Mountain Magic

J. hesitated before she asked me, "Is it too early to partake in a Kir?"

In my estimation, 5:30 p.m. was the perfect time for a Kir. As late afternoon transmuted into early evening, we watched the clouds dance around the mountain tops. The moon, one day off it's FULL glory, moved from the horizon to above our heads. I counted my lucky stars that J. had asked me to join her for the weekend in Embrun. This sleepy, little town is a near neighbour of Gap; only half an hour in the train. 

Kir flavoured with Violette poised in my hand, ensconced comfortably on her deck; we contentedly surveyed the scene. Sheep baa-ed in the distance, a frisky sheep dog ran through the fields and the birds noisily returned to the trees for the evening.

J. told me how the Iron Man competition, held in August, is world celebrated. Her balcony provides a wonderful spectator-view as the sweaty contestants navigate the steep hill in front of her apartment.

The rural scene intoxicated my senses far more than the Kir.

J's apartment reflected arty, eclectic, well-travelled owners.

Our reservation, at 1930, 7:30 p.m. was a very civilised time. The Hotel/Restaurant is called Château La Robéyère. It was demure, full of charm and grace. It is an 18th Century building made of stone. It enjoys a wonderful view over woodlands.

The magnificent arching roof added strength and character to our surroundings. J. and I had difficulties choosing from the menu, as all the offerings sounded extraordinary. 

Our meal was extremely pleasant. Conversation flowed and the flavours of the cuisine were exquisite. 

As I slipped between the sun-dried cotton sheets late that evening, I counted 4 alcoholic beverages that I had managed to enjoy. I hoped that it wouldn't affect the events planned for the following day.

The vista from J.'s balcony the next morning was a gift from heaven. It was the complete antithesis to a polluted city-scape.

After a light breakfast, we drove up a windy road that took us to just below the snow line. The arid, rocky faces had their own stark, rugged beauty.

The area is brimming full of holiday-makers during the snow season. We leisurely walked along the piste trails.

We headed towards a waterfall as an intended picnic spot. At first, the snow provided laughs, and squeaks and squawks as we tried not to fall. Then, after a while our feet sunk deeply into soft snow. After about half an hour of this, we turned around. I think that it was a wise decision. A twisted ankle would be a curse.

The swiftly flowing river provided the kind of music that is impossible to ignore.

The melting snow created a pretty pattern on the nearby slopes. Some keen skiers were navigating amongst the trees in the upper distance. We passed a small party of trampers. They joked that I was carrying the lunch. (J. and I were taking turns with the backpack.)

J. explained that these trees are a "sort of" pine tree that loses its greenery in winter. So the tender new furry shoots on the branches were still in their infancy. 

We dined on home-made cheese, tomato and relish sandwiches, a sweet mandarin and nuts. All the while, the gushing river flushed out cobwebs in our heads with its cleansing symphony.

J. decided that we needed to take a different route back to the car. She led us in a demanding steep climb in order to find the piste. We sweated, panted and ducked under prickly bushes. The ever-elusive piste remained in the forefront of J.'s mind as she stubbornly led me into challenging territory. 

At one stage, I clambered over a wire fence, but my leg became caught as I didn't lift it high enough. In slow motion I landed gently on the ground, however, on the way down my foot became doubly entangled in some blue twine that was adorning the fence. As I wriggled to set my foot free, the twine tightened. I was giggling with embarrassment; fortunately I wasn't hurt. Nevertheless, it would be fair to say, that I felt a bit panicky, wriggling around upside down. I experienced the same adrenalin fright that an ensnared animal would feel. ( A good experience to create empathy for hunted animals.)

Once freed, we navigated the scrubland once more. We began descending; giving up on the highland piste trail. Further challenges confronted us with boulders, rocks and thorny bushes.

Eventually, we returned to civilisation. J. apologised for the detour. I refuted; delighted that our "walk" had a little adventure for a "story-to-tell."

The uneventful train trip back to Gap provided a welcome respite, before the inevitable hike back to my apartment. Buses not operating on a Sunday can be a bit bothersome sometimes.