Le Franco Phoney

With just weeks to go before the decision of who will host the 2018 Winter Olympics is announced, I spotted this graffiti in Annecy. In case you didn’t guess, “NON” in French means “NO” in English, and this sign is right by the lake on one of the entrances to the Bonlieu Centre which houses the tourist office. Foot traffic from tourists and locals alike is heavy, so whoever defaced the sign picked a very public place. Plenty of people want the bid to be a success, but lots of locals are against the whole plan. A car around the Aravis has been plastered with posters for months showing the the € (Euro) currency symbol in the colours and form of the Olympic rings, and a variety of e-mails are still being bandied around saying how evil the bid is and how much it’s costing the villages involved.

The winner of the 2018 Winter Olympics will be announced on 6th July. I’m expecting to hear celebrations into the evening whether Annecy gets the vote or not.

Yesterday looked like a great day for a walk, so we packed some lunch, water and sunscreen and headed for le Lachat de Thônes, at 2,023 metres above sea level (more than 1,000 metres higher than St Jean de Sixt, where we walked from). My first clue to not leave the house should have been the struggle I knew I’d face in keeping up with two muscly, long-legged blokes. At different times, they patiently waited for me under the shade of trees while I caught up, puffing and hot with the clear blue sky allowing the sun to heat up everything. By the time we reached this bizarre sign that the wood has grown around, I was still positive and looking forward to the nice views at the top. We stopped while I took a photo of the tree trunk, again cooling down in the shade of the trees, before climbing the mostly steep track once more. I should have recognised the weird tree thing as a sign to turn for home. We kept walking.

Then the clouds came. Then the rain started. Then the (loose) rock climbing began. We could see our goal just a few hundred metres away, but with me nervous from the rock climbing and one of the boys hungry, we stopped for lunch, with a huge drop of rocks below us and trying to get some shelter from the heavy rain and wind under one rocky outcrop. So here we were, at almost 2,000 metres, in the middle of a storm and completely exposed to the elements, far away from anyone or anything but rocks and ants. The weather report had predicted nothing but blue skies all day long. A walk that should have taken about two hours up and a bit less back ended up taking us six and a half all round, thanks to my slowness on the way up, stopping for lunch, and faced with slippery mud and plants between the rocks on the way back that led to a number of falls. The pale blue paint to mark the way was invisible at times and we had to guess the way — not ideal in a sea of rocks in every direction. I would have loved to have taken some photos of the journey, but my camera was too wet to use. At least the rain kept down the fly numbers, and by the time we reached the first farm, the rain had stopped, the flies had returned and we dried out a little. Hooray! Spirits renewed, we headed for the bakery. We had five minutes to get there before it closed when more rain started hammering down on us. Torn between shelter and bakery, we waited a few minutes then ran — right past the now-closed bakery. Empty-handed, tired, wet, muddy, and with blisters on my feet and a splinter in my hand, I was never happier to see my front door. An unpredicted thunderstorm started soon after we walked in the door and lasted until after midnight. I should have enjoyed the walk blah blah blah, but I really didn’t. While the boys stopped in the pelting rain to look at an ‘interesting’ rock with a sea shell fossil embedded, I hungered for a comfy couch and hot chocolate. Every time they said: “Isn’t this flower/rock/landscape/mud/beetle amazing?”, I just wanted to say “No, the fact that we’ve stopped with rain pelting down on us at 1,500 metres, apparently not at all concerned about the risk of injury or death on these rocks and the slippery mud on the steep hill down is amazing.” I’m starting to think I’m a city girl after all!

UPDATE: I found a tic on my leg this morning (Friday), and one on one of the boys’ torsos. Thankfully, the other boy is a pharmacist and he got them off with the heads intact.

At first, you might not notice anything missing from this photo, but if you were walking past it regularly, you’d notice the absence of the mannequins. I’ve written about them lots of times, but they’ve been missing for a few weeks now, and there’s a good reason. The man responsible for the mannequin scenes, George Davy, passed away a few weeks ago. He was allowed to add his mannequins on this plot of land instead of the roundabout (for purported health and safety reasons of crossing onto the roundabout from the road). Apparently, he cheekily extended the area little-by-little, leaving some of the villagers less than impressed. However, the turnout for his funeral was large, and I’m sure that both he and his scenes will be missed. Nobody seems to know what will happen to his little plot of mannequin land, but it looks like its short era has come to an end. RIP, George Davy, and thanks for bringing a bit of fun to St Jean de Sixt.

Last weekend, the town of Alex held a Vide Grenier — a giant garage sale where the locals bring all sorts of odd things to sell. I had to go: I love these events! Bizarre offerings included a variety of champagne bottle tops, a four-poster bed (assembled) and a monoski in excellent condition. The usual household goodies were on sale as well, and needing rustic-looking containers for the garden, I asked a woman how much for the two baskets in my arms that she was selling. She said €5 and I handed over the money without the French haggle. Haggling seems to be an important part of the process, and I felt like a fool for not trying to get her down to €4. No worries: I accidentally haggled over something else: I asked a man how much a large metal pot was and he said it was €10. I said ‘no thanks’ and he asked how much I would pay. I said €5, and something resembling the beard-buying scene from The Life of Brian followed.

“€5 for that? Look at the quality. You must be joking,” he said in French to me.

“It’s just for the garden,” I explained.

“But it’s for making jam!” he said indignantly. “You can’t put it in the garden.”

“I’m terrible in the kitchen, but good in the garden,” I joked.

“Okay, €5,” he said. “And a cherry each for you and your friend.”

Success! Without ever thinking he’d give it to me for €5, I scored a lovely jam pan which will never see jam again (now happily filled with petunia) and couple of tasty fresh cherries, and I’ve learnt the art of the French haggle to boot.

This stencil graffiti has started appearing around the Aravis. So far, I’ve seen it here, on the road between Thônes and St Jean de Sixt in the village of Les Villards sûr Thônes, as well as on the outskirts of St Jean heading up to La Clusaz, and down on the back road between Thônes and Annecy. It’s probably in some other places I haven’t noticed too. I have no idea what it’s meant to mean or who it’s supposed to be, but for a region that doesn’t have a huge graffiti problem, it’s at least something better than the average tagging of road signs. What do you think?

Lots of people think Chamonix is the bee’s knees when it comes to skiing. I’m not one of them simply because I haven’t skied there enough to decide. However, it’s a pretty amazing place in all seasons. Pictured is the view from the rack and pinion train that takes passengers up to la Mer de Glace and back down to town. Chamonix town is nestled in a valley between two massively high mountain ranges. From town, you can see the Aiguille du Midi and the two cable cars to transport people there, and if you look in the other direction, you can see the huge cable car that transports people between two high peaks on the Brévant side. Add in the various trains and car routes and Chamonix provides some of the most picturesque views of nature I’ve ever seen.
Meanwhile, up at la Mar de Glace, there’s more to do than visit the ice cave. The Grand Hotel du Montenvers, built in 1880, is open for meals, drinks and overnight stays, and it even has a museum of history and miniature railways inside. There are loads of walking routes of varying lengths, including one that takes you back down to Chamonix, and if you don’t see any real animals on your walk at the top, you can always pop into the museum of stuffed dead animals ranging from little marmots to large birds. The views from the train are fantastic and this photo just doesn’t do it justice. Chamonix is currently one of my favourite places in France.

The road between St Jean de Sixt and Bonneville is sketchy at times to say the least. If it’s not boulders falling onto the road, it’s local drivers doing crazy speeds to catch up behind you and tailgate you around the twists and bends that ensure the average person stays in second gear most of the time. Add in slippery, snowy roads in winter just to make things more exciting.

It’s hard enough to drive along this road in a car or small van unscathed in let alone a truck. I do not envy the driver of this log truck. Those logs are longer than this photo can justify, and you can see how close some of them are to the rocks which often overhang the road, causing the driver to take up both sides of the road to avoid scraping his or her cargo. Height, as well as width, is therefore important on this road! The cargo made it through the pass unscathed.

During the ten minutes of being stuck behind the truck, we had to stop twice to let oncoming traffic clear so the truck could get around the next corner.

I was relieved to be behind the truck despite my longer presence on the road increasing the chance of falling rock landing on me: the local who zoomed up behind me didn’t bother tailgating me once he saw what lay ahead. Now that’s rare.