Venetian steps...

High pitched stiletto click clack heels across
high pitched mosaic steps of Basilica floor...

Low pitch rumble of deep whispers of the hard of hearing
breaks the sound of the hurrying nuns
requesting;
hats off,
back packs lodged,
ice cream exited,
flash prego?

The inner sanctum turnstile grinds and
greets the oohs and the aahs of the those;
without guides who know it all.

Venetian Panamas

Jack Daniel's... when was 'e a Scot?

Maybe I'm a perfekshunist... I dunno... but I do expect major supermarkets to get it right...

It ain't Scotch, and it is a whiskEy - wiv a Eeeee.........

PhotoShop - eat yer heart out !!

Driving home on Wednesday I turned up towards the mountains and as I got closer to home I saw the most magnificent pink coloured clouds lit by the sun setting behind the Jura... I grabbed my camera, went out onto the balcony and shot off a few pictures... here they are...





A few seconds later, and just altering the light meter reading,





Then, I ran out of the house and leaving my wife and son to wait for me to return and cook dinner, I drove further up the road to an empty chalet I know, and from their garden I took the following two...

Looking westward towards the Jura and




another a few seconds later...


None of these have been altered by using a darkroom software... what you see, is what I saw... just read the light meter reading and worked accordingly...

Let me know what you think...

Saturday lunch... Black Noodles with Shrimp and Saffron.

Tagliolini neri con Scampi e Zafferano

Despite the influence of the French on my taste buds after living here for 15 years, I simply adore Italian food; the way they think about it, they way they cook and the way they eat it and how they do so. Living in France I am constantly reminded of how they consider themselves to be superior in matters culinary. This is no bad thing because different people around the world think themselves superior over others in a great many ways and for the French, food, cooking and eating and as importantly, drinking wine to accompany it is as good a way as any to express one's superiority.

The Italians of course are no different. They are merely convinced.

Despite living so close to Italy I do not get the chance to travel there as much as I would like, and so in many ways the only opportunity for me to eat real Italian is to make an occasional forage into nearby Geneva, in Switzerland, and find a restaurant owned, run and staffed by Italians; although strictly they may have only been so two or three generations ago who also cook and not only know about Italian wines but import and serve them along with some memorable Swiss wines. Memorable for all the right reasons.

The other alternative is to cook it. But then I ain't Italian.

This is where Elisabeth David's books come in handy as do those of Antonio Carluccio and Jamie Oliver's jamies' italy which I have used often and I am getting flavour and sense enough of the recipes to recognise them in Italian restaurants although admittedly, I have to allow for regional variations...

France has now started to import and sell in it's supermarkets, produce from around the world. This is limited and has to be and needs to be. I bought some Coco Rose the other day imported not from Italy, its nearest E.U. member but from Morocco, a former French colony.

It is not unreasonable. Friends from Britain have often complained they cannot find the Italian or Spanish wines they know so well in French supermarkets, but on the other hand I have not seen French wines in supermarkets in either Spain or Italy. All three countries produce enough of their own wine so why bother transporting them by polluting truckloads to neighbouring states?

An example which springs to mind of recent supermarket finds is that of black pasta, or pasta made using ink from cuttlefish. More a tagliatelle than a tagliolini I have found it mixes beautifully with seared scallops, some small tomatoes, some garlic & chopped parsley and little white wine...

Or, just go to Murano, a small glass making island in the lagoon a short boat ride from Venice and seek out a little restaurant by the canal side called A Pianta Leoni, and there they will serve you the best black pasta dish you ever tasted... that is the photo above... Tagliolini Neri con Scampi e Zafferano... it was simply the best pasta dish I have ever eaten...

Venice - a glorious weekend...

If Palladio's San Giorgio allows advertising; why not elsewhere...



Venice's Rialto Bridge ...?

Having spent a few days in Venice after taking the 07h40 train last Thursday morning from Geneva and arriving 30 minutes or so late, after 7 or 8 hours rocking through the Alps and across the flat Po valley followed by a full three days rocking about in various vaporetti around the Grand Canal and across the Lagoon to other islands, only to return on the 16h20 train yesterday to Geneva which arrived just before midnight - again, late by 35 minutes, I sit here editing photos and putting a few words onto this keyboard feeling like a cork in a bath...

(aagh! Swiss Rail... don't you believe it works like clockwork...)

The whole room seems to be rising like the choppy waters off the Piazza di San Marco...

All I can say is... I must go back but I might just fly.

And I miss my little Leica so...

Yesterday's Hike...

A cloudless sky welcomed us at about 7.30am when the first needs of tea pierced dreamland.

Tea, shower, toast and home made confiture; followed by the assembly of gear. A favourite pastime. Deuter packs, fleece, boots, socks, legs to zip onto already worn shorts, walking poles, camera, energy bars (not for the energy but they taste nice and I believe they are not fattening - not that I'd care if they were), a banana or two which may well be brought back home bruised from rubbing metaphorical shoulders with a cumbersome camera.

And the inevitable selection of t-shirts. Finally, a Panama hat. Not the ideal head gear for a mountain walk perhaps but it will protect against high altitude sun and the tiny spaces in the weave should allow a little breeze to pass through, so I shall be content as long as I am unaware that everyone else on the mountain is laughing at me.

An hour and a half later and we are walking across the springy grass covered peat above Les Houches and gazing at the Bionnassay glacier not far above us. We cannot help but disturb the many birds eating myrtille berries from the surrounding ground covering bushes and they fly off in that low swooping flight like woodpeckers.

As we near the slope above St Gervais for a view back down the valley towards Pointe Piercé, Geneva and the Jura beyond we are approached by a little old lady walking on her own and as she gets closer to us she asks if the mountain behind us is Mont-Blanc. The massif behind us is indeed the Massif du Mont-Blanc but from where we are standing at that point the summit of Mont-Blanc itself cannot be seen. She asks us the way towards Le Prarion which is at 1967m altitude and as we chat, she by now recognising our English accents and breaking into heavily accented English herself, we learn that she is convalescing on the advice of her daughter, following an eye operation.


Lunch: Croute au fromage et champignons at Chalet Courant d'Air - just delicious


It occurs to us as we talk later having seen her on her way on a more gently path that maybe this is not the best place to be wandering alone if you cannot see too well. She is heading nevertheless in the direction of Col de Voza at 1653m where she can easily get refreshment and rest at the little chalet Courant d'Air and wait for the Tramway du Mont-Blanc to take her back to St Gervais. Elderly people like she certainly have my respect. They just get on with doing what they have always done. I hope I can still do that at the same age...

The weather being glorious we continue up to Mont Lachat at 2115m just to take in the view and the enormity; the beauty of the surrounding mountains.

This is not so much a decent hike this weekend as a decent taking of the view, and I am reminded that if I want to hike higher and further I should do so during the week by managing my time better.

I remind myself of a Zen koan... On the day you were born, you begin to die. Do not waste a single moment more. (Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche).

As we make our way down, the roar of the melting snows and ice from the glacier, as they become a descending torrent comes up to greet us along with the air much cooled by the dangerous mass of ice by the side of us.

Bionnassay Glacier descending Mont-Blanc with rock covered ice section at the bottom, and the melt water pool.

Having seen hikers walking the GR5 crossing the tramway making their way south towards the med, I can see the Col de Tricot leading onwards to the Chalets de Miage and I feel a tinge of envy... I want to be walking away down that path some hundreds of miles and towards the sea.

Do not waste a single moment more...

Summer is over, the crowds have disappeared...

...along with the clouds; and the clear blue skies of an early autumn , are at this altitude, already here. The mornings are more cold than just cool, but the afternoons still warm enough for the lake side beaches...

Walkers on mountain paths now issue a greeting as they pass, the markets have reduced their stalls, and parking spaces can be found once more. But I like the hustle and the bustle of the holiday crowds.

How else could I manage to stay here?