Le Franco Phoney

Last weekend, I returned to my old home of Méribel for a wedding and discovered a new roundabout since my last visit. Viewed from behind (as pictured, right), the carved mountaineer is overlooking the Méribel valley with a couple of animals carved around him.

At first, I had been impressed by the mountaineer’s beautifully carved face, hands and sock detail (as pictured below – slightly blurry as we weren’t able to stop), but after demanding my friend circle the roundabout so I could snap photos from different angles , the view from the back was even better.

In all my seasons of living in Méribel valley, I’d never taken much notice of the view from this part of the road, but the wooden mountaineer’s gaze frames the scene perfectly. Sadly, the enormity of the mountains from this spot just isn’t reflected in the photo.

Méribel ski resort is renowned for its wooden chalets, and the heart logo of the village is carved in the balconies of many of the buildings in town and beyond. The use of wood on this roundabout fits well with the woody buildings just up the road, but the beauty of the carvings is far greater than the collection of chalets, which is why I think the view from behind is so much more impressive than from the front: the nature surrounding the roundabout enhances the carvings’ charm.

So, who is this man? I can only presume it’s Scotsman Peter Lindsey, an interesting guy who started investing in the valley before World War 2, and later bought much of the land that the village now sits on, and developed the valley into a ski resort before selling it back to the locals. In fact, he’s partly responsible for the use of wood cladding, stone structures and slate roofs in the local buildings. Even if it’s not him, I’m naming that statue Pete.

Not much happens here in September, so this weeks’ two big events were some cows walking down through St Jean de Sixt and some cows walking up through town. While I watched them amble past, I noticed a few things. Based on this picture:

First up, see that cow in the bottom right corner? She’s the one heading for the hedge. She then got her horns into the hedge (I think she was rubbing her face in it) and one of the cow minders had to threaten her with a stick to move her on.

Secondly, check out the udder on the one at the back there. Can you imagine walking with that between your legs? I hope they didn’t have to go far.

Thirdly, the detail on the belts of those big bells around their necks is perhaps a little difficult to see, but they were gorgeous. A few had a red croix de savoie stitched in, and one had a bright red love heart, although I’m not sure the cows love walking up and down roads.

Most impressive is the sound. Unless you’ve witness cows wandering past you when the bells are on, you simply cannot imagine the loudness of those bells.

Finally, I’ve no idea why the cows were going up the hill instead of down. At this time of year, the farmers collect their cows from the high pastures which are now getting cold and producing less grass, and move them closer to their winter farms, lower down where it’s warm. In around a month or so, the cows will then go back into the farm sheds for winter, where they’re stuck until springtime. Thankfully, the farmers remove the bells.

Last week, I returned to England for a few days of work mingled with a few days in London and Cambridge to catch up with friends. Opposite the Turnham Green tube station is this Chinese restaurant — with its name slightly altered for the worse. Obviously someone’s idea of a joke, I wonder how long the sign has been like this and how much longer it will remain.

London done, I headed to Cambridge, where I was greeted by pirates, adults in nappies (giant babies) and a whole variety of other costumes as part of the Chinese boat races held for charity last weekend.

Pictured are the pirates and some men dressed as women. It’s always amusing to see men decorate themselves as their idea of a female: a 1960s housewife, complete with a dodgy dress and a scarf over their hair seems to be the norm.

I don’t remember ever seeing a woman dressed like this, but top points to them for making themselves as dowdy as possible, then adding the biggest pairs of boobs that will fit in their dresses, as if to counteract the frumpiness.

The next day, a restaurant just outside of Cambridge provided a laugh for us all when we went to the toilets. The walls and doors were made of frosted opaque glass, although outlines were still possible to see if someone was close enough to the glass. Out in the communal hand-washing area, a toilet seat was raised off the ground as a bin for hand towels. The thought that this (hopefully repainted and thoroughly disinfected) throne probably started life collecting a different type of waste made me shudder as I opened the lid to place my hand towel inside.

Thankfully, my trip returned to happiness with some cupcake goodness. Friends of mine in France go on about how lovely those French chocolate ‘cake’ slices — made up of layers of mousse and pastry and something sweet and crispy — taste, but I’d prefer a cupcake any day, and I’ve yet to see any decent ones here in the Aravis region of France. So, I made the most of it, sampling both the lemonade cupcakes and the chocolate cupcakes offered by FireFly Cakes which provided me with the sugary-soft and moist sponge I’ve been missing. I’m having cake envy just thinking about them now. They all went within the day.

If you’ve ever driven in France, this photo will not surprise you. It’s something I just can’t get used to — tailgating. As you can see, even quad bikes tailgate. Apologies for the out-of-focus photo (I snapped it while driving around bendy roads), but hopefully you get the idea.

Sitting on someones tail is the norm in France, and I just can’t get used to it. If I need to stop suddenly, I can only hope the tailgating driver behind me is strapped in with a seatbelt and saved by an airbag at impact. But what does this guy have as protection? If the car in front of him stops suddenly, will his helmet save him as he skids across the road leaving torn clothes behind him? He sat on my tail for some time before overtaking, and the constant buzzing of his engine just added to that nagging feeling that he wanted to get past. I wasn’t going slowly, but I wasn’t going at Savoyarde speed (suicide fast) either. So, what’s the best ting to do? Part of me wants to wave the guy down and tell him off, mum style, and part of me knows that shrugging is probably the only thing I really can do. What do you do?

A shop in Annecy a few weeks ago had these mannequins displayed in their window. The one facing the front is alright, but the other one looks like he’s having a wee. At first, I was surprised and amused in equal parts, and then I realised it was totally normal. French men regularly wee on the side of the road. I have lost count of the private parts I’ve unwillingly glimpsed at whilst innocently driving past, and part of me wonders whether the person who placed the mannequin in this position was just mimicking a typical situation on roads in France.

I asked a French friend about it here in the Alps. “It’s nature so it’s nicer than using a public toilet, and it doesn’t hurt the environment,” he said. He told me of the time he reached the top of a drag lift when skiing with his girlfriend and two other couples. The warm sun at the end of the season had prompted the other two couples to have a little kiss while they waited for him and his girlfriend to get off the drag lift. His girlfriend needed to wee and so did he, so he walked five metres in the snow and let rip. His girlfriend, unhappy, asked why he made her wait when they could have skied down so she too could go to the toilet, noting also that the other couples were loved up while he relieved himself, annoying her further. He shrugged and said if he had the choice of looking at mountains and scenery or being in a smelly environment covered in wee, he’d take the mountains any day. Can’t argue with that. I’m not sure if the mannequin needs to enforce it though.

This week, I braved yoga in French. No worries: a fellow Aussie with better French language skills was joining me so there was safety in numbers. With a camping mat under my arm, we headed to the class in the centre of St Jean de Sixt. I should have chickened out when the teacher spied my mat and said it was too thick for yoga. Instant yoga fail! Thankfully, she supplied mats, but as the last two to set up, we were at the front of the class. This scuppered my plan be at the back, where nobody would spy me misunderstanding the instructions or toppling over attempting to do the tree stance (pictured). I tried yoga one other time and after five minutes of failing to do the tree, I left, embarrassed, and much to the relief of all the zen people in the room.

The first few stances were okay. The third one was, of course, tree. Everyone in the room but me stood calmly on one leg. I wobbled and failed to hold the position until I realised I’m left-footed. I swapped legs and held the position for up to ten seconds at a time — a major improvement. After what seemed like an hour, she told us to change legs. Oops. I carried on with the same leg. Meanwhile, I didn’t even notice that my friend had been told off for using the wrong leg at the start. Perhaps our determination to use the wrong leg prompted her to ask in a loud, clear voice if she needed to speak in English. All eyes turned in our direction and we shook our heads and smiled as if we were both totally at ease with the yoga-based French words we’d never heard before.

A girl a few along from us took deep breathing to the extreme. She sounded like she was attached to a ventilator. No problem normally, but my Aussie friend had been diving that morning and I imagined the oxygen tank must have sounded similar. It took all my concentration to hold in the laughter and not look at my friend in case we both got the giggles. As if to test me further, a truck idled in the car park outside with orange lights flashing, lighting up our relaxingly dim room like a disco. I concentrated on my aching arm muscles to again suppress the laughter, although ventilator girl would have no doubt smothered it anyway.

Will I go again? Yes, but next time I’m getting there early so I can go up the back and as far away from ventilator girl as possible.