white Christmas 2013

We're just back from a Christmas like no other (see http://blur.by/1d13BGL for full version).
Determined to get some use from Juan's rando skis (virgin-new since last year), and "make or break" me, I had booked us onto a 5-day ski-touring holiday in the Queyras. Situated on the Italian border a hour south of Briançon, it's a favourite area for us but we haven't been there since Juan's move to CH has curtailed our weekend trips to within-easy-range-of-Grenoble. The Christmas break was the perfect opportunity to renew contact.

Before leaving Vaulnaveys I had worked myself into a lather of anxiety about where and what skis to hire (I wear the rando thing with considerable psychological baggage – my history with ski touring complicated!). So I would like to note here what a waste of energy that was. Albeit with ample protection, the kit hired from the guide was absolutely fine. The issue became how I was going to survive five days of 900 m ascents with a UCPA group where the max age was supposed to be 39 (!), with ski technique/level of fitness on the edge of what was required.

Day 1 started well...

regrouping at the hamlet of Valpreveyre – Bric Bouchet gleams in the background

so far so good...

... but I found the climb up to the Col d'Urine punishing and I started to trail...

looking down from Col d'Urine to the Po valley

The wind-blasted Col wasn't a place to linger. The descent then separated the sheep from the lambs. Jean-Philippe Cherbonnier is an ace guide: patient, reassuring, funny... But his "Don't worry, follow in my tracks" only lasted as long as his inclination to look after the problem child that was Rebecca. Far behind the rest of the group there was no one to help me when I fell into a stream and my skis were instantly iced up. And the steep slalom through closely spaced larch forest – a game for youth who had skied since the age of three – was a murderous obstacle course for me.

It was clear I wasn't going to make Day 2. And that was fine. After doing the beacon-rescue exercise...

... I nursed my sinusitis in the safety of the valley while Juan walked up high once again:

... able to enjoy himself without worrying about whether the wife was going to break her neck.

In the evening the gîte served a competent (rather than gastronomic) 7-course Christmas meal. Spirits were high but the late and extended timing, and raucous high-volume French were too much for us old codgers. The exquisite relief at retiring to our 2-bunk-bed room further sign of advancing middle age!

Day 3 was Christmas Day – but you wouldn't have noticed its passing in this secular community. Juan was suffering from thigh burn-out and took a day off while the rest of us walked up Maloquestre forest in deep, heavy, falling snow. The snow cushioned my numerous falls but, each time, the high water content caused it to compact, like being entombed in cement. Someone in the group was ready to dig me out each time I needed help. On just about every bend. But, thanks to them, I got down the hill.

To no one's surprise I copped out of Day 4 – where the mounting avalanche risk was now 4+ and the skins had to be kept on even for the descent. For Juan the final biscuit was 5km of cross-country piste to get back to Abriès. What could be worse! Meanwhile, I strolled along the bottom of the valley, enjoying having my two feet firmly on the ground.

waiting for the bus (which never arrived - it had broken down) at Ristolas

between Abriès and Ristolas - photo taken in colour!

Day 5 was a dream. And a carbon copy of a similar outing we did many years ago. So my two most memorably lovely ski rando outings have happened in the same place: the Crête de la Gardiole. Free from worries about boot comfort, physical fitness and technique it was pure pleasure from beginning to end. "Tu es très bien montée, Rebecca", praises Jean-Philippe. What a good girl am I. And what a superlative activity ski touring is, when conditions are right.

And click here for Jean-Philippe's rousing 1-minute video clip of our week. You might catch Juan but anyone skiing full tilt is not me! And here for a fellow group member's films.

How can we keep it going...? Because of Juan's absence, and our difficulty in embedding ourselves with a club, it can't be a regular activity as do the die-hard Grenoblois. But hopefully we'll manage a one-off repeat before the next season. Meanwhile, we are going to bore anyone with whom we have contact with the 15-minute video Jean-Philippe made of our challenging, exhausting, terrifying, rewarding, magical week.

above the pollution

I don't want to put off potential visitors but the winter pollution problem right now seems worse than usual, perhaps exacerbated by the long run of clear weather and accompanying temperature inversion, and (in our neck of the woods) the effect of the many new houses filling the valley with wood smoke.

Sad that we seem hell bent on destroying what we love most, and that we don't find a way of reducing our impact, other than rationing our wood-burning to weekends. The atmosphere, particularly in the evening, is thick – on Friday Juan could feel it hit his lungs approaching the eastern suburbs from Switzerland. Sore throats, coughs, runny noses and itchy eyes are an occupational hazard of living in the Grenoble basin.

But once are up high, it is glorious. Today we went up Beauregard for perhaps the 20th or 30th time since moving to France. It's the hill we see from the house and is my favourite Sunday (or any time) half-day walk. Even Juan, long scornful of its "tameness", now enjoys its charm, and the huge payback in views for modest effort.

We crossed paths with a lone skier, some kids playing with toboggans, walkers and two kite skiers supremely at ease as they switch-backed across the slopes, the kites lifting them high off the ground...

suspended on the slope facing "our" valley

Lower down the snow cover was very patchy...

... and our snow shoes came on and off and on... at regular intervals.

looking towards the Ecrins / Dévoluy over the Laffrey lakes

descending to the village of Les Arnauds

Wonderful, and aptly named, Beauregard.

the ski season opens at Chamrousse

Strictly in the name of training (we will be doing some ski touring over Christmas and need to find our feet and fitness), we dragged our weary butts up to our local resort. And had a wonderful time – more or less avoiding the stones and piste-hogging ski nuts that are a feature of the early season.

I am thrilled to say that I did my first black piste ("Olympic homme", on which I lost my rando ski in white-out iced-up conditions 3 years ago – and ended up walking down!).

a well-.loved view towards Beauregard and the Connex – I hope we'll see it this uncrowded again

And – very unusally – we crossed paths with friends:

Juan, Isa, Nathan and Laurent

Thighs burning, four hours later, we slid back home to dine on the largest union jack fish pie I've ever made (an attempt to rationalise the ready-meals going east with Juan...):

Union Jack fish pie © Juan

AND my dodgy arms didn't impede me... Roll on the good times...

dancing into winter

Things are slowing down. At the end of November I ran the last of my cycle of three shiatsu workshops. Was it a success? Yes and no. In terms of my ability to maintain credibility (in French), pitch the instruction appropriately, find the right pace for the group, feel relaxed and enjoy myself on the day –  then Yes. In terms of generating a sufficient nucleus of participants from which to plan a follow-up: then unfortunately No.

I'm not entirely sure where I'm "going wrong". But I think it's partly that shiatsu involves working with another person and the therapies of choice seem to be those that involve an inward journey avoiding the complication of another person. Yoga, qi gong and sophrologie are all very popular. Bummer – I really wanted this to work as I have realised it is the best and possibly only way I can integrate recent shiatsu training in the UK and keep my shiatsu alive. Where do I go from here? Well maybe nowhere, and in some ways it's a relief to have all my Saturdays back and not have one more "thing" to juggle between Juan and I.

Meanwhile, Amélie Schweiger's 5 rhythms weekend on the "Magic du frisson" was stimulating. At one point –  horror of horrors – we had to visualise our relationship with the rhythms and our ability to be nourished by them. Here is my 3-minute impro – an aide memoire for me but of no interest to non dancers!

flowing meets staccato and a bit of lyrical

have passport will travel!

A mere two weeks after sending my old passport to the UK for renewal (awful – stranded on the Continent!) I have a shiny new one.

The cover is identical to the old version but inside, the opening text ("Her Britannic Majesty's Secretary of State requests... all those who it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance, and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary.") is now displayed adjacent to an oak leaf and a charmingly clichéd National Trust-style row of cottages.

Beneath the marketing is some serious technology: I note that an electronic chip has been embedded – so presumably I can be tracked anywhere, at any time..

I will have to tell the French that I don't want any let from them. Ha ha.

Thereafter each page has a themed watermark that gives no doubt about our watery status: migrating birds, varied weather systems, fishing, beach huts, locks, fountains in formal gardens, crashing waves, more fishing – and an owl.

I'm feeling homesick!

sisters in a November wonderland

Buff: I absolutely don't want to go into snow. I was miserably cold last trip and had a horrible time.
Becca: It'll be fine. We can lend you gear.
So off we went, packing on the layers for the Arctic conditions at Alpe d'Huez ski resort...

 Juan and Phil on cross-country skis; me and Buff in snow shoes.

Buff leads the way

tantalising glimpses of the Grandes Russes as cloud swirled around us

Becca and the Michelin twins. Ha ha.

Go  Phil!

a change of scene before winter bites: the Vaucluse

Looking back at my blog post this time last year it looks as though migrating south for a weekend in November is becoming an annual avoid-onset-of-winter event. Random googling took us to a self-catering gîte d'étape near the Mont Ventoux. The approach, via Vacqueyras, Beaume de Venise and the Dentelles de Montmirail, was magical – densely wooded, craggy peaks interspersed with vineyards. Using an ancient map borrowed from Dad, we stopped for a couple of short strolls, taking advantage of the few rays of sun forecast for the weekend:

Beaumes de Venise

The second day –  Sunday – we drove south to Carpentras. Dead as a door nail except for the odd bar...

Later we found a place open on a Sunday, willing to sell us some Côtes du Ventoux (produced by the Cave de Beaumont du Ventoux – 2km from our gîte)...

Rebecca: So, apart from the soil and the climate, what's the difference between Côtes du Ventoux, Vacqueras and so on?
Sales person: Well, the soil is actually quite important.

Duh – stupid am I... it's the whole deal... And the answer is that Vacqueyras soil has bigger stones. They acquire and retain heat more than the Ventoux clay, ensuring a more even heating effect. My mind was not on the game – but luckily Juan was able to concentrate sufficiently to make a good choice.

commemorating a world-recording beating, wine-selling centenarian cyclist...

And then another walk, more or less over the Beaumont du Ventoux vineyards....

Me intoxicated in every sense with this glorious area, so 100% focussed on oenology; Juan sad, as it reminded him of Albacete – and a confused identity (Spanish? European? what is the meaning of it all?).

We had time to take in yet another gorgeous hilltop village (Le Barroux)...

before our second night in the gîte.

Monday rain stopped play, more or less. But I persuaded Juan to break our journey back to Vaulnaveys at Vaison-la-Romaine, dense with archaeological and cultural interest. Forty minutes was very inadequate! But nice to have a sense of unfinished business there. 

Finding my voice

My recent trip to the UK was triggered, as usual, by a course. Not shiatsu, for once, but organised by my shiatsu "god", Bill Palmer, in whom I have such blind faith that I asked few questions before signing up. Bill has often included vocal expression in his workshops and I've enjoyed some magical (and traumatic) moments finding parts of myself usually kept well covered up. Bill had presented this as an opportunity for in-depth work and I was looking forward to a good ol' psychological roughin' up.

Saturday started well – a happy reunion with shiatsu friends from Bill's courses this and in previous years. But already, as we went round the circle to introduce ourselves and set expectations, alarm bells were beginning to ring. People had come to sing – and have fun! What on earth had that got to do with my anticipated life-and-death struggle with the dark forces... I made it clear that I would be very disappointed if fun was what I had.

After a free-flow physical warm-up where we squirmed and stretched in a random way for three times longer than one might need, Tim took out his shruti box:

... and taught us a scale. Sa, Re, Ga, Ma, Pa, Dha, Ni, Sa... Expectations crash. What am I doing here. We are indeed going to learn to sing. Indian classical-style. Don't get me wrong – singing, until I moved to France, was a big part of my life. And Tim is a deeply knowledgeable man with a lovely voice. But that wasn't the ticket I thought I'd bought.

So I spent the rest of the next 2 days trying to recalibrate myself to what was, instead of resisting it. To no avail. My pal Maryll had travelled even further – from Catalonia – with similar motivations to me. We gossiped and bitched. And then, having sat for hours in complete boredom while Tim coached people individually to hit the right note, frustration levels for me now off the scale, there was only one way out: two people pinned me to the floor and gave me some shiatsu. Phew. Around the room others developed their own responses through bodywork, dance and vocalising. When Bill the cat walked in at the end of the second day it really looked as though the mice had gone bananas.

Meanwhile, you are probably wondering what Tim was doing the while. Hm. Well. Kind of there, and kind of not. At close of play he asked us for some shiatsu, distant-healing style. For a few minutes he lay in the centre of the circle and we did... whatever we did. And he thanked us. And everyone in the group, except Maryll and I, thanked him for a wonderful 2 days.

Later, in the pub, and in Tim's absence, I let rip in front of Bill. Slash and burn, wham bham, cut down everything and everyone in sight. Later, I was mortified by my arrogant outburst. But lo, the group seem to have enjoyed it. I am considered to have made progress in self expression of a particularly angry kind. Which is a little baffling. I consider myself pretty well developed in that department.

So there was personal development, even if not as I had envisaged. And I found that even basic vocalising – a raga scale, and a little song – rekindled something for me. Today I linked up with a pianist friend and romped through a bit of Mozart, Fauré, Vaughan Williams. Perhaps, thanks to Tim Jones, I have refound my voice.

to Chambéry and beyond

Emma, Kelli and I recently debated what makes a friend a friend, as opposed to an acquaintance or fellow traveller. Kelli had refered to my neighbour, with whom I've started going jogging, as my "friend", her basis for friendship being a shared activity. For me this is only part of it; jogging doesn't bind us together any more than any club activity would. Besides, given that we live right next door (and not wanting to revisit the wood pile debacle experienced with the previous neighbours), a degree of distance might even be desirable.

Then we talked about the way total strangers help each other out, good Samaritan-style. Again, this misses the mark for me – heartwarming though such selfless acts of generosity are.

Juan has just told me that I am a "true friend" (and at other times claims that I am his "only friend"... hmm), but could absolutely not define what that meant – perhaps reciprocal sharing and supporting?

So what's the connection with Chambéry?
Said jogging neighbour, Carol, mentioned to her husband, Pascal, that I needed to get to the Grenoble suburb of Gières, prior to taking the night train via Chambéry to Paris and then London. So, to avoid me leaving my car at Gières for a week, he offered to drive me to Gières. I was very touched – I doubt I'd have made such a thoughtful gesture, myself.

On our drive down we chat about the differences between France and the UK. Pascal is hugely positive – in his view France has much to learn from the UK, in terms of economy. Then, what irony, at the (unmanned) station we read "Action local. Renseignez-vous au www.transisere.com". No phone number. Thanks a bunch. A strike and I'm stranded. One of the minority who don't have internet access on the hoof. So what next? Bad luck, Rebecca – take the tram to Grenoble city centre and hope there's a shuttle bus? Take a taxi the 50 km to Chambéry? No, Pascal wants to see through what he has started. ("My father taught me that."). Gambling on the service from Chambéry being operational, he drives me all the way there, refusing even to allow me to pay for the tolls, and (he works shifts) ensuring that he arrives home 2 hours after he normally goes to bed.

So is Pascal now a friend? The question no longer seems relevant. What's sure is his neighbourliness and community spirit is something to aspire to.

As for the journey, after the shock of discovering that the short, ancient train on a deserted unlit platform was indeed mine it was a pleasant – if not very sleepful – night; the rolling, grinding motion bringing back memories of other night journeys in my distant, travelling past.

Bang bang – it's autumn

On Sunday I am woken by gun fire. The hunters are out. Watch out, all wild boar and deer!

On Friday evening the autumn theme was prominent in my belated birthday celebration with Juan at the Fantin Latour restaurant: apple, mushroom, truffle, hazel nut, pumpkin and légumes oubliés all making an appearance in the 10-course gastro meal. Since our arrival in France in 2005 the humble parsnip has made a comeback. Amusing to see it gracing the menu of Grenoble's fanciest downtown restaurant.

The restaurant takes its mountain theme seriously. At the entrance you pass a reconstruction of a mountain stream, complete with birch trees. It would be successful as a primary-school project. But as a restaurant installation? Accompanying our food were chunks of moss, twigs, stones, leaves... classy or crude?
The jury is out...

The surprise gourmande was one of many highlights: an awesome fennel gazpacho. But the potée comtoise –  a pork stew – was a shade too hearty for our appetites, and strangely out of style with the exquisitely-portioned courses that preceded it. And whoever thought of partnering melon sorbet and watery tapioca in the pré dessert definitely needs to rethink strategy.

I should add that we were taking advantage of a 2-for-the-price-of-1 offer. A good deal. But it meant that the restaurant was packed with fellow bargain-hunters. Sitting together in a somewhat cramped space we were processed en masse, at a brisk pace. Our view – onto a busy and insalubrious passage way – was inconsistent with any sense of occasion. So our overall verdict: a very interesting adventure but for ambiance and pace the Uriage Terrasses wins hands down.

On Saturday the mountains were looking sumptuous. We did a variation of the Villard Reymond – Villard Notre Dame circuit walked numerous times.

It gives outstanding views of Villard Reymond...

and the snow-dusted Grandes Rousses peaks above Alpe d'Huez were a seductive trailer for the white landscapes that will be taking over any time soon. The above-normal temperature made for ideal walking conditions. My aches and pains slowed us, but that was no bad thing – endless possibilities for contemplating the view.