Pâtisserie, Boulangerie, Charcuterie

Went to Paris this week - it was just like Paris - large, busy, bourgeois and full of itself. I had a day of business, an evening of socialising, a morning of planning, followed by an afternoon of leisure. Rescued from the rush by my evening train, I took myself off to Montmartre, climbing up La Butte from Pigalle, in the heat, carrying a none-too-light bag containing a change of clothes and my laptop.

I found myself in Place Émile Goudeau, a blessed space surrounded by tourists and film crews and sun. I sat and breathed in this shadowed pause, letting the city sink in to my old London bones, before climbing steadily up through the tourist trap which surrounds the Basilica of the Sacré Cœur.

I found myself in the courtyard of the church of St Pierre - St Peter, the rock upon which all churches stand; after a moment's hesitation, I entered the building and immediately felt very much at ease.



I entered a stone building almost 1,000 years old, the quiet relative of the gaudy Basilica around the corner. In contrast to the summer heat, over-priced drinks and busy cash registers outside, it was deep, cool and peaceful.

I walked once around the church, then sat on a left pew with space all around me. Not much to see, really, except ancient stonework, and modern stained glass. Off the nave, there was a library, through a large, impressive door, which after five minutes opened up suddenly at normal volume, a small child and a middle-aged man being greeted with love by the librarian, a grey-haired woman with a bright face.

A few visitors walked respectfully and slowly down the aisles, three young asian tourists making use of the wooden benches near the altar to repack their rucksacks and sort out their packed lunches. Two elderly women were a little in front of me and to my right, in a bubble of their own, one of them grasping the other's shoulder and speaking directly and precisely into her ear, ceaselessly whispering earnest words of comfort while the other listened and mourned. It was a touching scene, a truly valuable function of religion, played out in churches since time immemorial.

The noises abated, except for the murmur of solace ahead of me. I considered praying, remembering the last time I had entered a church seeking guidance and been promptly given it. This time, with no specific need in mind, I tried to dismiss my selfish desires and ask for guidance. Shutting my eyes, I found it difficult at first to remove myself from my focused concerns, so I just continued to wait, and to stay calm, to contemplate, and to listen, which was easy in the space. I felt unrushed, and in no need of reply, just wondering if there was anything I needed to know. My mind slowly quietened. It was as restful as lapping waves on the seashore.

I stayed in the church for thirty minutes or so, and eventually I did notice something emerging from my thoughts which if not a blazoned message, was certainly something I needed to consider carefully, attached to a subject which has been consuming me of late.



I left more content than I had entered, thankful and slightly surprised, wondering how I was going to explain my insight to other people, and realising it really didn't matter.