Paris

— The Grand Account —

Paris rewards those who arrive without an itinerary. The city has been receiving kings, exiles and collectors for eight centuries, and it greets each with the same composed indifference — which is, of course, its charm. At first light the Place Vendôme stands almost empty, the Tuileries belong to nobody, and the bouquinistes along the Seine open their green boxes as they have since the seventeenth century. The elite return not for novelty but for continuity: the same table, the same florist, the same discreet courtyard entrance. Paris does not change for anyone, and in a world that constantly does, that constancy has become the rarest luxury of all.

From London, the journey is its own pleasure. Eurostar from St Pancras International reaches the Gare du Nord in a little over two hours, where your chauffeur waits at the platform's end. Those who prefer their own pace cross with the car via Eurotunnel Le Shuttle from Folkestone, the Rolls-Royce Phantom emerging at Calais for a serene drive south. For the most compressed diaries, a private jet departs Farnborough for Paris-Le Bourget in under an hour, the car positioned on the apron. Whichever route you choose, one constant remains: a single FFGR chauffeur, briefed on every preference, accompanies you from your London doorstep to the Place Vendôme and home again.

In Paris, FFGR favours the quiet axis of the first arrondissement. The Ritz Paris on Place Vendôme for its garden suites; Cheval Blanc overlooking the Pont Neuf for those who prefer the new guard. Dinner might be Alain Ducasse at the Plaza Athénée, or the hushed salons of Guy Savoy at the Monnaie de Paris, taken late, as Parisians do. Mornings are for private openings — the Louvre before the public, a vitrine unlocked at Van Cleef & Arpels. Your chauffeur holds the day together invisibly, the Phantom waiting where it should be, never where it shouldn't. The city asks nothing of you. That, in the end, is the point.