Le Franco Phoney

Ever wanted to turn your old camper into a cow? Someone in Le Grand Bornand can help you. Although the eyes suggest the cow has been on the whacky tobaccy, the rest is in order, with a decent set of horns, four legs, an udder, a lovely tail hanging out the back, and a lovely big mouth and tongue chewing some hay. There’s even a tag on the ear.

The cow van has been on the hill up from Thônes to advertise last weekend’s Fête de l’Alpage (cow fields fete), which, as you can see from the photo, involved Reblochon cheese and probably a lot of cows. I missed it accidentally, but I’m not sure the fete could have been any better than the advertisement for the fete. In fact, I reckon I would have been let down if I’d gone and there were no other innovative cow art installations to take photos of. I’m looking forward to next year’s advertisement.

How do you make Reblochon cheese? Well, that’s still a bit of a mystery to me, thanks to a rather odd night in Le Grand Bornand to learn more about it. The lovely people who run the resort put on a display of cheesemaking last week for the tourists — in a nice, warm tent-like structure, complete with seats for the audience and a little stage for the cheesemakers. So why is it still a mystery? Presuming my French is good enough to understand the guy with the microphone, I’d also need to be standing right next to the speaker to hear him, thanks to the crowd of locals (the musicians waiting to play after, staff ready to serve meals to those willing to pay for a plastic tray of steaming sausage, mushy stuff and cheese after the cheesemaking display, and friends catching up) who were hanging around the bar.

The kids at the tables just wanted some food and the adults looked bored, but we were all entertained when a piste basher trundled past outside, overpowering the noise created by the bar flies as well as the man on stage, who hammered on regardless. People tried to turn their attention back to the stage on its second zoom past the window. Why was a piste basher going past? Because the cheese tasting was not in the centre of town as expected, but further away at some place that was announced on a sign in the centre of town, but without directions or a map to show where it was. We circled the resort like a police helicopter before eventually finding some lights and a big tent by the cross country piste. It seems that nobody co-ordinated the half-hour demonstration with the piste basher staff. For me, it was a bonus anyway, since I couldn’t hear what the guy on stage was saying anyway. Cheesy entertainment indeed!

Yes, there’s a brand of ski called Heidi Ski and they come from Switzerland. I tried some out at last weekend’s ski test held in Le Grand Bornand just up the road and I was really impressed. Despite the off-piste model being only 80mm across the centre, these babies floated nicely and with such a narrow waist, turned off piste like no other pair of ski I tried all day. I should point out, however, that I’d never really skied off-piste before – that’s what I’ve used my snowboard for. This year was going to be the year, and Heidi Ski were looking like my ski of choice. Aren’t the graphics lovely too? You don’t want to buy a pair of skis with horrible graphics, do you. I remember once asking a snowboard instructor friend what my next snowboard should be and his reply was: “The one with the nicest graphics,” so I’m pretty sure it’s not just me that looks at the graphics as well as the performance of the ski.

Other favourites were the Dynastar Legend Sultan 80s for on the piste (I’m pleased about this, as I’ve bought a pair to use for telemarking which I’m still learning how to do), Movement Black Rose for both on-piste and off-piste (and lovely sparkly-in-sun purpleness), and the Salomon S7s fo, r off-piste (although sadly I’m not that good off-piste yet to use them the way they deserve), but I came home and Googled Heidi Ski. I wanted a pair of Heidi Skis…until I saw the price. There’s no way I can afford those beauties no matter how lovely they were, and so the hunt for a new pair of skis continues.

Apologies if this post sounded a bit “me me me”: the beautiful snow of the French Alps is what motivated me to live in France in the first place. I’m passionate about the snow and winter sports, so sometimes I can’t help myself but write about it all. Back to French observations next time.

So, a few weeks ago, I challenged my readers to travel in their own backyard. I took my own advice on the weekend and managed to visit something in La Clusaz, Le Grand Bornand and Annecy all in one day. In La Clusaz, some moto trials were taking place, and I snapped the photo below. The precision was amazing.

Meanwhile, in Le Grand Bornand, the local fire station was open. I thought it might be interesting, but I was scared off by all the pompier (fireman) recruitment advertisements on posters and a big television screen. As I scurried past without stepping in, I noticed these fire engines (pictured) open for people to check out. Mostly, this involved kids tooting the horns while their dads grabbed a beer at the beer tent. In fact, do you see the blue tent in the photo above? Booze tent. It seems that all sorts of events — from sporting to family — understand the importance of a beer tent. Fair enough: people get thirsty, but the fire station was holding an open morning. People were boozing on even before midday struck! It was a warm day so I guess the thirst excuse might cut it.

It was so warm, in fact, that I headed down to Annecy to test out a long board at the Fete du Nautisme, where all sorts of manual water-floating transport was available to try. This is the sport that, I’m told, Jennifer Anniston loves for keeping in shape, and who am I to deny her that right? I can see how it’s a leg workout, with my legs wobbling with the waves under the board I was standing on, but the real workout came for my arms, with lots of paddling to get anywhere on such a big board. I enjoyed it for the tranquility and the acceptable risk of falling in the cold water if I lost my balance (which I didn’t!). Lots of fun, and no beer tent in sight. This could be another sport to add to the list.

So, what have you seen in your backyard in the past few weeks?

Wandering through Le Grand Bornand the other day, I came across this art installation (click on the image for a bigger version) by Miguel Chevalier. The image shows just half the room of digital snowflakes, projected on three walls of a darkened room, and apparently interactive. Interactive? Yes, well, apparently. The information plaque says that the more movement and people there are in the room, the more active and numerous the snowflakes. A friend and I tested the activity scale by running in circles and waving our arms around in a darkened room (much to the surprise of others in the room). We had some success in making a snowflake twirl in reverse and much faster than previously, but that’s all we could muster.

We sat for some time prior to that, watching all sorts of snowflakes form, drift, enlarge, blur and disappear. This is enjoyable art!

Little did I know, it’s actually just one of many other art installations around the Aravis region that I’ve noticed but haven’t paid much attention to — and they’re here until August. I hadn’t realised that the ice rink in La Clusaz, which now has various colours painted under the ice, is one of those installations. Nor did I realise, way back at Christmas time when I drove along the valley opposite Dingy St Clair, that the giant red bulbs hanging hundreds of metres down an invisible-at-night rock face were more than just a Christmas decoration. They looked like lights dangling from the ski they were so high up, and so seemingly unattached to anything but the darkness. I haven’t seen it up there since and I presumed the police had arranged its removal because it was dangerous for drivers, who might divert their attention from the road to the strange red lights dangling from the heavens!

So, here in St Jean de Sixt, what do we have? Artisinal artwork, according to the Aravis art installation website. I’ve yet to see any of it, but apparently, the local baker has made a tree out of baked pastry goods.

Monday was the first day of the French ski instructors’ week-long competition. “ESF” stands for Ecole du Ski Français (French ski school), and their outfit, as seen on the roundabout here in St Jean de Sixt, is red. A friend and I drove to Chinaillon — part of the Le Grand Bornand ski resort — where all the action was happening, but we discovered a bit of action on the way there. As we drove through town in my very old Golf cabriolet, people in red outfits were everywhere, and while we stopped to let some walk across a pedestrian crossing, one yelled out in French: “Oh, a convertible! Here, I’ll just put my skis in the back.” Thankfully, before he could do so, the other instructors had cleared the pedestrian crossing and we were on our way.

In Chinaillon, the red outfits outnumbered the rest of us. We sat at a café at the bottom of the pistes to watch the entertainment. We couldn’t see the races, but lots of instructors had taken advantage of the pub further up, and they found some innovative ways to get to the bottom of the piste. One sipped his drink while flying past at high speed, as if relaxing on a sunlounger rather than bouncing down the lumpy piste. Many others had empty plastic beer cups hanging around their necks. One instructor skied over some skis laying on the snow, left by one of the other café customers who either didn’t see or didn’t mind, and then a couple of ESF cowboys skied past, complete with fake guns, cowboy hats and gingham shirts. One poor instructor tried to get a lift down on the back of his mate’s skis, but he skied off too quickly and the instructor slid down skate-style in just his ski boots. Funniest of all was the instructor piggy-backing another instructor. It was going really well until he had to slow down, and then there was a crash, a tumble and lots of laughter.

On the way home, we passed the decorated roundabout in St Jean de Sixt, which has changed a few times already. On Monday morning, a policeman mannequin was arresting a ski instructor while the other three ski instructor mannequins (pictured in last weekend’s photo) continued to ski down their plastic slope. By Monday afternoon, the policeman was gone and a ski instructor mannequin was installed on the roof of the little roundabout house — complete with his competitor number on his bib. Can you guess what the number was? If you guessed higher than 68 and lower than 70, you’d be spot on.

Hooray! After months of no action on the St Jean de Sixt roundabout, we finally have some mannequin action! They used to change so regularly, but I think this is the first time this winter that they’ve come out. Where else in the world would you find a roundabout with French ski school instructor outfits on it? There’s even a white ski slope, skis, poles goggles and hats, and a judge mannequin in the background. Why the judge? Read on.

The judge is there because these mannequins represent the French ski school version of a nativity scene. Each year, around 3000 members of the French ski school compete against each other in all sorts of snow-based competitions, and this year Le Grand Bornand are holding it for the second time in the competition’s sixty-year history. It’s a bit of an honour for ski resort really, and that’s why the roundabout has been decorated for the event. The judge shown on the roundabout could be judging anything from a boarder cross competition, to downhill skiing. This covers all their disciplines, so telemarking, cross-country skiing, and even freestyle competitions are included. More info, in French, here.

Apart from the competitions, there is loads of entertainment, and I’m pleased to see that the Radio Meuh DJs will be pumping out some grooves between the other DJs, bands, booze and cheese tastings on offer for free. So, thank you, St Jean de Sixt roundabout, for alerting me to the festivities of next week, which may have otherwise passed me by.

French imagery in advertising, roundabouts and even pizza boxes is something I’ve discussed many times on this blog, but this image is the most provocative I’ve seen in a public place. Apologies for the lack of quality: I took the picture temporarily on my phone a few days ago and the poster has since disappeared.

So, here we have a poster for the Lalu nightclub in Le Grand Bornand, featuring smurfs (called ‘schtroumpfs’ in French). I remember Papa Smurf there in the red, and Lady Smurf is of course the woman next to him. The post says ‘Smurf me’ in French (they’ve made ‘smurf’ into a verb), so I guess it’s a party where people dress up as smurfs. And what is that smurf doing below that, with the scissors and the comb? Is that hay being taken away? No. Look more carefully, and if you’re pre-teen, just skip the rest of this entry: it will only add to the teenage angst that you’re destined for.

I’d say to look closely, but you don’t really need to. Can you see anything amiss in this poster? Anything slightly wrong, considering the poster was placed at the height of a kid’s eyes? That’s not hay that the smurf is carting off. It’s pubic hair. That’s not a hill with a house in the distance, it’s a breast. As you can now see, there isn’t much left up to the imagination in this poster.

Admittedly, I stared at this poster, pointed out to me by my friend, for a good minute or so without noticing anything odd. If this poster was in the nightclub itself, I wouldn’t even blink an eye; but it was placed outside the lift ticket office in Le Grand Bornand, right by the ski stand, where parents tell kids to wait with the skis, and as I mentioned, right at kid height, with all these cute, lovable smurfs on display to attracts kids’ attention. Perhaps most kids just overlook this for the love of smurfs the way I did. Still, could any other country be so open to Hairdresser Smurf giving a human an alternative Brazilian? And is that really how you make a human into a smurf? I reckon Painter Smurf with his can of blue paint would have a strong opinion about that.

The word refuge in English is often associated with a place to take shelter by those who need it. Although the word looks the same and is pronounced in much the same way in French, the meaning here in the French Alps relates mostly to that of a typical mountain hut that provides food and shelter for travellers. Some are literally just a hut with bunk beds and some form of running water , working on an honesty box system to cover the cost of wood for heating and maintenance. Others are fully-operational restaurants that provide big meals, a sip from the typically Savoyard bottle of home-made booze with a dead snake inside, and heated accommodation with an indoor toilet. The indoor toilet is particularly handy in the cold winter months.

The refuge I went to last week was somewhere in between these two extremes. Refuge de Bombardellaz provides hearty food without the gimmick of a snake in a bottle, although I didn’t see what the accommodation was like as the refuge only took us an hour to get to from the car park at Les Confins. The refuge is only open in summer, which explains the outdoor tables, but I can’t help thinking how at least some of the wide path to the refuge would be great to slide down on a snowboard.

Click on the image for a bigger version

Having never been to this refuge before, my friends and I were equipped with a map, which was handy, because although the way is marked at most track intersections, the signs are missing from some, and we needed the map to check. The first signpost at the car park said the refuge was 55 minutes away.  We had a lunch booking in half an hour, but we figured the sign’s time estimate was for the elderly, families with young children, or injured people. No worries: half an hour is plenty of time! After half an hour, we passed a sign that said the refuge was 35 minutes away. What? At this point, I realised that we were, in fact, lower than the lowest common denominator of walker: we were the unfit. On we marched. After a further 30 minutes, the next sign said it was only ten minutes away, and to be perfectly frank, it would have been only ten minutes away had the road been flat. It was not flat. It was all uphill to the refuge. Ten minutes of walking up a hill turned into five minutes of walking, five minutes of stopping to catch my breath after pretending to be interested in a nearby flower, three minutes of walking, another few minutes of stumbling, and then a final push once the refuge was in sight. Now quite late for lunch, I felt cheated by the signs — and perhaps a little guilty about my level of fitness. The staff welcomed us warmly despite our tardiness.

As the wide-angle photo here shows, the refuge provides views of the peaks of La Clusaz, the neighbouring valley of Le Grand Bornand, and the mountains all around.

Lunch eaten and heart rested, we walked along a more narrow path that led down towards Le Grand Bornand until a crossroad gave us the choice to climb back uphill to Les Confins. Despite both walks ending in these treacherous uphill challenges, they were otherwise easy and enjoyable. Chuck in the reward of a hearty lunch with beautiful views and you’ve got a pretty good day out.

Oops! One of the cows falls over backwards!

Human-shaped fireworks burn while the parade of weird objects continues.

Now it's the elevated cow's turn to burn, with band looking on

Statue-still people from the parade now standing on the roof too, including one with a disturbingly pointy hat.

Despite the ongoing warm weather, the summer season in the Alps has come to an end, coinciding, not coincidentally, with school holidays. Le Grand Bornand likes to end the season with a fête. Of course, I went. Surprisingly, the crowds were bigger than for le Tour de France, and parents were made to park their baby buggies in a special baby buggy area before continuing to the heart of the entertainment, holding their babies. Seats were not allowed. Just after none o’clock, when darkness had fallen, the streetlamps were turned off, everyone was told to stand, and the fun began.

It started off well enough, with these two giant inflatable cows lobbing themselves towards each other, forcing the crowd to part (this is why chairs and baby buggies were not allowed). After a few cow tips, they met, hugged (or wrestled?) and then the fireworks started. In the foreground, I noticed the live band standing on top of build, beating their drums to some Spanish tune. I wondered if any of the other countries I’ve lived in would allow a band to stand near the edge of a tall building with no apparent safety equipment. I love this country!

The inflatable cows disappeared and these strange shapes on sticks started parading through the crowd, choosing their own path. This involved small fireworks on the way through, and once again, I found myself wondering if this would happen elsewhere. Fireworks in the shape of people were lit against a wall, and the band played on. What did all this mean? What were the strange parading objects meant to represent? As the odd parade banged, burst and snaked through the crowd, one of my friends, who had seen last year’s end of summer fête said to me: “It’s nowhere near as random as last year.” I’d really like to know how it could be any more random than it was.

The shed behind me suddenly made a noise. Actually, there were fireworks on its roof. I was right under these great, low-exploding fireworks that really made me feel like I was engulfed by sparks on every side. It was magnificent! All concerns of randomness went while the fireworks continued for much longer than anyone expected.

The grand finale was even better. At first, I thought something had gone wrong. One of the fireworks on top of the shed didn’t seem to go off, but it seemed to ignite a neighbouring firework which then flew directly toward the band. I envisioned the band catching fire if they didn’t run away quickly. However, all fears were allayed when the firework actually flew directly behind the band, and right onto the giant Catherine wheels which had been set up behind them. Bang, bang, bang: off they go, and nobody needs to sue France for death, burning or falling from buildings. The band continued and the guys who had been traipsing around in the parade were now human statues in front of the Catherine wheels. Look closely and you’ll see one with a white, pointy hat. How on earth did they get away with that?

When the fireworks stopped, a few formalities were made (eg, pre-recording of cute-sounding kid thanking everyone for coming), the street lights were turned on again, and parents were virtually running back to the baby buggy park to put their dead-weight, sleeping kids back into their baby buggies.

So, that’s summer officially over. Unofficially, it’s boiling hot and lake is calling.