from paddling to pistes

From the bosom of  the Sánchez family, and days eating extended meals en famille and idling the sun-drenched Albacete streets... we drove back north... and into a ball of grey cotton wool: Isère doing its usual winter temperature-inversion trick, sealing us under a thick slab of cloud for days at a time.

The 1150 km drive was feasible because of the empty Spanish motorways, but we needed a couple of days afterwards to recover, unloading the cargo of wine, charcuterie and other essential purchases unavailable in the north of Europe (Juan - dental floss??).

To relaunch ourselves into winter, and in particular skiing, we headed for Chamrousse. It was a mixed experience: I was completely freaked out by the high-speed pistie beasties and (Juan's observation) skied like a block of wood. Then Juan came a cropper just before our last run, falling off a small wall of snow and thwacking himself just below his right kidney. He has made some recovery during the week but skiing is still off the agenda for him.

So this weekend, confidence low, I was in two minds whether to chance going out with the CAF (Club Alpin Français), not known for its TLC, for their ski training. Thank goodness "nothing ventured..." won out. This is what Vaujany looked like yesterday:

looking towards Col du Sabot

Better conditions would be hard to imagine, a recent snow fall creating huge white pillows of virgin snow, giant icicles hanging from the rocks (I would have loved to have photographed these but my frozen hands were already in danger of dropping the camera with these snaps!), and empty pistes.

André helping Salem - on his butt for the zillionth time. A place I well know.

A very tender and loving CAF group leader gave me some helpful advice. The result: for the first time ever I found I could ski steep slopes with some degree of control, and I had an utterly blissful day. Juan was just a little bit jealous. I hope he will seek medical advice so that he can speed up the healing process and get into the mountains before the snow all melts...

Today we were in Grenoble at a lovely exhibition, "Les Alpes de Doisneau",with shots from his early career:

"Le rêve du petit Michel", 1936

Fun to see places we know - Laffrey, St Véran, Col d'Izoard etc - more than half a century ago at a time when cattle and humans shared a single living space during the winter months and where the skiing minority had to walk up most of the hills they skied down, an activity now reserved for the fittest and keenest skiers only (though after Saturday's experience I haven't given up all hope). And Juan now realises that Doisneau is the creator of the world-famous "Le baiser de l'hôtel de ville".