Le Franco Phoney

For four nights each year, Lyon lights up big time. Le Fête des Lumières (the Festival of Lights) is a chance for creative people who like bright things to impress us all with their imagination. Below are just a few of the light shows I snapped when walking around town.

Apart from the typical annoyances of overcrowded streets, street sellers shouting about their tacky illuminated santa hats and a taxi trying to reverse in a pedestrianised area, the fete was a bit confusing. I should have printed out the maps from the website and I should have researched the attractions a bit more, but I didn’t. There were some maps dotted around the streets, but the numbered dots to for attractions were not accompanied with a list of what the numbers were for. We eventually found the outlet providing paper maps with the numbers listed too, but by then, we had walked like cattle for hours and were ready to go home. And actually, it was the walk back to the car that I really enjoyed. The car was parked in the Croix Rousse part of Lyon, which is up a hill, made easier to climb with wide stairs up the long street. Along these stairs, people were selling soup, hot wine, fairy floss (called ‘Dad’s beard’ in France), hot dogs and all sorts of other foods, with some stands providing live music (everything from drum troupes to violins), giving the street a real atmosphere. At the top of the street is a garden, and in it were a whole lot of giant colourful neon flowers (pictured in the last photo, above). “Not subtle,” according to my friend, but that’s fine by me: flowers and lights are best that way in my books. Yes, the other displays were innovative and complicated, but the simplicity of the flowers really struck a chord with me. Every town should have them.

Coming back a few days ago from the tropical weather of Queensland, Australia, I was pleasantly surprised to see snow falling from the sky on my first morning back. Of course, it’s not winter yet, and it might all melt, but there’s more snow predicted for the foreseeable future, so perhaps the winter base is laying its foundations.

Les impressive was the loss of my suitcase, which was discovered spending more time in Malaysia than my flight’s three-hour stopover. When it eventually arrived two days later, the frustrated delivery man asked me why I hadn’t answered my phone: he had been lost and had driven for a very long time trying to find my place. He managed the smallest grin when I pointed to the suitcase and explained that the charger was in there.

Meanwhile, Bruno the cat has been busy killing small furry things which I think are voles. He’s been leaving them on the doorsteps of the empty apartments in the same building, totalling nineteen bodies and three heads, plus a bird which he somehow managed to sneak inside when his temporary carer wasn’t looking. I’m not sure just how many he left on my own doorstep while I was away, but it’s clear that he has adapted well to life in the mountains. That is, at least, until this white stuff starts settling.

The annual ski sale by the ski shops — the braderie — takes place in La Clusaz this weekend. This is where the shopkeepers all pile into a big public building and sell off any old stock at reduced rates. At the moment, La Clusaz is quiet, with many restaurants and shops still closed between seasons. All this will change by Friday when locals from near and afar arrive to bag themselves a bargain. This is definitely the time to buy up big and pay little, so if you’re nearby, you might consider dropping in to see what’s on offer. I’ll be looking for fat skis while Bruno bemoans the return of the snow.

Okay, it’s time to come clean: I’ve been in Australia for the past few weeks, but I had plenty of blog topics to keep me writing about France. By the time you read this, I’ll be holidaying on an island on the Great Barrier Reef before heading to Brisbane for a family wedding, then back in France next week.

Until then, I want to write about how easy it is to idealise a home country when living abroad. It’s natural for anyone to compare countries, but I’m now comparing France to an Australia of ten years ago. In that time, a lot has changed: toll roads; skim-milk Big M flavoured milk; water restrictions from drought; new stadiums; and slower traffic just to name a few. Although I’m a fan of the low-fat flavoured milk, having to restrict showers to three minutes, using the government-provided egg-timer on a suction cup for the shower tiles is not as attractive. I guess I’ve used Australia as my normality guage for other countries I’ve lived in. I have idealised my country.

For example, I explained to my French travel partner that he wouldn’t need to pack a rain jacket because ‘Melbourne is having a drought and it only rains a few times a year so we’ll be fine.’ It rained two days after we arrived, then again the next day, and then again the following day. At least that might prevent shower times from dropping further. Then, after parking the car outside a shop advertised as ‘Open 24 hours a day’, we noticed, as we walked up to the door at 6.59am, that the staff were just unlocking the door after being closed overnight. I guess they just didn’t specify which days they’re open 24 hours.

When we spent a day snowboarding at Mt Buller, we hired equipment rather than lugging our own from France. Our first attempt to hire failed massively. We had our equipment fitted and had chatted to the ski technician about where we live in France and how pointless it would be to bring snowboards with us from there just for one day. His assistant then asked for a credit card. Apparently, my debit card isn’t good enough because there’s a risk that we’ll flee the country with, shock horror, very old ski hire crud including smelly boots, damaged snowboards and heavy bindings. I asked my partner if he had a credit card, but like me, he only had a debit card. They said if my driving license had been Australian and not British, it would have been okay. Errr, what? Common sense did not prevail and they said the risk of us not returning their old, worn out hire equipment was too great. We were stupidly honest with them about only having French debit cards, which are labelled only as ‘Carte Bleu, so on our way to the next shop, we agreed to give them a Carte Bleu debit card and not tell them it was a debit card. It worked and we hire some equipment.

Idealism shattered, I’m pleased to say that the positives have by far outweighed the negatives: friendly shop assistants; native birds tweeting outside my mum’s house; great food; a return to sunny weather; a fantastic city to explore, and so much more. I still call Australia ‘home’.

…but I’m still looking forward to winter in the French Alps.

On my last road trip, I came across this signpost in a lovely little village called Aignay-le-Duc. As you can see from the big photo, that’s actually three layers of sign posts, plus a couple facing a different direction. Want to get to Echalot? If you’re approaching from the road in front of these signs, you’re going to struggle: the close-up, side-on photo below shows how well it’s hidden in the main photo. The village has, perhaps, decided that placing directions to their own local shop signs might distract tourists. I can see it now:

Driver: “Hmm, which way to Echalot?”

Passenger: “Oh who knows, but look, there’s a patisserie to the left!”

…and then they’d be heading in the wrong direction. But at least they’d have happy bellies and the locals would be a bit richer.

Something else you might notice in the close-up photo is that one place is listed twice, but written differently. Not only is there an accent on the newer sign for Etalente, but an ‘e’ has been replaced with an ‘a’, making the place Étalante.

As for those villages listed below Etalante and Echalot on the old sign (somewhere ending in ‘Les Juifs’ and somewhere else on the Seine), I can only presume that at least some tourists have put their faith in the ‘Autres Directions’ (other directions) sign pointing left — and ended up in entirely the wrong place. Not to worry: they can always find the patisserie and stop in for a snack while they try to figure out where they are.

Just on the edge of Lac Leman (also called Lake Geneva) sits the medieval village of Yvoire. It dates back more than 700 years, and is full of pretty things. And tourists. Like me. The first great thing I noticed was the absence of cars, which are banned from town. In their place: flowers. Pots of flowers line houses and businesses, while a bed of flowers planted near the pretty port form a giant peacock sitting on the grass. It’s easy to lose a whole day here, even though activities are limited. It’s all about the views, walking along the coast, checking out the antique shops, and stopping for snacks regularly. In fact, it was during an ice cream stop that I overheard the following few facts about Yvoire (according to the waiter, that is):

Facts 1 & 2: Yvoire has 1.3 million visitors per year , and 85% of them come in July and August.

What can I say? I was there during peak time, so maybe he’s right!

Facts 3 & 4: There are only 75 inhabitants within the village walls, although another 700 live around them.

Judging by the vast number of restaurants and shops selling tourist faff, I’m surprised that 75 people still want to live in the centre of town. I’m taking his word on the first of those two facts at the very least. The old, rusted tin outer layer of the church spire was replaced in 1989 with stainless steal and gold leaf, which means it’s still shining today, as pictured. It’s also very easy to spot from Switzerland, on the other side of the lake, on a sunny day. Like the church, some parts of the town really don’t look as old as they really are, but perhaps it’s just that the blemishes are hidden by all those lovely flowers. The town on a whole is very charming, and I can’t wait to go back next year — probably in July or August.

Beyond the big chicken of Bresse lies Fontenay Abbey. Close to Dijon, this abbey was a harsh place to live. The cold stone walls were built way back in 1118, and the heating was kept only to a minimum, with just the kitchen, the hospital and one other room heated, where monks would warm their freezing hands in order to continue writing. During the nineteenth Century, the abbey was turned into a paper mill, but by the twentieth Century, restoration work had begun, and today you have a tourist attraction.

The two buildings that you see in front here were added later, as you may have guessed by the style that’s a bit more modern than the twelfth Century! There are privately owned areas that the public aren’t allowed to enter. And, in fact, if you sit on the grass right next to the public walkway, a man will come over and ask you to get off the private property. Yes, I sat on the grass.

The most interesting things about the abbey were meant to be the lifestyle of the monks, the big ceiling made of wood that was like an upside-down boat hull, and the water mill. However, most of us on the tour were more interested in checking out the bats, the beehives and the jumping fish in the pond by the water mill. We also learnt that it’s quite difficult to take a good photo of a jumping fish.

I digress, but that’s kind of what I did during the tour of the abbey. I think, perhaps, in my ten years of looking at stuff that’s older than anything we have in Australia, I’ve seen so many abbeys, monasteries, churches and castles that I’m now just a bit underwhelmed unless they’re amazing. But the jumping fish, I’d go again to see them.

Here, you see a big chicken on a roundabout. The big chicken has several significations for me personally. Firstly, let me point out that the name brings back fond memories. We nicknamed a guy The Big Chicken years ago when I lived in Les Allues. He was a very overweight man who worked on the ski lift there, and when he saw some friends of mine devouring a whole chicken for breakfast on their way up the ski lift, his eyes were bulging with envy, and so, he became known as The Big Chicken.

But even before I knew of The Big Chicken in Les Allues, I had passed this particular big chicken many times. The metallic sculpture lives on a roundabout above the toll road that takes you towards the Alps. The first time I saw it, I was in a bus, so demanding a detour for a closer look was out of the question. The next time, I was driving as part of a convoy, and I had no way of stopping without losing my friends. Every time since, I’ve been in a hurry to drive back to England or back to the Alps and I’ve never taken the time to stop. That is, of course, until last week, when the road trip was much shorter and therefore more relaxed on timing. Now, I finally have my snap of the big chicken and I cannot describe just how happy this makes me.

You may be wondering why there’s a big chicken on a roundabout. Like many French roundabouts I’ve written about, this one signifies the produce from the region — Bresse. The area breeds good chickens for eating, and with their AOC status, they fetch a higher price than other chickens. The locals are very proud of their chickens, as this roundabout might suggest. The roundabout is visible from a great distance as the metallic sculpture is much higher than most roundabout decorations. Check the size of the car against the giant chicken. I wonder how many parents have had to stop after their kids have cried: “I want to stop at the big chicken.” Or is it just me? Before setting off, the obligatory photo of me standing in front of said big chicken with my best chicken stance (one leg raised, hands on hips, neck unnaturally forward) was taken. Now, if only I could get a photo of the Les Allues Big Chicken doing the same…

Tractor doing a wheelie at the start line

Today, I went to a tractor-pulling-stuff competition. Conveniently, it was on the way back from Dijon, where I had been to visit friends. Fellow author and now friend, Francesca, alerted me to the competition here, so off I went, expecting, as she did, flabby men pulling tractors. How wrong we both were! It was actually the tractors that were pulling a heavily-weighted trailer that grew more resistant every second it was being pulled. With front wheels hopping off the ground and a lot of smelly tractor fuel smoke (definitely not nitrous oxide), some of the tractors bellowed down the field, covering us all in a lot of dust, on their way to the finish line, while others puffed to a halt after just a few seconds.

It’s actually a very technical sport: there were ground-wetting vehicles (tractors) and ground-flatteners (also tractors) to keep the course in good shape between each go. Contestants were judged on how fast their tractors were, presuming they reached  the ‘full pull’ (the finish line). Each winning contestant did a wave of victory from their tractor as they returned to the start line. I was lucky enough to be standing near the family of the contestant driving the Rêve Rouge (red dream) tractor, which was red. His first and second runs were great! He had a winning time! As he approached the finish line for the third and final time, his tractor coughed and stopped with a bang. The family, who had been waving and clapping, were now upset and questioning what had happened. Swearing and lots of tutting commenced until they realised he was still the winner in his category with the fastest time. The group consensus was a problem with the radiator. No problems; he was towed away (by a tractor), still able to do his victory wave.

Driver of Rêve Rouge does his victory wave before breaking down

Although this event took place in the Swiss village of Tannay, it could well have been right here in La Clusaz, with a raclette cheese stand, beer tents on each side of the course, and very little else apart from some empty truck trailers which were deliberately used as raised viewing platforms. The event was almost anti-Swiss, with officials letting the public break the rules: I  managed to walk inside the non-public tractor parking lot twice to get to where I wanted, and then across the start line when the competition was over, with an official actually lifting the rope for me to exit while some other tractors were still driving on the course. There were no how-to-pee signs (like this one) in the portable toilets either. Cars parked where they pleased rather than in the large, half-empty field for parking, and to top it all off, I heard Lilly Allen’s F*ck you very much between races, with little kids dancing and bigger kids singing along as if it were a nursery rhyme.

I’ve just come back from a quick visit to a friend in Zermatt. What an experience. After an amazing drive through the Alps (including an odd roundabout stuck in the middle of a two-way road, without any other intersecting roads), we arrived in Täsch. No, not Zermatt. Noooooo. No, to get to Zermatt, you must park your car (pay), then take a train (pay for that too) to the resort. Without your car, you might need a taxi (a battery-run car — not free either) to your accommodation, and if you’re skiing in summer, you’ll probably need a taxi (more money) in the morning, rather than walking uphill through town with ski boots on. Once you’re at the lift office, you’ll experience wallet shrinkage as every last Swiss Franc is squeezed out of it to pay for the day pass (CHF90) which is only valid for skiing until early afternoon, and if you can still afford a taxi back to your accommodation, perhaps you can use one of the other lifts to really feel like you’ve got your money’s worth out of the day (but remember to subtract the cost of the taxi home in ski boots).

Okay, apart from Zermatt being far too expensive, the place itself is great. The Matterhorn — or Cervino in Italian or Cervin in French —  dominates the town’s views, and it’s hard to find a postcard that doesn’t include it. The people are friendly and the food is varied. The village is pretty, relaxed and full of watch shops. One watch shop proudly advertises a watch brand with the quote: “Master of complications” and how true that is. Some cost more than €100,000 for the luxury of complication! The summer snow conditions were the best I’ve experienced, with a great cover that was a firm in the morning, but not rock solid, and softer later on, but not slushy. With only t-bars on the glacier, our legs — unaccustomed to skiing in summer — were tired before midday, but we kept at it because the snow was so good, dodging the racing teams and watching the few snowboarders on the piste do great things in the snow park.

Getting to the glacier for skiing involves three separate lifts: one telecabine then two telepheriques. So, after a morning of skiing, we then had to stand in two telepheriques before finally getting to rest our legs in a telecabine. Worse still, the connections between lifts are more than a few metres, making tired legs ache that little bit more between lifts. By the time we reached home, we were too tired to take any scenic lift rides, and it was too late in the day anyway.

We decided to go swimming. Zermatt has no public pool, so we went to a health spa. You might not think that CHF20 (€13) is worth it for a quick swim, but this pool was not just any pool. There’s a heated indoor pool, plus an overheated indoor/outdoor pool, complete with alternating water seductions such as bubbles for your feet, a whirlpool, bubble beds with mountain views, various water jets, some water fountains you can get a back and head massages from and two separate spas. The entrance fee includes a towel, which is handy, as we had left ours at home to save weight when carrying our bags between the car, the train and our accommodation (not far away enough to warrant a taxi, but far too far away to lug skis equipment and clothes). We stayed until closing, two hours later.

After seeing the fresh snow at the end of June on the peaks of La Clusaz, some friends and I were motivated to do a road trip to Tignes for a day of skiing on the glacier. We arose at 4.30am and left La Clusaz within half an hour. We took the easiest route to get there, through Albertville, stopping only for breakfast snacks from a boulangerie. Here’s what happened:

1. Arrived in Tignes at 7am to find the funicular closed due to high winds on the glacier.
2. Ate a second breakfast and came back for a half-day ticket at 10.30am (handy, as it’s cheaper, and the snow will have softened up).
3. Funicular opened, tickets bought, high winds kept the telepherique closed, but two drag lifts open.
4. On snowboards, two of us ice skated up a t-bar, while the other friend opted out and just had a hot chocolate in the sun.
5. Dodged racers on skis at the second ice rink of a t-bar, and made it to the snow park that had something resembling snow (all other pistes icy).
6. Friend got scared about all the cool dudes doing cool things, so we ice skated back down the piste and joined friend for hot chocolate.
7. Left the resort by midday.

However, the drive home really made up for the disappointing snow. Before hitting the beautiful Barrage de Roseland — a big man-made dam that reflects the most lovely blue hues amongst the green peaks surrounding it, we came across this old hotel. Out the back was a structure made for a pool and a water slide, but neither were there. Inside, a great square-spiral staircase wound right to the top. As you can see from this photo, the façade is growing trees. Some of the windows have some glass panels in them, but most of them are now just square holes. My friend, an avid Candide Thovex fan, realised straight away that this was the building used on the Coreupt ski team website, of which Candide is now a member. Just a week earlier, she had discovered (and visited) the boulangerie used to film the short video which I wrote about here, where Candide is abducted by the Coreupt team. In case you’re wondering, it’s in le Petit Bornand. And yes, she has photos outside the boulangerie and the hotel, complete with a large grin in each picture.

So, what happened to this hotel? Was it ever finished? Or is this the shell from a hotel that was once grand and frequented by tourists? It seems odd that some of the windows have glass panels if it wasn’t ever finished, but at the same time, the structure doesn’t show any signs of decoration marks on the inside. And surely they wouldn’t have added that wooden cladding if it wasn’t near completion. Maybe the construction workers went off to sample the snow on the Tignes glacier and were so mortified at the lack of snow that they moved to Utah. What do you think?