The French live longer and possibly happier lives that the British, and I’m sure one of the reasons is the quality their staples, such as their superior bread, which is available to everyone at a good price, despite (or rather, on top of) its quality.
It is a simple pleasure to spiral down the stairs and walk two blocks up the street to fetch croissants for breakfast. I do this in my pyjamas and with bed hair more wavy and voluminous than the loaves of meringue in the boulangerie window.
Adam takes me to Parc de Belleville, a large public garden in the steep north-east of the city. The park tumbles downhill by several levels, and on each level there are benches and quiet, shady patches under rose arches with panoramic views over the city.
We enter the garden from Rue Piat at the top of the hill. From here, the familiar Parisian skyline as seen from the Sacré Coeur has been rearranged, and it is made even more stunning by the sturdy, graffiti-decorated tower-blocks of this traditionally working-class neighbourhood.
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