I stepped off the train at Versailles Château Rive Gauche station and unfurled my umbrella. The morning sky was a watercolor wash of grays, and the air carried that earthy scent that comes with fresh rain.
As a history buff, I had envisioned Versailles under golden sunlight, yet here I was, approaching the gilded Gates of Versailles beneath drizzle. Surprisingly, the Cour d’Honneur (the front court) wasn’t as teeming as I expected; clusters of visitors huddled under ponchos and colorful umbrellas.
Some might consider a rainy day a disappointment, but I felt a twinge of excitement. The Palace of Versailles, with its extravagant golden grille and Louis XIV’s statue, looked almost mythical against the stormy sky, like a painting come to life.
In that moment, I remembered that Louis XIV was called the Sun King—and I chuckled at the irony that even his palace must endure days without sun. “The Sun King lacked a bit of sunshine that day,” one visitor had quipped, and indeed Versailles was cloaked in gentle gloom.
Yet, that very gloom lent it a romantic, almost haunting atmosphere that a bright day might not have offered.
Walking up to the palace entrance, I sidestepped puddles on the cobblestones. The rain was light but steady, pattering on my umbrella and the courtyard’s stones with a rhythmic tap-tap.
I took a deep breath and prepared to make the most of this less-than-perfect weather. Little did I know, the rain would end up enhancing my experience in surprising ways.
Opulence Amidst Raindrops
Inside the palace, I shook off my umbrella and was immediately greeted by the warmth of Baroque opulence. The King’s State Apartments unfolded one lavish room after another—crimson walls, painted ceilings, chandeliers—all illuminated in a diffused light from high windows.
Outside, the rain streaked the glass panes, blurring the gardens beyond into an Impressionist canvas. It felt cozy to be inside, sheltered from the wet chill, much as the court of Louis XIV might have felt on rainy days centuries ago. In fact, I recalled that Versailles’ most famous room, the Hall of Mirrors, owes its existence to bad weather.
Originally, a grand open-air terrace connected the King’s and Queen’s wings, but it was “awkward and above all exposed to bad weather,” leading Louis XIV to replace it with the splendid enclosed gallery we see today. Standing in the palace on this rainy morning, I silently thanked the Sun King’s foresight—because as the rain fell, I stayed dry, wandering through history.
I noticed something about the crowd dynamics, too. On sunny days, visitors often disperse into the gardens; but today, with the downpour, everyone crowded the interior. The salons and galleries were bustling with damp tourists seeking refuge.
Versailles is popular year-round—it draws on average tens of thousands of visitors per day in high season—so I hadn’t expected an empty palace. But the rain meant that while the gardens were nearly empty (as I’d discover later), the state rooms were even more congested than usual.
Still, I found moments of quiet in less famous rooms, imagining how courtiers once waited for an audience with the king, their shoes perhaps tracking in mud on days like this. Rain or shine, life at Versailles went on, and so did my tour.
The Hall of Mirrors in a Different Light
No visit to Versailles is complete without the Hall of Mirrors, and I saved its grand spectacle for last among the interior rooms.
I followed the flow of people until suddenly I stepped into that iconic gallery – 73 meters of splendor, lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors on one side and arched windows overlooking the gardens on the other.
Even on a gloomy day, the Hall of Mirrors dazzled. Dozens of crystal chandeliers glinted softly, and the mirrors reflected their light along with the silhouettes of visitors. I tried to picture how sunlight would normally flood this hall, bouncing off 357 mirrors set into 17 great arches.
But today there was a gentler, diffused glow. The hall felt more intimate, almost moody – yet no less magnificent. In fact, with the patter of rain audible on the roof and against the windows, the Hall of Mirrors took on a dramatic ambience.
I remembered a charming line I’d read: “We wandered the Hall of Mirrors as rain pattered – it felt like the palace was flexing its drama muscles just for us.” And truly, standing there, I felt a grand theatricality in the air. The painted ceiling—depicting Louis XIV’s victories—loomed overhead, and the hall’s very creation was vindicated by this weather; if not for rainy days, this opulent indoor promenade might never have been built.
I walked slowly, taking in the historical weight of this gallery. It was here that dazzling court ceremonies were held on rare occasions, such as royal wedding balls and ambassadorial receptions where Louis XIV would sit on a throne at one end, the entire court arrayed to witness foreign envoys marvelling at French glory.
Centuries later, in 1919, the Allied and German delegates signed the Treaty of Versailles in this very hall, ending World War I amid these mirrors and marble. I paused by one of the tall windows, peering out at the rain-lashed gardens.
The statues on the terrace glistened wet, and puddles pooled on the geometric lawns. It struck me that the Hall’s mirrors, which once symbolized the wealth and might of France (mirrors were an extreme luxury in the 17th century), were now reflecting a very simple, natural spectacle – raindrops and the pale light of an overcast midday.
And yet, it was beautiful. The grandeur of Versailles didn’t diminish with clouds; it merely wore a different costume. I imagined courtiers of Louis XIV’s time crossing this hall on a stormy day, perhaps with rain pelting the windows just as it was for me.
In those days, the hall was a daily passageway and also a statement of power – its 357 mirrors proclaimed that France could produce luxury on par with Venice’s best. Today, it was full of selfie-snapping tourists instead of powdered nobility, but I felt connected to the past all the same.
Before I left, I stood in the center of the Hall of Mirrors and slowly turned around, taking in the 360-degree view: golden candelabras, heroic paintings, and reflections of history on every surface.
Rainy day or not, the Hall of Mirrors was pure magic – a place where you can practically see the ghosts of lavish balls and hear the whispers of diplomats.
The Hall of Mirrors still dazzles on a gray day. The 17 mirror-clad arches and crystal chandeliers reflect even the faint light, maintaining the gallery’s famous grandeur.
A Quiet Moment in the Royal Chapel
Continuing my route, I slipped into the Royal Chapel – one of my favorite spaces in Versailles. The chapel is a two-story masterpiece with a vaulted ceiling and marble colonnades.
That morning, it was hushed and half-lit, an oasis of calm away from the tour groups. I tilted my head back to admire the ceiling fresco of God in glory and the richly ornamented royal organ loft.
In the stillness, I could almost hear in my mind the strains of Baroque organ music echoing as it did in Louis XIV’s time. Every day at 10 a.m. the Sun King attended Mass here, seated in the royal gallery above while the court gathered below.
I climbed halfway up a staircase to get a better look into the nave. From that vantage, I imagined the scene: the King and his family in the upper tribune, dressed in their finery, the ladies of the court lining the side balconies, and common folks and officers standing in the main floor nave.
On a dreary day in 1700, perhaps they too heard the rain drumming on the roof as the Chapelle Royale’s music – provided by the famous royal choir – soared to the rafters.
In fact, this chapel was Louis XIV’s last major building project at Versailles, completed in 1710. It hosted many royal ceremonies over the years: not only daily Mass, but also royal weddings and baptisms of princes and princesses up until the Revolution.
I recalled that Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were wed at Versailles – likely in this very chapel – in May 1770, with all the attendant pomp. Standing there alone (others had shuffled out, likely to see the Hall of Mirrors), I felt goosebumps.
The chapel’s marble floor had a faint reflection of the stained-glass windows, and the rain outside cast wavering light patterns on the floor. It was serene.
Suddenly, a clap of thunder rumbled faintly in the distance. A few other visitors peeked into the chapel with wide eyes, as if expecting an announcement from on high. We exchanged quiet smiles.
Rainy days come and go, but this chapel has stood through them since the 18th century, a silent witness to history. I took one last look at the gilded altar below and the royal balcony above – where I pictured Louis XIV nodding in approval at the choir’s motets (the great composer François Couperin once played that organ ).
It was time to venture back outside, into the elements. I braced myself for the next phase of my wet adventure.
Gardens in the Misty Rain
With an internal debate (“Should I just stick to the palace?”), I eventually decided I couldn’t miss the famous Versailles Gardens – rain or not. I zipped up my raincoat, tightened my scarf, and stepped out a side door into the palace’s Upper Terrace.
A cool mist greeted me. What a sight: the meticulously manicured gardens stretched out before me, eerily beautiful under low-hanging clouds. Normally, on a sunny afternoon, this terrace is packed with people admiring the Grand Perspective – the sweeping view down the green carpet lawn, over the fountains, all the way to the Grand Canal.
Today, I had the view nearly to myself. Below, the Bassin de Latone (Latona Fountain) gleamed wet, its gilded figures of Apollo’s mother glinting against dark skies. Beyond it, the famed Royal Allée appeared as a green expanse fading into mist. The rain had silenced the usual crowds; only a few hardy souls were strolling with umbrellas far in the distance.
I descended the stone steps into the Bosquets (groves). Rain pooled on the trimmed hedges and flowed along the marble paths. The fresh petrichor smell of wet earth and leaves was invigorating.
Louis XIV considered these gardens as important as the palace itself, entrusting their design to André Le Nôtre in 1661. Even in October drizzle (when many flowers had faded), the geometry and grandeur of Le Nôtre’s design shone through.
The sound of raindrops on broad leaf surfaces and the occasional gust of wind through the topiary created a natural symphony, replacing the usual summer soundtrack of classical music during fountain shows.
I popped open my guide booklet, which got immediately speckled by rain, and made my way toward the Fountain of Apollo at the foot of the garden.
When I reached the Bassin d’Apollon, I was struck by how the scene looked straight out of a mythic painting. Fog curled over the water and the dramatic bronze sculpture of Apollo riding his four-horse chariot rose from the basin as if emerging from the very mist.
According to the plaques, this fountain depicts the sun god Apollo rising at dawn, an homage to Louis XIV, the Sun King. Today, Apollo’s bronze form was beaded with droplets, and instead of sunlight, he was bathed in a silvery haze.
Birds took advantage of the quiet—indeed I saw a couple of ducks splashing happily in a puddle near Apollo’s basin, as if mocking the weather.
A handful of other visitors stood nearby, quietly admiring the ethereal view. One of them caught my eye and grinned, “Not the postcard image, is it?” she laughed, gesturing to the grey sky. I laughed and responded, “No, but it has its own magic!” We both agreed that the gardens in the rain felt like a moody oil painting come alive – more Turner than Monet.
Strolling further, I nearly had to pinch myself: I was virtually alone in some garden sections that are normally crowded. The Bosquet des Trois Fontaines murmured with flowing water and no other footsteps but my own.
Rain beaded on marble statues, giving them a glistening sheen. I cut over to the Grand Canal, the mile-long waterway that anchors the far end of the gardens. By now the rain was light, a sprinkle, and a low mist hovered above the canal’s surface.
This canal, I remembered, took 11 years to construct and was the scene of many royal fetes. Louis XIV hosted grand parties here, complete with artificial illumination and fireworks reflecting in the water. In fact, the guidebook noted that the Grand Canal once even saw a three-masted warship and Venetian gondolas floating on it during the Sun King’s reign! Imagining that spectacle in this drizzle gave me chills.
How astounding those nights must have been – ladies in silks and gentlemen in wigs watching fireworks, while today a lone heron stood in the reeds of the canal under the rain, utterly peaceful.
As I walked along the canal, I noticed an attendant idling near a little electric golf cart rental stand. Versailles rents out golf carts for tourists to explore the gardens, and a few brave souls in plastic ponchos were zipping around in them, splashing through puddles.
It was a comical modern contrast to the historical grandeur around us. I chose to remain on foot, letting the rain wash over the experience. The Grand Canal’s tree-lined avenues were almost empty, amplifying the sense of solitude. In a way, it felt more personal – like the gardens belonged just a little bit more to me today.
One historical anecdote particularly struck me as I watched water streaming from a smaller fountain: Versailles’ fountains were once a logistical feat, especially in dry weather.
There were over 2,000 fountains, and water was so scarce that Louis XIV’s engineers had to operate them selectively. They even devised a system of signal whistles so that as the king walked through the gardens, fountains would be turned on just before he arrived and then turned off after he passed, to conserve water.
I smiled at the irony – today, water was the one thing Versailles had plenty of, freely falling from the sky and running in rivulets down the garden steps!
How astonished those 17th-century fountain tenders would be to see the gardens soaked and fountains overflowing with rainwater. (In fact, I learned that even now the estate reuses rainwater, capturing it in cisterns to supply the fountains – a nice nod to sustainability.)
This interplay of history and weather gave me a deeper appreciation for the place: Versailles has always been a theater where nature and human artifice interact.
On sunny days, the Sun King bent nature to his will with perfectly choreographed fountains and gardens; on this rainy day, nature had decided to reclaim the script a bit, draping everything in water and cloud.
Eventually, I neared the Trianon Estate at the far end of the park. The walk down had left me a bit soggy, but I was exhilarated. I felt like I had seen a side of Versailles that few do – the intimate, rain-soaked side, where every leaf and statue seems polished and alive.
Before heading into the Trianons, I took a moment by the Round Pond near the canal. The surface was covered in concentric ripples from raindrops, and the trees around were shedding the last of their autumn leaves onto the water.
In the distance, the outline of the palace was barely visible through the mist. It was sublime. Rain, it turns out, had not ruined Versailles at all; it had simply offered a new lens through which to experience its beauty.
Marie Antoinette’s Hamlet
One of the places I was most excited to see was Le Hameau de la Reine – Marie Antoinette’s Hamlet. Tucked in the gardens near the Petit Trianon, this rustic retreat was Queen Marie Antoinette’s private countryside fantasy.
By the time I approached the Hamlet, the rain had tapered to a gentle sprinkle. I passed through a small wooded area and suddenly found myself in a Norman fairy tale village: quaint thatched-roof cottages, a tranquil pond, a watermill, and an charming faux-lighthouse tower known as the Marlborough Tower rising at the water’s edge.
A thin veil of mist hung over the pond, and I could see the reflections of the cottages waver in the water, disturbed occasionally by raindrops. If Versailles’ main palace is all about bombastic power, the Queen’s Hamlet is about intimate charm – and in the rain, it felt as though I had truly stepped back in time.
There were maybe two other visitors wandering the hamlet’s pathways at this moment, so I essentially had the little village to myself.
Marie Antoinette had commissioned this Hamlet in 1783, longing to escape the formality of court life and “play” at being a simple countrywoman. It’s said she would wander here dressed in peasant-style clothes, enjoy the farm animals, and host small gatherings of friends away from prying eyes.
Walking along the pebbled paths, I saw several of the rustic cottages: the Queen’s House with its vine-covered exterior, a dairy where she might have churned butter (more for amusement than necessity), a working farm building, and the Moulin (mill) with its wheel still and silent today.
Each cottage had its own little garden plot, and even in October there were cabbages and herbs growing, bedraggled in the rain. I peeked over a low fence to see a few farm animals—Versailles keeps some goats and chickens here even now, to recreate the pastoral vibe. They didn’t seem to mind the drizzle, nibbling away at wet grass.
As a lover of history, I reflected on how radical this little village was in concept. Here was the Queen of France, in the 1780s, retreating from the gilded halls to “flee the Etiquette and enjoy nature” in a make-believe farm.
Perhaps on a rainy afternoon 240 years ago, Marie Antoinette sat in her cozy cottage here, listening to the rain on the thatch roof, far from the rigid protocols of Versailles.
I found myself smiling at the thought. There’s an oft-repeated myth that she used to actually milk cows and gather eggs here; while largely symbolic, the Hamlet did have a functional dairy, dovecote, and even a farmhouse producing fresh milk and eggs for the Queen.
The entire complex was designed by her favored architect Richard Mique and painted by Hubert Robert to be the picture of a rustic idyll. It’s fascinating because it shows the contradictory nature of royalty: building an elaborate illusion of simplicity.
I paused by the Marlborough Tower, the pretty stone tower that looks like a miniature lighthouse. Its conical roof was slick with rain. Nearby stood the pond which the tower overlooks.
The water was murky but still, with lily pads and the occasional ripple from a raindrop or perhaps a frog beneath the surface. Everything was quiet except for the gentle patter of droplets on leaves and the distant caw of a crow.
The Hamlet in rain felt incredibly romantic – not in the sense of love, but in the artistic sense: it was like a scene from a novel, exuding a wistful mood. I half expected to see the ghost of Marie Antoinette wandering the little bridge in the distance, skirts damp from the grass, cradling a lamb.
Interestingly, I overheard later that some revolutionaries in 1789 believed Marie Antoinette was using this hamlet for secret intrigues—there were wild rumors it was where she met lovers or plotted against the people.
Standing there, that seemed hard to imagine; it’s just so tranquil and innocent in appearance. If anything, the Hamlet felt like an escape from politics altogether. As I left, I noticed a simple white bench under an arbor, beads of water lining its wooden slats. I sat for a minute despite the wet, letting the atmosphere sink in.
I felt grateful that I got to see the Queen’s Hamlet in this weather. On a sunny day, it’s charming but often full of tourists and bright flowers. Today, with soft rain and hardly anyone around, it truly felt like my own little discovery, a secret garden imbued with the spirit of a young queen seeking solace in nature.
The Grand Trianon
A short walk from the Hamlet (still within the Trianon estate) brought me to the Grand Trianon. Immediately, the style changed from rustic to Neoclassical elegance.
The Grand Trianon is a single-story palace of pink marble and porphyry, with a peristyle of columns and formal gardens. It was built in 1687 by Jules Hardouin-Mansart for Louis XIV, who intended it as an escape from the pomp of the main palace – a place to relax with his mistress Madame de Montespan and later Madame de Maintenon.
They originally called it the Marble Trianon, and indeed even under gray skies the rose-colored marble facades looked beautiful. The rain had just about stopped by now, so I closed my umbrella.
The Grand Trianon’s colonnades framed views of its gardens, where neat flowerbeds and orange trees (brought indoors for winter by now) would typically add color. In this season, the flowerbeds were mostly green, but the structure itself provided plenty of beauty.
I wandered through the open-sided gallery with its checkerboard tile floor, enjoying the fresh, rain-washed air. A few puddles had collected at the base of the columns.
Here and there, I saw other visitors – some couples strolling hand in hand, a tour guide passionately explaining something to a small group. But compared to the main palace, the Grand Trianon was practically empty. I stepped into the luxurious rooms that were open to visitors.
The décor was a mix of eras: some rooms had the original 17th-century touches, others were refurnished by Napoleon in the early 19th century (he loved this palace and even made it one of his residences). One salon had silver-grey wallpaper and a view to the gardens; another room was filled with Empire-style chairs that Napoleon’s family used.
In the Empress’s bedroom, I saw a delicate bed and imagined Empress Marie-Louise (Napoleon’s second wife) staying here when Napoleon established the Grand Trianon as a summer abode. History layers itself thick at Versailles – every building has stories from different eras.
Looking out through a tall French door to the gardens, I watched raindrops slide off the eaves. Gardeners were out already, one pushing a wheelbarrow, another inspecting the soggy flowerbeds.
Their boots squelched in the wet grass. I realized that maintaining Versailles in such weather must be a constant battle: mud, runoff, fragile blooms getting battered. Yet, there was something rejuvenating about the scene too – the gardens drank up the moisture eagerly.
Louis XIV’s own orange trees (descendants thereof) would be happy with the extra drink, I thought. In spring and summer, the Grand Trianon garden is a riot of roses and manicured shrubs.
Today it was subdued, but the raindrops on every petal and leaf added a jewel-like sparkle when the occasional sunbeam started peeking through the clouds.
I took a leisurely stroll around the peristyle courtyard, the open-air center of Grand Trianon. This Italianate marble courtyard, with a shallow ornamental pool at its heart, perfectly reflected the arched colonnade in its water – a mirror image, disturbed only by a light drip from the roof.
It reminded me how Versailles, even in its quieter corners, is all about reflection and spectacle. Here I was, reflecting on the lives of kings and emperors, while literal reflections danced in a rain puddle at my feet.
Before leaving, I sat for a moment on the steps of the Grand Trianon (wiping the rainwater off with my sleeve first!). The clouds were beginning to break apart, patches of late-afternoon blue showing through. I felt a sense of peace.
No court etiquette to worry about, no crowds pressing in – just me in a historic haven. It struck me why Louis XIV and later luminaries loved this place: it’s Versailles without the overwhelm.
Even more so on a day like this, when the weather ensured only the truly determined came out this far, the Grand Trianon was a sanctuary. If I ever come back to Versailles on a rainy day, I think I’d head straight here first for some tranquility.
Sunshine vs. Rain
How does a rainy-day Versailles compare to the postcard-perfect sunny Versailles? Having experienced both in different trips, I can say they are completely different moods. On a sunny summer day, Versailles is dazzling and energetic.
The Hall of Mirrors gleams with sunlight pouring in, the gardens explode with color and the fountains sparkle under blue skies. You’ll find the grounds filled with picnickers lounging by the Grand Canal, and the weekend Musical Fountains Shows drawing crowds to watch water jets dance in the sun.
The whole palace complex feels like it’s showing off (as it was designed to) – a testament to the glory of the Sun King, with everything aglow. The statues and gilding shine bright, and Marie Antoinette’s Hamlet looks like a cheerful scene from a storybook, goats bleating under clear skies.
Many travelers insist on a sunny day for Versailles precisely to see the gardens at their best, with good reason. Personally, I remember being awed by the sheer brilliance and scale on a warm, cloudless afternoon, but also slightly overwhelmed by the heat and the massive crowds.
Now, on a rainy day, the script flips. Practical differences first: it’s true that a lot of people will stick to the interiors when it’s wet, making the palace rooms even more crowded than usual. If you dislike crowds, that can be a downside.
On my rainy visit, the Hall of Mirrors was shoulder-to-shoulder with damp tourists, whereas on a mild clear day early in the morning I once found it moderately crowded but more breathable. Outside, however, the rain thins out the masses dramatically.
Many casual visitors who came just for a pleasant stroll might cut their garden visit short or skip the Trianon estate entirely. I saw the evidence: several folks looked at the ominous clouds and decided to stay near the main buildings, or left earlier than planned.
The result was that I practically had whole sections of the gardens to myself, a rarity at a site that sees millions of visitors each year. A traveler on a forum once marveled that in rain, “the crowds were down to a trickle”, allowing them to savor Versailles in peace. I felt the same – it takes a bit of willingness to get wet, but you’re rewarded with breathing space.
Emotionally and aesthetically, a sunny Versailles and a rainy Versailles are like two different personalities. Sunny Versailles is extroverted – bright, busy, triumphant.
Rainy Versailles is introspective – gentle, moody, poetic. On a sunny day, the Hall of Mirrors wows you with light and exuberance. On a rainy day, it invites you to notice softer details: the sound of raindrops, the patterns of reflections when light is muted. The Gardens in sunshine are a grand show, every vista clear for miles, statues casting sharp shadows.
In rain, the gardens turn into a dreamy landscape, with fog blurring the distances, colors darkening to richer tones, and everything a bit more mysterious. One isn’t better than the other, but they deliver different experiences.
As a history lover, I found the rainy ambiance made it easier to imagine past eras – perhaps because fewer fellow tourists were around to break the illusion, and the subdued light felt more like stepping into an old painting or a memory.
There’s also something to be said about comfort: a sunny summer day in Versailles can actually be quite hot and tiring. Lines can be long under the beating sun, and the packed rooms can get stuffy (Versailles isn’t air-conditioned, aside from some spaces).
In contrast, my rainy-day visit, despite the initial chill, felt refreshing. Once I accepted being a bit damp, I was comfortable enough and never overheated or sunburned. In fact, one visitor jokingly commented online that they “melted” under the sun on their Versailles trip – which can indeed happen during France’s warm months. No risk of that when rain keeps temperatures cool.
Finally, photography and sensory details differ greatly. If you’re an avid photographer, sunny days give you postcard shots with blue sky and sparkling gold.
Rainy days, however, offer unique photo opportunities: puddles that mirror the palace, raindrops on roses (or on the ironwork of gates), sculptures with water streaks that add character, and possibly even a rainbow if you’re lucky when the sun peeks out.
I found myself taking close-up shots of wet architectural details I’d probably overlook on a fine day.
And the sensory memories – the sound of rain on the Hall of Mirrors’ roof, the smell of wet orange blossoms in the Orangerie, the touch of cool mist on my face as I gazed at the Grand Canal – these are things a sunny day doesn’t provide.
In short, Versailles in sunshine is like a grand festival, while Versailles in rain is like a reflective reverie.
Having now experienced the palace in both modes, I honestly appreciate how rain revealed a more intimate side of this famous destination. It felt like Versailles was all mine for a day, revealing subtle secrets behind the usual spectacle.
Final Reflections
As the day drew to a close, I slowly made my way back toward the palace and then to the train station, shoes a bit muddy and a few postcards richer (I bought a postcard showing Versailles under blue skies, for contrast with my own memories!).
The rain had finally stopped, and the evening sun even broke through as a parting gift, illuminating the palace façade in a soft glow. I turned back for one last look at Versailles.
The rooflines steamed gently as rain evaporated in the sunlight, and the golden gates gleamed against a backdrop of dispersing storm clouds.
It was a breathtaking sight – one that seemed to validate the entire experience, as if Versailles was saying, “See, wasn’t that worth it?”
In the end, visiting Versailles on a rainy day turned out to be not a disappointment, but a revelation.
This rainy day at Versailles taught me to savor the journey no matter the weather. Versailles in the rain is a story I’m glad to have lived, and yes, I’d do it again without hesitation, umbrella in hand and heart open to a little adventure through time.
