Frictionless

When I get back to Australia I know I will get the question along the lines of “how are things in Britain these days then?” It’s a subtle way of probing what the actual bloody hell is going on with all that nonsensical Tory schoolboy jostling otherwise known as the British Exit from the European Union. And I guess I’ll answer something along the lines of “well, everyone is pretty much fed up of hearing about it all the time”. Because, you know, what better way to deal with impending doom than pretending it isn’t happening (see, for example, Climate Change).

Still, let’s not get all Project Fear with needless stuff like evidence and statistics and what not. Britain will be fine, because Britain is great and we can be great again because we are Britain, which is just great. So goes the leading argument for leaving. Which is bizarre when you think about it, because it relies on untainted optimism. SINCE WHEN HAVE THE BRITISH BEEN OPTIMISTIC?!!!

Anyway, it’s all great, because being great, I’m sure I will still be able to travel without much friction to Europe on my Great British passport which is changing colour because we can change its colour, wow! I can’t believe I was ever sceptical.

Yes, frictionless travel to Europe. People will continue to queue to get on the plane even though they have an assigned seat and the inbound flight hasn’t even landed yet. The size of hand luggage will continue to take the piss and be contorted into overhead lockers without any regard for anyone else. Buses will continue to transport people from the terminal to a plane twenty metres away, just to add an extra half hour on this seamless journey. And we’ll all get to France with Easyjet scratchcards and no intention at all to even consider speaking French. Nothing will change.

Ah, France. I got there eventually. Actually Switzerland, but then followed by a frictionless border crossing (okay, some speed bumps) to France. And, just for a change, Ville-la-Grand, where my brother and his family have recently moved. It’s a lovely spot, fringed by woodland and the park and bike paths and a slope to the markets and a decent walk to schools and the cheese shop also known as the supermarket. And from one supermarket you can even see Mont Blanc and other assorted mountains on a fine day. It’s grand.

The weather wasn’t very continental on the first day there. Bloody Europe, I should’ve stayed at home. With murk, drizzle and rainy spells it was much like Great Britain, but we still managed to head out for a couple of hours and not gaze sombrely out to sea from a car park eating soggy cheese and pickle sandwiches. While a downpour hammered on the car roof in the car park, it quickly passed, and we were able to amble around the pretty lakeside village of Nernier in the dry. C’est la vie.

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fra02The next day was a more promising affair, with clouds breaking and a touch more warmth back in the air. And so into the Alps, for a destination that was as much about a lunch opportunity as it was scenic nourishment. The Cascade du Rouget plunges down from the mountains, fed by snow melt and discarded Evian. Today, at the end of a long hot summer, it was a relative trickle but an impressive sight nonetheless. Liquid oozing at the mercy of gravity, the annual fondue went down pretty well too.

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fra04The nearby flowery towns of Sixt-Fer-a-Cheval and Samoens provided a touch of post-lunch ambling, ticking down time until the bakeries re-opened. They were relatively quiet on this weekday in September, a palpable air of towns that are winding down from the summer and slowly putting in place preparations for winter. Jigsaw wood piles, puffed up bodywarmers, freshly greased raclette machines. All the essentials of an Alpine winter.

But let’s not put away those Decathlon shorts and tops and sporty sandals just yet. For there are glorious end-of-summer days in which to revel. Blue skies and temperatures nudging the thirties and – finally – a taste of this legendary heatwave of 2018. Until I depart the EU and face the chilly murk of Bristol Airport of course. Great.

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Time for countryside ambles across borders, the sun dappling through the trees of brookside meanders and lighting the fields around. Busy gardens glow amongst shuttered windows and wooden beams, while rows of vines and apple red orchards are bursting for harvest. Lingering lunches alfresco provide a pause to enjoy the fruits of the summer or, more typically, the cheesy potato-bacon-salad combos. And an urge to try to counteract the heftiness of fromage propels me to borrow a bike and cycle to Switzerland and back.

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The final day in France – and very likely my last day in Europe before Britain decides it is better off without it – was surely a reminder that the motherland will always be inferior in the weather stakes. Attention turning to the BBC forecast, mutterings along the lines of 17 degrees and cloud looking “not too bad” for next week show how quickly I adjust; my expectations lower and tolerance of shorts wearing does too.

But an evening flight provides ample time to soak summer up while it lasts, so why not catch a train to Evian to do more than just drink expensive water? I came here last year, from across the lake in Lausanne, and was reasonably enamoured by its character and ambience. Today, a chance to take Mum and a useful local French speaker to enjoy its lakeside ambles and distant views of higher, craggier Alpine peaks.

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Evian’s not the most exciting of places but possesses requisite continental charm. Of course, the plastic-polluting water bottle company is a dominant theme and I believe there are spas in which you can bathe in the minerals extracted from unicorn sweat filtered through kryptonite. The actual source of water is there for all – including many a local restaurant owner and German coach party – to top up bottles. And the free funicular is a little treat for Portillo fans and youth orchestras from Wessex alike.

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Basking in such glorious weather it seems a shame to be departing. The mountains so clear that they literally beckon your name and urge you towards their valleys and peaks. But it turns out we have to leave, not because the alleged genius that is Boris says so, but because there is an Easyjet ticket which has my name on it. A ticket that also has a seat allocated, making the spectacle of hundreds of people queuing at the gate even before the plane is there even more preposterous. In an era of pure preposterousness, this takes the tea and biscuit.

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Europe Food & Drink Green Bogey Photography

Hors Categorie

If there’s one thing that does have enduring popularity in France it’s months of summer holidays frolicking around the republic, sampling local cheeses and drinking grapes. Some flock to thank the beaches, others wade nonchalantly within Monet waterways, while a large portion head to the hills wrapped in Decathlon. I bring my own Kmart chic to the mountains, but am happy to regularly indulge in the joie de vivre as much as the next Thomas, Ricard or Henri.

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alps01Just when you think you have pretty much seen the French Alps, another gorgeously picturesque valley road veers upwards, speckled with chalets and cyclists, leading to a modest resort town and an inevitable col de something or other once mentioned by Phil Liggett late at night. Saint-Francois-Longchamp is not only pleasingly French sounding but possesses all the jagged scenery and cowbell fields you could hope for. And plenty of those wooden chalets in which to stay avec famille.

There is a sameness to this landscape – it could be virtually any other high valley in the French Alps – but in no way whatsoever is that a bad thing. From the doorstep, footsteps can lead into sunny pastures surrounded by lofty peaks or, equally, the local piscine and boulangerie. All are recurrent, welcome sights.

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alps03As things tended to go, footsteps to the boulangerie were typical first thing, followed by a longer walk somewhere someplace prior to or incorporating lunch. Warm afternoons were generally more leisurely before fun, games, and dinner. Dinner obviously incorporated cheese in several forms… another sameness which is in no way whatsoever a bad thing.

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alps07Trips beyond Saint-Footlong-Champignons included the short climb up the hairpins to the Col de la Madeleine (HC). By voiture this was okay; an electric powered bike might have been doable; but pure pedal power seems like pure crazy. Especially from 1500 metres below in the valley of the Arc. I think if I even remotely made part of this climb without dying I would reward myself with trois boules of ice cream. But I didn’t, so just had the ‘two’ instead.

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Elsewhere, a couple of days of the week in Such-Fancy-Longpants were spiced up with a functioning chairlift. This dangled a steady stream of holidaymakers upward towards Lac Blanc and Lac Bleu. Not all the way up though…the final kilometre or so requiring a little zigzagging and pausing at opportune times for photo breaks.

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alps10The lakes were small placid affairs, ideal for observing the evolution of tadpoles to gourmet cuisine. Marmot whistles vied for attention with miniscule mosses and macrobugs, while the number of baguettes being simultaneously munched beside the water reached epic proportions around one. But then, you could see the appeal; they really were rather charming spots to eat and wile away a couple of hours up high.

Back down in town, summertime life continued with a chunder incident in the pool, horses on the loose, dog walking en masse, and people with shiny balls competing for the finest patch of gravel. The thud of Petanque was only eclipsed by the thud of the Beaufort on the table.

alps11Despite so much to enjoy it was perhaps the final morning where life in the Alps peaked. From the Col de la Madeleine once more, a cloudless sky provided the obligatory view of a glimmering, gargantuan Mont Blanc. It was a steady companion along a gravel track with views over valleys and peaks as far as the eye could see. I had probably been in some of those, and eaten some of their cheese before.

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Pausing at a boarded up wintertime ski spot, a few clouds had started to gather around the mighty massif as they almost always do. Air currents and convection and all that type of stuff; handy for obscuring prominent peaks and flying toy planes. A beacon and turning point, to head for home and leave that poor solitary walker to finally enjoy some peace and quiet!

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You don’t really think of France and burgers and beers, but lunchtime at La Banquise 2000 feasting on the aforementioned was a dream. It kind of seems wrong, but there’s something immensely satisfying about eating a slab of beef coated in melted local cheese and accompanied with the most amazing chips as scrawny people in Lycra huff and puff their way to a mountaintop.

My polka dot jersey would clearly need to be expandable to cater for these breaks, to adjust to the experience of summer holidays in the Alps and everything they entail. At least, from here, the only way is downhill, gravity assisted with extra vigour all the way back to the valley and towards Geneva.

 

Europe Food & Drink Green Bogey Photography Walking