Ski-lifts and stock-tiffs

Well, what a lovely few days (with the odd exception, but more of that later) we have been having in Serre Chevalier since we arrived last Friday. We won't bore you with a blow-by-blow account but here are some of the interesting things that have happened (obviously, we're like, in the middle of the mountains, so we're not talking about a book launch, or a preview table at the latest pop up, or a cheese and wine party. God we miss London. Anyway where were we?)

The woman manning the tourist office amused us a lot. In answer to every question she gave one of *those* French shrugs and suggested Katie call them herself. Maybe it's because Katie's French is so bloody brilliant the woman thought we just didn't need any help. Then Katie walked outside to ask Ed something and when she returned one minute later the grille had been slammed shut for the interminable lunch break.

We've been on a number of ski lifts before they shut down for the season. This has mostly involved staring at much more adventurous people (mountain bikers, white water rafters, quad bikers etc), drinking coffee out of the thermos and then going back down again. The chair lift in Villeneuve was most exciting, as Charlie, being quite small, could easily have slipped 30 feet to the ground if we hadn't been hanging onto him. 

Just one small push...

 There's just no way that would get past health and safety in the UK.

Safely back at the bottom of the mountain we found an icy cold lake but managed to pluck up the courage to take a dip thanks to the sweltering 30 degree heat. Charlie was less keen and opted instead for chilling on a rock at the water's edge.

Too cool for pool

That night we had a lovely selection of salads

Flagelot and bacon, green beans in salt and beurre, olives with anchovies, potato with Roquefort, tomato and warmed goat cheese with balsamic glaze

and then somewhat ill-advisedly sank three bottles of rosé. Sunday was a write off. However, we did manage to drag our sorry arses to Briançon and found an attractive old town and fort, then grabbed the cable car up the mountain as that was about as much effort as we felt able to expend. 

yeah, whatever, it's not as exciting as the Piccadilly Line

A reviving cuppatea at 2500 feet

Woke up feeling much fresher on Monday and went out for an aimless drive that resulted in the discovery of a beautiful meadow covered in flowers and haybales. Charlie invented a new sport 'hay-baling' whereby he leaps from one haybale to another aided by a long suffering parent

"again, again" it's probably a better fitness routine than gym membership

and then we picnicked beside one of them 

Thermos propped up against the bale, our new best friend

and watched my shoes become colonised by crickets (which are present in biblical proportions, we really should find some recipe that makes use of them but that might be more suited to the Laos leg of our trip). We've somewhat fallen into the trap of eating baguettes for our picnics, so we tried to be a little more inventive with this one: tomato and goat's cheese salad with olives, tins of mackerel - one à la moutarde, the other à la sauce tomate, mini saucisson sec (which are SO nice), artichoke hearts and more tea. We didn't get round to eating our tin of peaches, and anyway it was all getting a bit too Enid Blyton. 

Then Ed dug out a kite from the car 

"this bores me"

and we spent an exhilarating hour flying them in the brisk wind, followed by a walk along a fast flowing river and a quick paddle - which resulted in numb feet after a few seconds as the water must be coming off the glacier. Rounded off by a traditional roast chicken dinner.

A whole chicken, you see, can supply the essence of 3 to 4 decent meals and when on a pretty tight daily budget such a thing is a godsend. However unbeknownst to us it was also the source of the biggest row since one-way-street-gate. Ed spent several hours stripping the carcas, boiled up a rich, deep stock and left it overnight to develop. The following morning after draining it into an appropriate receptacle in the sink (in case of over-spill) he went to dispose of the carcass and noticed the bin bag was leaking, and so took it to the outdoor bin. He returned upstairs to find that although Katie had helpfully mopped up the offending slick, unfortunately she had failed to notice the aforementioned rich brown stock in the dish in the sink, and mistaking it for dishwater she wrung out the bin-juice soaked rag into it just as Ed returned from outside.

Well there followed a rather eccentric performance (a classic mantrum) featuring jumping up and down on the spot, swearing, and tears as Ed practically pulled his own hair out. Now there really is nothing more pathetic than crying over spilt stock, we get that, but it was one of those mornings when everything just seemed stacked against poor old Ed and that stock had taken a long time to prepare and was going to be bloody tasty. To calm himself down Ed stomped off alone on a five hour trek up the side of a mountain, as he stopped for the occasional cup of coffee from the thermos sitting in one shady rock lined clearing after another his mood began to lift. Although it's probably one of those things he'll feel bitter about until his dying day. 

3 hours uphill walking, still grumpy