First sighting of the famed palace was enriched by a cavalcade of Irish fans bicycling in lofty fashion down the Avenue de Paris. The tableau was vaguely reminiscent of the movie-stealing scene in ET except that you can't hire chopper bikes in Versailles. The gang wore Republic of Ireland shirts spanning several eras and at least two Celtic jerseys. They were not singing Olé Olé Olé and were not claiming to be part of anyone's army, least of all Jackie's. They were not drinking and clearly didn't feel remotely obliged to be having the crack. They were just a bunch of young Irish fans cycling through a beautiful June dusk, past one of the most ostentatious houses in western Europe.
For some reason, there was something in their quiet confidence which seemed to convey a mysterious but nonetheless convincing sense that Ireland could do very, very well at this football tournament.
Maybe not win the damn thing outright but the regal way in which they pedalled through the ghost-land of the old French monarchy hinted at a bloody and epic semi-final exit, probably against the Germans. And then only after a penalty shoot-out, complete with an emotional argument on RTÉ television, spearheaded by the Dunph, as to why the Germans are temperamentally better suited to penalties than the Celtic nations.
Saturday is only day two of the Euro 2016 odyssey but there is uniform agreement that the Irish are as well off out in Versailles because the train system around Paris is a nightmare. A combination of strikes, flooding and general Parisian huffiness has led to a volatile situation in which train lines are liable to stop running at any moment, to the general bafflement of the orange-bibbed transport officials tasked with the impossible job of explaining to thousands of visitors how to get from A to B.
Traumatic adventure
It is moments like this that makes you realise why the French are just that bit cooler than all other nationalities.
It’s their attitude of could-not-give-a- f***. There is a real possibility that the general travel chaos is a sophisticated plan by the home nation to throw the Germans out of sorts. The mere task of making it from the centre of Paris to Versailles was an unexpectedly traumatic adventure.
None of the conventional routes were operational on Wednesday evening. The hubs of Gare du Nord and Montparnasse were teeming and at the platforms hundreds of evening commuters gathered to study the departure boards. It was sweltering and it was mildly chaotic. People got to where they needed to get. It just took longer.
At 11am on Thursday, the Irish media corps ambled out onto the stadium track to watch the boys do their stuff. Most of the attention was focused on the protracted warm-up routine of Jonathan Walters, Ireland's ever-game wrecking ball.
It was agreed that the big guy was running fine and didn’t appear to be carrying any visible knocks. Still: he wasn’t training with the others and this was a concern. The Irish trained in front of several hundred impeccably mannered Versailles kids who behaved as if they were getting to sit in on an open session featuring an all-time World XI in their prime.
Any remotely promising attacking move was greeted with frenzied screaming. When Daryl Murphy actually scored, it seemed likely that several French school children were actually going to storm the pitch in appreciation. Their enthusiasm was heightened by the presence of a DJ who kept their mood lively through a loudspeaker. He was determined to teach the youngsters the chorus of Seven Nation Army, a tune which had its day several years before their lifetime.
The whole scene was very positive. By 11.50 am, the Irish media corps had converged at the mixed-zone waiting area where the players might/might not (mostly might not) stop for a convivial chat. The location of the waiting area, under the direct glare of the midday sun meant that by 12.15, three-quarters of said media corps ended up with sunburn along the left side of their faces, arms and gams, giving the assembled group an unfortunate two-tone look. A photo was dispatched to Roy Keane’s suite in the Trianon Palace so as to enhance his good mood.
On Friday, the sun shone and the trains rumbled from Versailles into Paris, vaguely adhering to the general timetable. The service announcers declared that half the scheduled trains would indeed travel out to Stade de France for the tournament's opening game.
Fans were advised to travel early to avoid both the low-grade travel chaos and the heightened security checks. Still, you got the sense that the French would arrive to support their team in their own sweet time.
At lunchtime, the concourse outside the ground was still deserted; not only was there no sign of any fans, most of the vendors hadn’t turned up either. And while there may well be 90,000 security guards on duty for the tournament, none could be seen on the walk from the station to the stadium at lunchtime.
Remote memory
France ’98, the sprawling and evocative World Cup which gave the host nation an irrepressible national team regarded as symbolic of a harmonious multicultural future, is a remote memory. Still, the first thing that you notice when you wander through the city is the ethnic diversity.
It will only become clear as the tournament gains momentum whether Didier Deschamp’s young team can harness that collective sense of national pride. The Parisians are not going to get too excited too early.
Tens of thousands of Irish and Swedes have been absorbed into the city for Monday’s game. As Friday ticked on, the French fans began to gather in time for the first playing of the La Marseillaise in the 80,000-seat stadium. Only then will this festival begin to catch fire across city and country. The Parisians have set the tone by letting the tournament come to them. Everything in its own good time.
