Roving Reports: Shut That d’Or

Do you know what the French for "doors closing" is? Until a couple of weeks ago I'd have struggled to tell you, but I now know that "porte à fermeture" is the correct French phrasing, writes David Massey. This is purely down to the number of times I took the lift at the hotel in which we stayed in Paris for our recent weekend away for the Arc. I now hear the words in my dreams, my wife has started saying it every time I leave the room and leave the door open, and it has become so ingrained in my memory I now remember it better than the names of my own children.

Maybe this is the right way to teach French to older idiots like me, just batter the phrase at them until they can no longer forget it. My wife Caroline was most impressed by my wonderful mangling of two beautiful languages in the pizza restaurant of "deux more beers, s'il vous plait" but at under four euros a boisson I definitely wanted deux more.

I'm jumping ahead here. Let's start at the beginning, when we decided earlier this year we'd go to the Arc for the first time. We booked through Racing Breaks #notanad and given my absolute fear of flying - actually, a fear of crashing - it was always going to be the Eurostar that took us to Paris. I've been on a plane three times in my whole life, once to Belfast, once to Dinan and once before to Paris, having been to Auteuil for Champion Hurdle Day there a few years back when One Track Mind took his chance. That was a fun day, and there are stories to tell that can't be repeated on here, but it was the last time I flew: after a rocky landing in Birmingham I swore off the air, preferring to stick to wheels and tracks to get about.

So we, along with seemingly half of England, are catching the Friday afternoon Eurostar to Paris. This, for a 56-year-old man who hasn't been abroad in years, is actually quite exciting. The Eurostar rattles along apace; there's a helpful video explaining how to break the window in your carriage and get out safely if something goes wrong, or perhaps get trapped with one of the many racing "personalities" that appear to be on the train. One of them is in our carriage. I've seen him more since he retired than I ever did when he was commentating.

We get to Gare du Nord an hour late. No, hang on, my phone has merely adjusted to local time. Forgot about that. Metro, then a quick ten minute walk to our hotel, not a million miles from the Eiffel Tower, and we're all checked in and in our hotel room 28 storeys up from the Parisian ground. I'm not struck on heights, either, but here we are.

As it's getting on a bit, we decide to find somewhere local to eat and find a great little pizza place two streets away. It's run by, as it turns out, an Iranian family, and they couldn't be more welcoming. The pizza is excellent, the beer cheap, and we have a good meal for a shade over forty euros.

Saturday morning breakfast in the hotel is incredible. So many people, so many nationalities, but everyone is catered for really well. You name it, it's there. Puts the standard buffet breakfast I'm so used to on my domestic travels to shame. And of course, the croissants are so much better than they are over here. I've lost a stone and a half in the last five months by eating better food, and I strongly suspect I might be putting a fair bit back on over the next three days.

We're off to Longchamp for their Saturday card, too. 80 euros for two tickets that get us pretty much everywhere we want to go is very fair given the quality of racing. I immediately fall in love with the place. I love the simplicity of it; paddock to bar to concourse in under a minute, and for all I love a battle with the old enemy on a British racecourse, the PMU machines fascinate me.

Sadly, what I thought was a winning forecast in the Cadran was merely a swinger, which teaches me a valuable lesson to know what bet I'm actually wagering rather than what I think I'm wagering. I think being three beers in at this point doesn't help - I can't drink like I used to, the Skegness years are long behind me - but I'm having such a fun time I don't really care. The racing is fantastic, although what's with the idea of two commentators for each race? Even for shorter contests they swap over at halfway. Imagine that over here. Over to John Hanmer halfway through the Epsom Dash. It'd be done before you've identified what's in front.

Saturday night sees us eating in a steak restaurant near the Champs Elysees with about ten others. It's an incredible place, the steaks hanging up in ageing cabinets and you can choose your own, should you wish. Our waitress for the evening is great fun, her English is superb - even her swearing is top-notch - and she keeps our rowdy lot in order. Suffice to say, the forty-two euros we paid last night would barely get you a look at the menu here. Throw in a couple of Uber's there and back and the night is not a cheap one. We do, however, get to see the Eiffel Tower all sparkly on the way back. Which is nice.

A lot nicer than Paris traffic, though. As someone that does over 20,000 miles a year driving to and from racecourses I like to think of myself as fairly competent, and can cope with whatever the British roads can throw at me. But Paris is on another level. This is basically real-life Mario Kart. Diving in for any gap that appears, lining up four wide at junctions clearly meant for two cars, getting cut up at roundabouts, these are all perfectly normal for your average Paris Uber driver, it seems. I asked our driver why there was so much traffic on the road at 11pm on a Saturday night. "Paris!" he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders. Two more motorbikes dive for the same gap at the lights in front of us. I think I'd rather fly.

Sunday is Arc day. After more hotel lift-related mayhem (smart lifts my arse) and another wonderful breakfast (I eat more than yesterday, given I'm likely to be drinking again and probably won't eat again until tonight) our coach arrives to take us to the track. One lady thinks we'll miss the first, but she's made the rookie error I made at Gare du Nord on Friday. Add an hour onto those Racing Post off times, we'll be fine.

There's ten times as many people here as yesterday and it's basically like being at one massive party. What a fabulous atmosphere there is. I bump into plenty of pals on my way around, and we meet up with my friends Alex and Sophie, regulars at northern tracks. The beer is flowing, the racing is superb. "Make some noise!" shouts the racecourse announcer as they go in for the Arc. I've had ale, readers, and am more than happy to oblige with his request. Daryz proves just too good for Minnie Hauk, a shame for the Irish but good for my bank balance as I tipped him up in the steak restaurant last night. Alex and I play the bandits - as we've named the PMU machines - all afternoon, and that's another thing the French do so well. They aren't scared of you having a bet, it's almost encouraged, in fact. Out front there are five large platforms with young people on top waving huge flags saying "Time To Bet!" five minutes before the off of each race. I'm not saying there aren't faults with a Tote system but my word, it has its merits too, with some huge jackpot bets on offer for small stakes.

The afternoon flies by, and it's been very enjoyable. It's really whetted mine and Caroline's appetite to do this again; both Auteuil and Le Lion d'Angers are mentioned (well, it does have that wonderful X-Country course, after all). At the age of 56, I think I might finally become a traveller, after all. Ludlow on a Wednesday has its undoubted charms, of course, but this weekend has been a real eye-opener for me.

Monday morning. And after one last breakfast, it's back to Blighty. We arrive in St Pancras an hour early. No, hang on...

Let the jumps season commence. See you all at Cheltenham this weekend, yes?

- DM

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