Vive la solidarité!

Vaulnaveys-le-Bas, population 1000+, is a strange “village”, more a strung-out series of hamlets along the valley. The school is the source of connection for many. But we are not what I would call a community. A couple of years ago Juan and I responded to the annual call to action for the litter-pick-up and were the only inhabitants to show up, apart from the mayor and his entourage. In addition, through not having a regular job, I often feel on the edge of things. This feeling is exacerbated, of course, by only having my own company in the house for much of the week.

So recently, I've found myself reaching out in several different directions. Take, for example, the SEL (Système d’Echange Local), the service/object-swapping organization modelled on the UK LETS scheme. I did a delightful swap with someone offering a birch-sap “cure” (click here for the health benefits – from promoting liver and kidney health to reducing cellulite – you read it on Rebecca’s blog!). In return for 4 litres of the watery, subtle-tasting liquid I gave Jocelyne a shiatsu treatment, connecting with her in the deep and instant way that shiatsu allows.

Later in the week I put out an SOS to the SEL for a flower-bed retaining log to replace the one I’d obtained 6 years ago, now collapsed into powder. SEL member Gérard responded and, by bringing me what I needed, credited his SEL account by 60 "pips". Then, at the SEL monthly market, I traded 6 anemone and rudbeckia plants – spreading like wildfire in the garden and of no value to me – for the same amount. Account now squared. Gérard revealed that he often does DIY work. So I hope that he will put up some shelves in the garage and, in return, I will help him in the garden of his property near Corps, in the Dévoluy mountains.

Working outside is pure joy at this time of year. It is warm for the season – 22 degrees, but the greens are still fresh, the birdsong tumultuous. So, when I met English transition-coach, Caroline, via the WWNG (Working Women’s Network of Grenoble) recently and discovered that she runs Lauvitel Lodge...

at La Danchère...

on the edge of the Ecrins National Park – which Juan and I have walked past a dozen times on our walks up to Lac Lauvitel (last visited this January), and that she is writing a book on meditation for use in corporate training, teaches tai chi, and is interested in shiatsu… and needs help in the garden, the sense of synchronicity was strong. In March I drove out to the Lodge to give her a shiatsu session and have lunch. Now, a couple of weeks later, I am here for a 3-day “working retreat”.

Yesterday we despatched some piles of hedge prunings – larger branches stacked into a log pile, smaller branches fuelling a humungous bonfire that burned as rain fell steadily. In the afternoon the weather improved and we walked some of the tracks below the village, Caroline firing deep-and-meaningful questions at me the while. 

She certainly got to the heart of things, putting me on the spot as you might expect from a good coach. Standing on a bridge over the Venéon river, with the Aiguille du Plat de la Selle looming above, I hurled affirmations into the snow-melt roaring below us. Then scrambled up a slope to the road, and back down to the river, to feel whether or not it was right for me to stay in Vaulnaveys this weekend. It was. Decision made. 

So I've had a lovely time: working, experiencing the valley in a new way: the cloud-shrouded mountains a contrast to the sunny days normally chosen by Juan and I for our outings here, drinking abundant quantities of excellent wine, enjoying good company and laughs. And I've also had some insight into the reality of running such a place: the erratic hours, welcoming and orienting a group of university students in the middle of supper, who proceeded to make whoopee late into the night; the massive maintenance; being "hostage" to random events like the recent tunnel closure on the way to La Grave, which may disrupt the flow of tourists coming from Briançon; being one of only three households in the village inhabited during the long winter months...

Sanding woodwork in Bedroom 8

Yet another opportunity for a swap came about last week through the ongoing reconstruction of the Pommart Farm at Villeneuve d’Uriage. I think I mentioned in a post last autumn the fire that destroyed the grain store, the entire contents of the farmhouse, and the bread-/pasta-making buildings on 6 September. The farm, established 30 years ago by Alain and Marguerite Pommart, has been a centre for sustainable living, courses, organic products, monthly meals cooked by my pal Heinz, concerts, mid-summer celebrations… It is an extended community that lives its values to the full. The fire put a stop to all of this, and deprived five families of their livelihoods.

But, disastrous as it was, the event has provided a new way of bringing people together, this time through fundraising, and communal action in the form of working parties. The home page of the website has an aerial view of the site as it currently looks: the processing area in mid construction, the house tarpaulined pending the demolition of the upper storeys. There have been regular appeals for help. And it has taken until now for these to coincide with me being at the right place at the right time. But this week it worked out. And I joined a group of 10 people: dismantling floors, hurling the nail-studded planks from the window, taking out shovel-fulls of insulation material into bin liners, a wimpy mask no protection from the clouds of dust. Yuk.

While the reconstruction takes place Alain and Marguerite are housed in a bespoke-designed yurt erected on the edge of the village on communal land. They now have a to-die-for view across to Belledonne that is far more glamorous than the outlook from the farm. 

Regulations have been bent because they are agriculteurs. And a blind eye is being turned to the fact that this luxurious two-bedroom dwelling, furnished with Heinz’s lovely wooden cupboards and fittings, is anything but “impermanent”. In fact it will probably serve as a source of revenue, a self-standing “gîte”, in the years to come. Oh to be a farmer…

At 3pm I had to call it quits; I was just too physically uncomfortable. But I was happy to have contributed a little, to have shared lunch in the sun in the garden – the first time, for me, since the fire, and to see the family in such good spirits. Vive la solidarité!

chambre d’hôte in the foothills of the Alps...

This is a problem that the next generation won’t have: dealing with the detritus of printed photos that accumulated before we all had digital cameras. The best years of my life flashed past me yesterday and today as I peeked at, and then trashed, folder after folder… These weren’t the selection that are displayed in the albums I filled until 2004. But they nevertheless turned me inside out when I saw that fresh-faced young thing globetrotting around the planet, then posing with her Spanish friend on punts, bikes, picnics, walks or swims… before honeymooning with him, and having fun times with family in Paris, Spain, Cornwall… and with friends, as they settled down, then started having families.

And the same Spanish friend now finds much of that past too uncomfortable to contemplate. While I have kept a sprinkling of memories - mostly of people - he has kept just one set of photos, of the countryside near Salamanca; and a handful of photos of baskets.

So now I am lighter to the tune of one small bin liner, and have cleared a little space in the wardrobe for the extra bedding that may be needed for a little experiment. Dear reader, I need your help to spread the word: Rebecca is going into business as a B & B. Click here. So far in English only but hopefully in French very soon. Will anyone come? How will I feel about the washing-cooking-hosting routine? Watch this space...

no blogs?

“No blogs?”, prods my bro-in-law. Well, no… life is too complicated at the moment. As a result, I have been inactive and the usual stream of mountain images has ground to a halt.

But here, all the same, are some snaps from yesterday:

The blog is a strange animal – a celebration of the good things in life, and also a way of sharing the twists and turns. Unlike Facebook I don’t feel pressure to be gung-ho positive. But treading the line between authenticity, and breaching privacy for those close to me, is not easy. So I will keep this short and sweet by directing you to Diana Ross, who pretty much has my number in the lyrics to "Do you know...". Click here.

And by sharing a scribble I did at the WWNG (Working Women’s Network of Grenoble) seminar on “Knowing yourself and setting objectives”, last Saturday:

There I am, floating in dark hyperspace, between the past (on the left) and future (the right).

Before the day of the seminar participants had been asked to solicit views from people who had seen us in different situations of “flow”, or aliveness. It was no surprise to have confirmed that yes, I am alive and passionate when I’m in nature – either the garden or mountains, expressing myself freely in a (therapeutic) dance environment, sometimes doing shiatsu, teaching shiatsu, or when I am writing. Most recently it was my Japan trip that fired me up, filling me a sense of wonder and contentedness.

The invitation was to jump into our future vision and then map out a first step for getting there. But my “future” was entirely abstract, based on feelings, with nothing of any practical substance on which to base an initial target. So I’m afraid I didn’t even get off the starting block, and left the seminar no further forward with my “project”, or even with a sense of having a project. But I had the pleasure of connecting with several people in the very dynamic group, strengthening relationships and building new ones. It was a positive experience.

So all I need to do now is find a way or earning a living where I offer shiatsu retreats, teaching or organizing self-development courses in a mountain location where I can simultaneously write and illustrate with my own photos a book of mountain walks, and offer an exclusive B & B facility where I astound the world with my exquisite dishes. And from time to time someone will pay me to do an exotic trip of the style “middle-aged woman astounds herself and the world by…”, or to write about my experiences on the receiving end of therapy. And find a way of doing all of that within a relationship…

last day of winter

It's official: tomorrow is the spring equinox. In the valley, crocuses, primroses and daffodils are insouciant of the risk of snow any time up to May.

After ignoring our grease balls all winter, the birds (including a "new" visitor - possibly a female blackcap) are finally attacking them with gusto. It's the time of year when everyone wants to shake off winter - and at the same time enjoy the last of the winter landscapes. Next month the unstoppable tide of spring will sweep up from the valley, and high-altitude crocus will push through the mottled slush and mud.

So today I took myself up to Chamrousse for my second, and probably last, day of down-hilling this season. The pistes were empty but the full-on sun meant the snow was pretty slushy. For this or other reasons I found it very hard to relax into a rhythm. Applying everything I know about the correct position and weight transfer I still felt awkward. I think I probably didn't want to move at all, or at least not that fast. Not ideal for skiing! And the pollution was the worst I've ever seen it - a brown smog extending beyond the top of the Chartreuse and Vercors massifs, so that the Mont Aiguille was barely visible.

Despite this, the mountains were glorious.

too old for a summer job? - maybe not...

When I was in the UK in February I watched "A Cook Abroad" (you can view it on iplayer until 23 March) where Masterchef judge Monica Galleti travelled around the French Jura, being charmed by the local food created and served by small producers. "Getting back to the essentials" was a novelty, in comparison to her usual high-end restaurant dishes that had no connection with the raw ingredients and the people who farmed them. How much I share her appreciation – it's probably the best thing about living in France. In Vaulnaveys most of my food is grown or reared within 5km of our house.

At one point Monica was in a restaurant d'alpage (restaurant in a summer pasture) on the French –Swiss border, and my ears pricked up – surely she couldn't be far from where Juan lives, in Yverdon. As she talked with Norbert, passionate about his way of life, I googled around and found the auberge website: La Petite Echelle.

A few days later I got in touch with Norbert by email, to offer my services as a multi-tasking summer worker, hoping that my recent WWOOFing experience might add credibility to an otherwise weak-looking profile. Our email stream petered out but I wasn't deterred. I had planned to be in the area this weekend for a dance course and I hoped that showing up might make a good impression – the auberge is inaccessible by road in winter so it meant skiing 3km.

Walking inside the dark and slightly chaotic dining room I immediately spotted Norbert at a table, deep in what looked like a business conversation. I wondered what to do next. It was 11.30am and I didn't really have the appetite for the Roesti jambon saucisse salade. But I needed a way to keep me there until he was free. So I placed the order and the huge roesti went down a treat, the jambon de Mouthe and saucisse de morteau label rouge all they were cracked up to be (even though the potato in the roesti was a tad soggier than I've had it the Swiss side of the border).

Afterwards, Norbert spent some time talking with me. La Petite Echelle is more than just a place for a rustic meal in a forest clearing. As the website says, La restauration est en parfaite synchronisation avec l'agriculture, l'écologie, la culture et l'économie locale. And it's this that draws journalists from other parts of Europe, and the US, to learn Norbert's savoir-faire. I learned a curious fact about restaurants d'alpage: because of food and hygiene regulations they are only allowed to serve products that can’t "go off": bread, cheese, potatoes, salads.

There are a small number of solar panels but no other source of electricity – through choice. (While I was there the electricity board was on the phone, pushing to instal. Mais non. Candles are fine.) Run-off from the roofs is the only source of water for the one shower, for the cattle and for cooking. So no running water (this is true throughout the karst Jura), and no well. In dry years it can be tough.

Norbert is looking for people who can turn their hand to working in the kitchen, serving meals, looking after the heifers (who have to be rotated around six grazing areas), perhaps working in the veggie patch. "Yes, yes!" I cry.

And so I'm excited to say that I may well be spending some time at the Petite Echelle this summer. Norbert has suggested a couple of weeks, to start with, to see how we like each other. Between now and then I will decide if this is a fantasy or reality. Right now it seems a very attractive proposition.

winter sun

I'm writing this in dripping Bradford on Avon. It's raining steadily and the catkins on the hazel I see from my bedroom window are blowing around in the wind. Iris, crocus, primrose, cyclamen, pulmonaria and snow drops are injecting colour into the awakening garden. As February draws to a close it feels as though we are turning a corner: spring is here.

So I do a reality check - and look at the weather in Grenoble. It's around zero and there is fresh snow in the resorts where the ski season will continue for another 2 months. Good and bad news. This year I was reluctant to embrace winter, returning from the Chilean summer in early January with no appetite for the outdoors. Most weekends have been low-key, a hibernation of eating and sleeping (and soul searching). But with two exceptions: a day walk to Lac Lauvitel, which Juan and I know well from summer walks but had never visited in winter. After a recent, but small, snowfall it was walkable in a way that might not usually have been possible in such a deep, avalanche-prone valley; the views of the lake ethereally beautiful.

A few weeks later I had a sublime day skiing at the Alpe du Grand Serre with Juan...

  

... followed a few days later by a night in an auberge near La Jarjatte, in the Haut Buëch valley with my cousin Cinda:

Again, the terrain was familiar from summer visits, when Juan and I have walked up to the surrounding cols. In winter the access roads are transformed into a cross-country skiing area; the meadows hidden beneath half a metre of snow. We were lucky - at this altitude snow can come and go.

Just for the record, I took this photo a month or so ago up at Laffrey lake, one dank Saturday when walking wasn't an option. In summer this is a favourite swimming spot:

So there have been some magical moments this winter. And maybe a few more before the snow recedes and the alpine summer arrives in all its glory.

chez les parents

Yes, there's been a long blog silence. For a mixture of reasons: a lack of inspiration after my travels; a desire for honesty - and at the same time not wanting to publicly share what is going on for me at the moment. But this morning I feel like writing.

I’ve been in the UK a week - one of my regular trips to see family, and this time coinciding with my sister Buff’s birthday and a massed celebratory gathering at her house near Shaftesbury. Phil has also been over, from Spain. And a rare, and long-anticipated musical event - the three of us playing the Beethoven Archduke trio together - takes place at Mum and Dad's, in Bradford on Avon.

It’s always a pleasure “coming home”, and seeing Mum and Dad. Their house is stuffed brimful with their, and my, history. I remember who I am. But it doesn’t come without its complications. I compare myself with my sisters, both more patient than me and, despite stringent efforts, I revert to type: the bossy, stroppy one. Mum and Dad's busy, cultured, community-led, activity-rich lives are in harsh contrast with mine. But a bit of it rubs off on me - it was indeed Mum’s inspiration for the sisters to play the Beethoven together. And the preparation for the event kickstarted me into playing my much-neglected piano. The day itself is a mixture of agony (I had deluded myself that I had any kind of grip on the piece, technically) and ecstasy (moments where I could relax and enjoy it). But we all want to play again. Maybe July…

On my own with Mum and Dad I try to be a Helpful Daughter. With Mum my great desire to reduce the piles and piles of accumulated paper detritus seems to have coincided with her own wish to declutter. For two days we wrestle the mounds of charity appeals, bank statements and mail-order catalogues (I am refraining from calling it “junk mail” as gardening items, bird food and thermal underwear are not junk, for Mum) into submission. Four large boxes are filled and taken to the tip. Along the way we wade through reams of family correspondence, funeral services, birthday cards. Obviously, none of this stuff can go - and it eats into our time. As does filing endless rogue bank statements that show up in every room of the house amid the copious charity bumph, and bagging up £19 of 1p and 2p coins that had been taking refuge in various jars and mugs.

I create an alphabetised spreadsheet of the 70 charities Mum supports, showing her which have direct debits. The idea is that she can note when she writes cheques to the others, and if they aren’t on the list they go straight into the recycling box.

The test comes the following morning when a couple of charity appeals arrive in the post.
"So, Mum, where will these go?”
She puts on her eager-to-please-little-girl face. “In the sitting room?”
Wrong answer. "Clue: it’s where they’ve always lived, Mum.”
Hopefully: “In the dining room?”
Correct.
But one of them isn’t on the spreadsheet. Quickly I chuck it onto the recycling pile, and there’s no objection. Phew.

Dad is another matter. Like Mum he wants to fight his way out of the paper jungle that is engulfing him. But he still thinks he has time to read the eight or more periodicals he subscribes to - even though many stay in their plastic wrappers from one month to the next. From “Prospect” to “Resurgence and Ecology”, “Walk”, “What the Doctors Don’t Tell You" and “Camping and Caravanning” they are all topics that interest him. How hard it must be to accept that there is simply too much information coming in. Once he can choose which magazines he really must read, and accepts that “There’s the occasional article that I’d like to look out and keep” is probably not a realistic strategy, and is blocking him from clearing out swathes of back issues, he’ll be in business.

But, again, all of this is a reflection of Dad's diverse range of interests. How wonderful to be so motivated - rather than shutting out and down, as I seem to be increasingly doing.

After two days of me churning up a storm, Mum and I are reeling. Time to go into the garden and look for trouble there. And we find it - in the greenhouse and surrounds… Back in hyper-organisation mode I round up a few hundred plastic flower pots. Impossible to throw any out, of course. But they are at least now stacked in neatly graded trays.

After lunch that day I think Mum had had enough. My, “Is there anything I can do?” is met by an invitation to play her violin, to get it back into shape. In other words: leave me in peace!