacks”. For us, though, with full bellies and significantly lighter purses, there was nothing to do but sit on the steps in front of the chateau and watch the sun go down. It was a beautiful sunset that day – not red and spectacular, but with lovely diffuse, yellow light reflecting off the lakes and pools and bathing the pale honey-coloured stone of the buildings and terraces in a soft glow. We waited for a bit, hoping that the fountains would spring into life and dance to the piped music that was reverberating all around, but they remained dry and still. It didn't matter. The slowly descending dusk provided a better show anyway, and they hadn't worked out a way to charge us for that yet.