Le Franco Phoney

Following on from alternatives #1 and #2 (cross-country skiing and snowshoeing), today I look at the ski ‘resort’ of St Jean de Sixt. “How is that an alternative to downhill winter sports?”, you may ask. It’s a fine line, but I’m willing to prove that it could be considered an alternative.

But before I get to that, look at this lovely sign! It’s one of a few dotted around the place and reveals the odd history of the resort. This jerky old drag lift is one of two lifts in the area. The other is a rope tow for beginners, while this one started life closer to the main road to La Clusaz back in 1962. The entire lift was moved to its current position in 1971, and I’m guessing the signs were not updated. This particular sign says that it’s forbidden to ski outside the tracks.

On the day that I went to the resort with a friend, there was only one other customer. He was using the beginner slope, but left soon after, and we had to wait for the man in charge of this longer lift to get back from his lunch break before he cranked it up for the afternoon rush. In fact, we were the afternoon rush. In two hours, nobody else arrived and the lift was due to close soon after!

The pistes from the top include a green, a blue and even a red. They’re all very short but lots of fun. My friend even tried a tree run through the dense forest with some success. Who knew there was off-piste right here in St Jean de Sixt? There’s even a whole web page devoted to the resort, including a map and lots of photos.

So, why am I classing this place as an alternative to downhill winter sports? Because getting down isn’t the challenge at all: this drag lift —with a 62° slope half way up, a jumpy cable that sends you flying a few times during the ride up, and a flat section that means you have to leave the tracks despite the sign demanding you don’t — is the real sport. And so, I’m classing the ride on the drag lift as an alternative to downhill winter sports.

I know you were all panicking about the cows going up the hill in September, so I wanted to let you know that this week, the same cows descended. The warm weather allowed them to graze in the field just up the road one last time before heading down the valley to lower fields and eventually into a shed for winter. Welcome to October in the Aravis. How do I know they were the same cows that I mentioned in September? By the bells.

Hearing the clanging of the bells coming down the road gave me plenty of time to grab a camera and get a close-up of a bell. This one has the Savoyarde flag with studs representing the white cross (le croix de Savoie). Below the flag is Bambi! Okay, maybe the craftsman had a particular type of deer in mind — no doubt the ones that I sometimes see at night around these parts — but when I see them, I say “Oh there’s Bambi”. This also works with any large-winged bird for me (“Look, an eagle.”), even if it’s an owl.

The Bambi thing all started in a bubble/télécabine/gondola in Méribel one day, when some Italians said something to me in Italian and pointed down. Realising I didn’t speak Italian, they said “Bambi” and pointed to a brown, horned thing below. For a moment, we all spoke the same language. A few days later, a Bambi was below the same lift, so I used the same word to point it out to the French people sharing the bubble with me. For a moment, we too spoke the same language even though I knew no French back then. Bambi allowed us to share an experience that we otherwise would have missed.

The cows, however, need no such international word. The clanging bells announce their arrival without any tourists pointing and calling them Bambi. Pity.

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?

Pictured is the memorial set up for the local resistance fighters during World War 2 who lost their battle and their lives. A quick overview: the plateau was the perfect location for the allies to drop a supply of ammunition and weapons for the resistance. However, the planes dropping supplies needed a full moon and good weather, so timing was limited. In February 1944, the first drop was planned, but the weather prevented most of the supplies from being dropped, and the locals had to wait for the next full moon a month later. By that time, the Nazis and Vichy government supporters were moving in. The March drop was made, but the deep snow made it difficult for the resistance fighters to get to their new supplies before they were killed.

Information boards are dotted around the plateau to explain some of the horrors and joys in more detail. The original chalet that was used as a hospital was burnt down by the Nazis, who also shot the sick and injured as they tried to escape. A single white cross in the middle of the cross-country ski circuit marks the spot where one of the injured resistance fighers was shot as he escape from the hospital.

Apart from the information boards, the plateau shows few signs of such horrors. Nature trails take visitors through fields of cows, entrusting them to close the gates after them, and the views from the hills of the plateau are beautiful. A number of refuges are open for lunch and overnight stays, and with today’s calmness juxtaposing the calamity of 1944, I felt like staying for more than the day.

The memorial pictured was built in the 70s after a competition was held for the best design. This one shows the shoulders and head of a person, with one arm raised and the other cut off, hampered by opponents. Outside are two black statues of people curled up — a stark contrast to the white, straight edges in the background.

Getting to the plateau is possible from Annecy or a back road near Entrémont, just down the road from St Jean de Sixt. My recommendation would be to take the road from Annecy. The back road is narrow, steep and scary enough in summer without the snow to make it slippery.

The great thing about living in the French Alps is that the local villages put on all sorts of entertainment for families to lure them away from the beaches or from other mountain resorts. At the moment, four of the villages (St Jean de Sixt, La Clusaz, Le Grand Bornand and Manigod) are holding the Aravis et Compagnies festival (ending tonight), which involves various sports or physical activities for kids and adults to try. So, why the birds?

St Jean de Sixt is holding “air”, which means trampolines and wind-powered mini-boats and lots of jingling and clanking from wind-powered instruments. I checked it out and found the birds just sitting on their respective hay stacks, looking a bit scared by the commotion around them, although the owl looked a bit high.

The security was typically French, with just one blue rope keeping the birds and kids safe from each other. It worked, and it was great to be so close to the birds without anything hampering the view. When the birds were brought out to fly, the public were given very clear instructions on where to stand and what to do. One kid didn’t listen. The eagle flew from the woman back to the man (pictured two left from the red flag in the top photo), and a kid ran towards the man just before the eagle reached him. The man had the microphone and yelled at the kid and pushed him back forcefully while the eagle landed on his arm. Obviously, he pushed him back for the kid’s own safety, but I’m not sure the kids around him understood, with their mouths open in horror as the man yelled over the microphone. Maybe a blue rope would have been useful during the exhibition.

Meanwhile, in La Clusaz, a mini mountain bike course is open to all (they’ve got “Cycle” this year), while Le Grand Bornand has high ropes all over the place (“cords”), and people can turn into hippies up at Manigod with “nature attitude” providing information on herbal remedies from local plants, yoga and more. Pity it’s ending just as the sun is due out.

This is how the green fields of the Paquier area of Annecy could have looked in seven years’ time had they won the 2018 Winter Olympics bid. However, favourite contenders Pyeongchang in South Korea won, leaving the Paquier full of a crowd of people who sighed and muttered before walking away, ending the party that had been happening all day in the lead-up to the winning bid announcement.

There was, however, one group who kept partying. They were the ones holding the placards protesting against the Annecy Olympics bid. I imagine they’ve all woken up with hangovers this morning.

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.

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?

When an English lady called Miranda got in touch to see if I’d be interested in a writers’ retreat just ten minutes from my house, I was hesitant. Okay, I’m a writer and it would give me a break from domestic life to get stuck into some fiction, but I already live in a beautiful part of the world so would it really make that much difference? I went to find out, and I can confidently say that it was worth every cent.

I was greeted by Miranda and Chris from Chalet La Giettaz just on the other side of the Col des Aravis which is the doorway to the Savoie region (La Clusaz is Haute Savoie). I met the lady who was going to crack the whip all weekend, Bidisha, and the three other writers over a tasty, relaxed dinner. As you may gather from this photo, Bidisha is not a harsh person, and the most fierce whip-cracking involved her insisting that we go on a walk to clear our heads on Sunday despite some resistance. I suspect one student may say that the whip only really came out when Bidisha demanded that each student submit 6,000 words of text prior to the weekend for her to critique. Bidisha provided some great feedback and the opportunity to ask questions about the publishing industry and finding an agent.

That might seem trite to someone living in London, but I’m surrounded by French people who speak mostly of snow, sports and cows, so the weekend was really valuable for me to learn about the British publishing industry (where I plan to get published) and writing fiction. Although I can’t say that the idyllic mountain scenery of La Giettaz motivated me to write any more than the idyllic mountain scenery out my window in St Jean de Sixt, the retreat really was a retreat, and the Brits around me seemed suitably satisfied with the views and peacefulness to aid their writing. The retreat enabled me to write for hours, which I’d  fail to do at home (partly thanks to the attention demanded by my cat Bruno and his cream-nagging, small-animal-regurgitating ways), and Bidisha has motivated me to get back to polishing this novel before another year passes me by. Watch this space.