Lugrin, France early Feb., 2012

I Am The Walrus on the beach at Meillerie, on the French shore of Lac Léman...

Boats don't stop here anymore. Not in
this cold... at Lugrin, between Meilerie and Evian-les-Bains.

Like some creature from the War of the Worlds; on ice...

Sunny randonnée to Pointe de Pelluaz

I decided to attack an ambition long held in my quest to climb, randonnée, some of the most beautiful mountains in this part of France.

When I awoke I found the skies blue, the air cold and crisp and a perfect day to set off and ski up to the Pointe de Pelluaz, and gaze from the top across the mountains to Mont Blanc in the not too far off distance.

The village of Bernex I expected to be busy but I hadn't expected pandemonium such as I found where various owners and occupants appeared to leave their vehicles wherever they wished, regardless of others and disappear. I continued to the nearby Relais de la Chevrette, a delightful little savoyard restaurant near to the Dent d'Oche to park and get my Gecko-skinned skis ready, check my pack contents and start my climb. It was about -3C and the snow lying about me was dry and powdery still.

I crossed the Dranse streaming down towards Lac Léman and slid my skis uphill towards the main climb, using the small enclosed steep meadow under deep snow below a shuttered chalet to join the main piste.

After about 50 minutes I reached Pré-Richard and continued to ski through the swell of people milling about around the Ski School Meeting place, and dodging the young skiers and snowboarders descending to this same spot at a speed far above their competence. Once out of this area it became a little more peaceful although I was being passed almost constantly by skiers as they descended whooping, shouting and laughing on their way down.

I reached the spot I had skied to with Bob at the end of December when we cooked up some noodles before our freezing descent and continued upward as the same skiers whizzed past, took the lift back up and whizzed down once more. Like this they passed me time and time again.

At about the 2 hour mark I found a lone ski lying on the snow at the edge of the piste. I stopped and looked around to see if i could see anyone who might have fallen. Only much later having stood the ski upright in the snow and continuing onward and upward did I see the reason for that lone ski.

Accidents wherever they happen are, for the sufferers, often awful experiences. This was evident now. A man of indeterminate age, was lying in the middle of the piste, an icy and snow covered rough 4x4 track to the mountain ridge above and surrounded by a half dozen people attempting to give assistance. He lay in the recovery position his face covered in blood that was staining the snow, waiting for medical help and as I passed and continued upward, for there was nothing I could do to help, I heard the distant helicopter approach.

And now on my final climb I wondered if I might complete it in under 3 hours. Need to push and in the event I reached the Pointe de Pelluaz in 2 hours 54 minutes. The view - stunning.
The lungs heaving, the stomach empty, the thirst needing more than juice to quench it.
And so 15 minutes later having skied down I was at the bottom. Pulling off ski boots, brushing off snow from the skis and as I did so another group of skiers arrived having skied from a different peak and route. We acknowledged each other's ascent and descent and off I drove with an incredible sense of achievement, elation and exhaustion. A beer was needed.

Poulet Béarnais - cooked on a bed of garlic.

Yesterday was a perfect Sunday for a Sunday Chicken roast... I sat up in bed with me mug of tea and perused a few cookery books while the rain beat upon the Velux window above our bed and then, looking through the triangular window at the bedroom's other end I could not make out the shore of Switzerland through the lake's covering of mist. At least it will be snowing a little higher up I thought.

I turned of course to Elizabeth David's 'French Country Cooking'. I found her quotation of Ford Madox Ford's recount of a London mannequin cooking garlic and Poulet Béarnais in his piece entitled 'Provence' and published in 1938.

I then turned to the internet and a quick Google click threw up a few references to this and it occurred to me that some bloggers miss the point for some reason. One had written, Poulet Béarnaise from Provence. And then went on to say "glamorous young woman from London who was reputed to be one of the best chefs in the city." This is not what Ford writes at all. She was, in the 1930's, a mannequin. What was that then? A model! Not though the kind of model we are used to seeing à la Kate Moss on the catwalk. Usually a débutante, a young woman who had been well and expensively educated. Would she get a job in a bank? Not in 1930's London even if the Bank concerned was Daddy's! But could she cook? Of course she could. That was what being a débutante at the time was all about so indeed she may indeed have been one of the best cooks in London, but she sure wasn't a chef.



So, 'Béarnaise from Provence'. Hmmm. Béarn is in the Pyrénees between Bayonne and Pau. Quite some distance from Provence. Apart from giving it's name to an entire province it also gives it's name to the well known sauce of, basically, 'egg & melted butter'. People from Béarn are either Béarnais or Béarnaise dependent upon their gender. Collectively they are known as les Béarnais.

But this dish is not from Provence in which case it would be known as something like Poulet Provençale which means it would be cooked in or nappé in a sauce of tomatoes, peppers, onions and of course, garlic. The usual suspects.

Another blogger would seem to have fallen into the very same trap, twice. If the article was called, 'Provence' it is merely including in that writing this recipe; not suggesting that the recipe is from that beautiful area.
So; take a few heads of garlic, and break them up, peel them (and I gave up when I got to about 470 grams of them) and put them in an oiled Le Creuset type oven pan. Next clean one grain fed open air reared small chicken, and rub olive oil over it, season it and place it onto the bed of garlic.

Heat an oven, I chose 'traditionnel' rather than'pulsé' - fan assisted, and set it to 180C. I left it to cook for an hour and a half and it was perfect.

I'd have loved to have met Elizabeth David. I'd have loved to have cooked this for her too...

Frozen Evian-les-Bains...

At the end of January as it turned colder, snow fell and lay deep and crisp and even, upon the neighbouring gardens, and paths and roofs, except that down at the lae front the Bise started to blow, and with the wind the temperatures plummeted, ice formed in the most beautiful shapes and formations upon everyday objects that became for a short time magical, but vicious; stunningly surreal, and unreal, but mesmerising all at the same time. Evian, February 2012.


The normally people filled promenade at Evian-les-Bains, deserted during the wild weather casued by the Bise, the northerly wind that blows over Switzerland, across Lac Léman and hits France with a freezing force of frozen fume... the water being at about 5 or 6 degrees Celsius seems to smoke when small waves break and the spray meets the air temperature which is well below zero...

As boats, anchored, rise and fall in the calmer parts of the port, the water around the anchor chain freezes into beautiful galettes that grow as they come into contact with sub-zero air temperatures.

Galettes of ice...


A bench, normally welcoming, becomes less so in such a hostile environment.

A surreal vision, someone said to me, Narnia?

Randonnée in Vallée de la Manche ...

As usual we did not get away from the house until about 10.30 and at 1180m altitude or so our randonnée started later than we would have liked; it was no less beautiful for that and as the old guy, waiting with his impatient dog for his elderly wife to catch up on her randonnée skis, said, "C'est féerique, ça!"
We slid slowly upward past a small chalet almost buried in the snow amongst the pines and nesting warmly if one imagines the logs licked by flames in the stone fireplace inside. We were below the cloud which hangs like a mist at this altitude and climbing steadily up into it towards the Chalet des Mines-d'Or passing the lone cross-country skier on her tenuous descent. She stopped for a chat, a chew the cud if there were any underneath the thick snow, and she was soon self-satisfied by telling us she was 78 years old, and becasue of that she didn't want to complete le petit tour her friends were making; and as it later became evident a good few years younger than she. Not easy descending sharply on thin cross-country skis without heel attachment however proficient or experienced one might be.
Just above the Mines-d'Or, where the lake was covered and the snow heavy on the surrounding trees completed a postcard scene, I found a pine branch leaning out towards the path edge; heavy with snow and beautifully stuck on one side with the hoare-frost made by the frozen cloud. It was then I realised that although I know this mountain well, in snow the topography changes and I was not making my way up the path which in truth was filled with snow but by the right hand side and across a small open meadow; in summer fenced off for grazing cows as they are gradually led up the mountain to summer pastures.

People on raquettes, snow-shoeing upward passed us as we climbed, stopped to take a breath along with a photograph; randonneurs skied down from out of the cloud descending from the Col de Coux, some skiing in terrain far above their level of competence and this time descending safely. We passed a family of three, sitting on weather proof jackets in the deep snow eating from thermos flasks the steam rising with their spoons. A greeting passed and then we see we have arrived at an altitude of 1500m and not far to go on until we arrive at our picnic spot...

Chalets de Fréterolle (1533m); a lovely little farm, opened up in summer as a 'restaurant' although 'Auberge' is probably more accurate. It serves many people, locals and tourists alike and often places have to be reserved. The carte usually contains all the usual suspects of this region; melted cheese dishes, omelettes, cured and smoked ham, salads, beignets des pommes... often as coffee rounds off the meal, the patron tours the paying tables with unmarked bottles of a local distillation, handing out small glasses of génépi, or poire william; my mouth waters as I write this with memories of summer hikes here.

Today though, the chalets are closed against the winter, and after nearly two hours climb, as we near, we can see that others have already had the same idea and underneath the corrugated iron roof held up against the encroaching snow by strong pine beams, four people are packing away their picnic debris and we take out turn. And in the cold we eat our sandwiches, dried figs and drink our cold juice and resolve to bring hot drinks next time...

Fed and watered, we removed our cold 'peaux des phoques', adjusted our bindings and change any climbing clothing for those for descent. As we climbed out of our lunchtime refuge we saw the cloud had come down and the visibility was just a few metres, this somewhat concerned my Missus who doesn't care too much for deep snow skiing at the best of times but without a fall she made it down and the thrill of 'skiing back-country' through knee deep fresh powder although for only a short descent was heart lifting. The silence, the calm, the beauty; all there. 10 minutes later we reached our starting point. And nearby was little refuge, a restaurant, café-bar where we were served delicious crépes & chocolat chaud.

Broken Pine à la Fritz Lang...

Some months ago while on a favourite Sunday hike I came upon this bleached torn pine. As I stood and looked at it for a while it began to take on a surreal element. Most of the trees around were still standing, growing and reaching majesterial heights but for some reason this one had broken; snapped off in it's prime, and had assumed an almost engineered appearance.

I must make a note to go back a photograph it when I am sure it is surrounded by deep snow

Deer Tracks; Quietly Made...

It may often be said that one can hear the silence. It is of course a contradiction in terms but I heard the silence only a few days ago; I stood in the quiet of that part of the valley known as La Couttetaz and listened as the silence was enveloped in the low cloud slowly and quietly building around the summit and higher slopes of the Dent d'Oche.

The fresh snow was deep, and crisp, and even; once broken, only by the tracks before me as they disappeared towards the lower branches of a line of snow laden pines.

Deer tracks. Made quietly, before we arrived and disturbed the peace with our breathing panting and puffing, a little heavier than usual caused by the upward climb and the packs we carried with just water, a few biscuits, some fruit and protective wear against bad weather.