Porte de Clignancourt at the end of Metro line 4 in the far north of Paris is chiefly known for its Sunday flea market (though I have to say I would rather go to the one at Porte Vanves in the 14th any time). It was looking particularly insalubrious on Sunday, with the whole of the square around the Metro station dug up and surrounded by hoardings. We were playing at Tennis Poissonniers because that was the only court available at any time over the weekend - 3pm Sunday, take it or leave it. We took it because a family four is a favourite weekend activity and set off on the longish journey full of enthusiasm. The courts are quite a walk from the Metro station, in the direction of the Péripherique and the high-rises which pepper the skyline and are essentially the view you get as you arrive in Paris on the Eurostar. Another couple carrying tennis racquets were heading the same way so we knew we were going in the right direction and we could see the sports ground through the fence where I noticed a couple of footballers squeezing through a gap in the bars. When we arrived at the entrance I realised why. The gates were locked and a sign informed us the sports centre was closed due to a strike! I suppose the only surprise was it hasn't happened to us sooner. My son was furious, but I knew we'd never find another court so there was only one thing for it - we'd have to squeeze through the bars.
In fact I wondered if the gap had been made for this very eventuality, judging by the three football matches in full swing on the other side. We followed a winding path past the large grandstand and athletics track, and past a huge climbing wall, fearing the courts would be locked when we got there. They weren't locked, but there was another drawback - the nets had been removed (an interesting development in my survey of net heights and quality around Paris). No matter, we hadn't come all this way and forced an entry to let a little thing like that stop us. In any case it wasn't as if there was a scenic pavement cafe to while away the hour and we weren't about to go straight back home.
In Ealing, when I was having a particularly unsuccessful morning volleying, we'd often joked that it would so much easier if there was no net. This was my chance to put my theory to the test! I can report that in fact it is a much more difficult game - with more disputes about what would or would not have been in or over the net and less concern about disputing poor line calls (since what does it matter if you have no net anyway?) If only Charlotte had supplied me with my own net to go with my net measuring chain - how short-sighted of her! I'd like to be able to report that the courts were reasonable in all other respects, but a inch-deep pothole on one of the baselines was a definite hazard - court maintenance please!
We played a set - I couldn't help thinking my coaches in Ealing would have had the perfect exercise to be performed without a net, but I've no idea what that might be. The sun shone, the wind blew (so there were a surprising number of serves going out even without a net!) and the kids loved it. They rounded off the afternoon with a race round the track before squeezing back through the railings and getting the Metro home.
2 rue Jean Cocteau
75018 Paris
Métro: Porte de Clignancourt
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