Harry and I took an almost unheard of four weeks off work, starting from the middle of December. I thought I'd have heaps of time to do things I wanted to do but Christmas still snuck up and bit me in the bum and Harry's birthday and New Year both went by in a flash.
Then it was time to start packing for our holiday in the French Alps. I may have mentioned a time or two that I hate snow, so a week in a ski resort is way out of my comfort zone. Harry has the bug, though, and invited our elder daughter and her partner to join us. Harry and I travelled by car over three days, picking the other two up at the airport on the last leg of the journey.
I'd never imagined going on a ski trip. If I had, I'd have thought of a ski village, quite separate from the slopes. I knew about chair lifts and cable cars taking skiers up the mountains to get their fun, so it came as something as a surprise to me that the snow started right outside the apartment building. It was impossible to go anywhere without walking on that nasty white stuff. Did I say walking? I meant slithering, hanging on to Harry for dear life. After a couple of days DP (Daughter's Partner) suggested looking in the ski shop to see if they sold crampons. It was much easier with the grippy things but I wasn't let out alone, mainly, I suspect, because I have no sense of direction and am known for getting lost in unfamiliar places.
Though I loathe snow it was impossible not to be awed by the stunning scenery. I was even persuaded to ride in a cable car up to another resort higher up the mountain, where the snow was deeper but, curiously, easier to walk on.
|The view from our balcony|
|The view from 1600 metres up|
We've been back a week now. I've cleared the mountain of laundry and dealt with the avalanche of mail that was piled up behind the front door. Harry has got us back on track - you know what that means!