I love Paris in the springtime, sang Father Ted famously, before being cut down mercilessly by Mrs Doyle.
But the last howls of winter are more evident in the French capital than any sprigs of the first season of the year.
It’s cold, it’s wet, and the brief rays of sunshine serve only to blind and barely take the edge off the bitter wind.
The weather forecast for Saturday’s game is overcast with a probability of rain.
The day should brighten up at Nigel Owens’ final whistle when Ireland claim victory over Les Miserables, otherwise known as the France national team.
Outside the hotel in Saint Michel a street dancer is bopping to some rave beat. I warn him, ‘keep moving with that level of enthusiasm and Jacques Brunel is likely to come by and hand you a cap’.
The Ireland fans we meet in the narrow streets around the sixth arrondissement are boisterous and full of expectation.
They are not used to this feeling of superiority but, encouraged and loosened by vin rouge, they are hopelessly optimistic, this is the year, they feel.
Meanwhile, police and army troops patrol a city still on high alert, a remnant of recent terror attacks, one at the stadium in Saint Denis back in 2015.
So vast is the city that the area that we stay in has barely any suggestions that France are playing a Six Nations game.
One woman says she thinks France and Ireland are playing rugby, and nothing more.
An early morning stroll under the grey Paris sky and along the cobblestone streets ends with a café au lait and a petit dejeuner in Le Depart, a roadside café jammed with a few too many tables
Christoph, my friendly waiter, waves me in and later produces the smallest glass of orange juice ever served with a straight face.
"You are here for the rugby, no?" he asks. "For you, I say, Ireland will beat France."
They are not very good, he signals with a thumbs-down. He’s not wrong.
The early rising pet detectives among the travelling Irish supporters are beginning to emerge, desperately seeking the hairs of the many dogs that bit them last night.
Other, more mature fans take their teenage children on tour to see some of the many sights the city has to offer.
I spot just one Bleu jersey as the game continues to pass the majority by for the moment.
Shortly, we’ll jump on the RER train and go non-stop to Stade de France where the Irish hordes hope soon to have one more reason to love Paris in the springtime.
