In summer, a photographer's day often begins while, for others, yesterday is still drawing to a close. Behind me, the broad boulevards of Pigalle still belong to the neon-lit night. Ahead, the streets begin to narrow. Tarmac gives way to cobbles. The morning air is refreshingly cool, a welcome escape from the heat that will soon settle over Paris. The climb into Montmartre begins almost immediately.
Café chairs remain stacked beneath folded awnings. Here and there, a warm amber glow spills through a doorway as lights flicker on inside cafés that, only hours before, had been serving dinner and late-night drinks. In another hour, the very same tables will welcome early risers with coffee, fresh croissants and the first conversations of a new morning.
The streets are quiet, but never silent. Somewhere higher up the hill, a delivery van trundles across the cobbles. A metal shutter rattles upwards. A girl on a pink scooter buzzes effortlessly around the corner ahead. Outside a tiny 24-hour supermarket, a man pauses over his morning cigarette, smiles and offers a cheerful bonjour.
In Montmartre, every street seems to end with another staircase. Each one lifts me a little higher above the city below. I pause to catch my breath. The sky has softened from black to deep cobalt blue.
It's why I set the alarm.
From here on, I begin to see differently. Every doorway, every café terrace, every pool of light becomes a possibility. I know these streets have been photographed millions of times before, yet that thought never troubles me. I've come to realise that photography isn't about discovering somewhere new; it's about seeing familiar places with fresh eyes.
More deliveries arrive. Café owners sweep yesterday from their doorsteps. Tables and chairs are set out on the pavements. Windows are polished until they catch the first hints of dawn. Locals walk their dogs. Joggers weave quietly through the cobbled streets. Then, carried on the cool morning air, comes the aroma of fresh coffee, warm butter and bread straight from the oven. Almost instinctively, I slow my pace, but this morning breakfast will have to wait, photos come first.
The climb eases and Place du Tertre opens out before me. Last night it was full of life, conversation and the clatter of glasses. This morning, stripped of almost everyone, I can finally see the square for what it really is. The cafés frame the space, the cobbles lead the eye in every direction, and for the first time the architecture takes centre stage.
The final flight of steps brings me to Sacré-Cœur. Perched on the highest point in Paris, the great white basilica seems to float above the city below. The first rays of sunlight creep across its stone until the whole building glows with a warm golden light.
A handful of people are already gathered on the steps. Some cradle coffee. Some cradle each other. Others stand quietly with cameras raised, waiting. Nobody seems in a hurry.
Golden shafts of sunlight slip through the trees, flickering across the paths as the city below slowly brightens. One by one, the rooftops catch the light. Slate turns silver, then gold. Windows become mirrors. For a few precious minutes, Paris seems to belong entirely to the morning.
Golden shafts of sunlight slip through the trees, flickering across the paths as the city below slowly brightens. One by one, the rooftops catch the light. Slate turns silver, then gold. Windows become mirrors. For a few precious minutes, Paris seems to belong entirely to the morning.
I linger for a while before beginning the walk back down the hill.
The streets are no longer empty. A few more café tables are occupied. Waiters carry the first loaded trays of the morning. The smell of fresh coffee and warm pastries has intensified, now joined by bacon, melting cheese and freshly cooked eggs.
Le Consulat sits quietly beneath its familiar red and green striped awnings. Last night it was surrounded by diners and conversation. This morning I notice the building itself – the weathered façade, the shutters and the quiet elegance that disappears once the crowds arrive.
A few minutes later, La Maison Rose comes into view. The first golden light gently catches its pale pink façade, and once again people stop to admire one of Montmartre's most photographed corners.
The cool morning air has disappeared. Another Paris summer day has begun.