I do it my way

A week of mountain ghosts

I can’t explain it, but this week the Alps have been calling. Not literally (my knees would file a complaint), but in memories. Vivid ones. Boots-in-the-snow, rifle-on-the-shoulder, why-is-it-always-uphill memories.

And now, the twist. I spent days wandering back through those mountains in my head, and then yesterday, out of the blue, the lieutenant who commanded my section at the time got in touch with me through Trombi, the French answer to Friends Reunited. If you don’t believe in thought transmission, perhaps you should reconsider. Either the universe has a sense of timing, or my old lieutenant has a very long-range signal and zero respect for my privacy. I’ll take either.

So I dug out the photos. Some were already on my computer; others I had to scan, which meant dusting off prints that have clearly lived a harder life than I have. Each one comes with a story, and I’ll do my best to tell them properly.

The photos are trickling in. Bring a warm hat and a sense of humour. Chasseurs Alpins, after all, never promised comfort. Only a good view.

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Then there were the shoes. Hobnailed mountain boots, built for rock and ice, now asked to behave on a sunny city street. Anyone who has marched in them on tarmac knows the sound and the slight sensation of ice-skating on a pavement. Beautiful on a glacier, a bit theatrical on a boulevard.

And so came the lessons: how to stand, how to turn, how to swing an arm in time with forty others, and how to keep a straight face while a passing child points at your knees. Marching in step sounds easy until you try it with a rifle on your shoulder and a sergeant’s eyes boring into the back of your head. The photo catches us mid-parade, in line, mostly synchronised, and clearly concentrating hard. Note the Sunday-best crowd in the background, and a gentleman in a dark suit who appears entirely unimpressed. Every parade has one.

It’s a funny thing: the drill, the polish, the parade ground humour all felt like a chore at the time. Now it’s the part that makes me smile longest. Because before you can climb a mountain with the Chasseurs Alpins, you must first learn to walk in a straight line. The mountains come later. The pride, as it turns out, starts right here.

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For a battalion of Chasseurs Alpins, this was a bold gambit. These are the people who are supposed to glide across mountains like they were born with planks on their feet. But the army, in its wisdom, had a beginners’ course, and the army, in its wisdom, did not check anyone’s references. So I volunteered my incompetence, and, with a little diplomacy, a few like-minded comrades volunteered theirs. Acting skills: outstanding. Wobbling convincingly on the first morning: five stars.

The reward was ten days at the chalet in Flaine. Free skiing. Free lifts. A truck to drop us at the station every morning and another to bring us back every afternoon, like the world’s most generous school run. Nobody asked about the “beginners”. Nobody wondered why they were queuing for the black runs. I can only assume the officers had their own reasons for looking the other way.

The photo shows the proof: a line of white-clad Chasseurs, rucksacks on, poles planted, sunglasses and goggles on, all looking suspiciously pleased with themselves. A few of us are on skis, a few on snowshoes, and every one of us is wearing the grin of men who have just got away with something. Behind us, a bright, empty bowl of Flaine snow stretches off to the horizon, as if the mountain itself had been told to keep quiet.

Of course, there was the small matter of the boots. Army ski boots are not designed with comfort in mind, more with the idea that suffering builds character. But a day or two, and the feet gave up the argument.

Possibly the best time ever, and I stand by that. The best part is that the perk has outlived the career: the ski lifts are still free if I show my army ID card. Fifty years on, the Republic is still paying for my runs. Some might call that a pension. I call it a very long-lasting return on a very good bluff.

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Igloo Estate Agents: Location, Location, Location

Every winter evening in the mountains began with the same question: where do forty men sleep when the nearest hotel is a very long way down? The answer was always the same. Build it yourselves.

The photos show the approach march. In the first, a line of white-clad Chasseurs climbs through snow-laden scrub, one comrade out front with a rucksack the size of a small wardrobe, a few others behind with the cheerful expressions of men who have not yet been told how much digging lies ahead. The second shows a section picking its way along a snowy stream bed, white capes hooded against the weather, the pebbles in the water wearing little snow bonnets. Very pretty. Very deceptive.

Because winter days in the Alps are short, and the clock is a ruthless landlord. After hours of climbing, there was no time to admire the view. We had to arrive early enough to choose the perfect plot: sheltered, well-packed, and with excellent drainage, though no brochure ever said so. Then came the construction of enough igloos to house a full section of up to forty men, laid out in a strict camouflage pattern, so that from above we looked like nothing more than a few suspicious bumps in the snow. Architecture by shovel, planning permission by sergeant.

I am proud to report that none of our igloos ever caved in. Not one. Considering they were built by tired conscripts at dusk, under time pressure, I think that deserves a small plaque.

Less happy news: sleep. It did not so much happen as hover nearby. Rather than proper rest, the night was a series of short eye shuts, interrupted by cold feet, a neighbour’s elbow, and the nagging thought of the stormy night outside.

And yet, here is the great paradox of the igloo. With a howling storm and -30°C outside, the temperature inside stays reliably above freezing. Snow, it turns out, is the best insulator you can find, and it’s free. Think about that next time your heating bill arrives: the Chasseurs Alpins solved the problem with a shovel and a few hours of hard graft.

Not a luxury suite, then. But one of the warmest places on earth, relatively speaking, when the Alps decide to show their teeth.

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The Course des Sections: Three Days, One Very Long Queue

Once a year, the Alps host the most exclusive race in the French mountain army, and the entry fee is your dignity. The Course des Sections gathers sections from every battalion, plus a few foreign soldiers who presumably thought it sounded like a nice holiday. Three days, one stopwatch, and a panel of judges with clipboards and no sense of mercy.

The programme reads like a sadist’s wish list. Climb. Climb some more. Build an igloo and sleep in it, which is a splendid idea until you remember you built it yourself, in a hurry, while being timed. Shoot. Then ski downhill with a “wounded” comrade, on a stretcher you have just fashioned out of skis. Nothing says military precision like improvised ambulance engineering at speed, on a slope, with a man lying on it who is watching your every turn with understandable concern.

The photo says it better than I can: a long, determined line of white-clad figures snaking up a glacier, each one stepping in the tracks of the one ahead, poles swinging, rucksacks heavy, and a staggering amphitheatre of peaks looking down on the whole thing with polite indifference. Somewhere in that line, someone is counting steps and someone else is regretting breakfast.

And the result? We finished second, behind professional soldiers. Let me repeat that for the people at the back: second, behind the professionals. Conscripts, outclassed only by people who do this for a living. I’ll take that medal any day.

As for the shooting, I’m happy to report that my two fellow marksmen and I delivered. Wind swirling, slope tilting, lungs burning from the climb: none of it is ideal conditions for steady aim. But that’s precisely why they train sharpshooters. A calm breath, a squeeze, and the target gets the message. It was one of those moments when the volunteering all those months earlier paid off in full.

Fifty years on, I still can’t look at a snowy slope without wondering how long it would take to dig an igloo. The answer, for the record, is “too long, and the judges were watching.”

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Then comes the landing, and by “landing” I mean “hovering at a polite distance while you jump.” Nobody tells you that a few feet of fresh powder looks exactly like solid ground until you’re in it up to the thighs. It’s a feeling you have to get used to, much like cold showers and French bureaucracy.

The photo says it all: a Puma hanging in the air, rotors churning the snow into a blizzard, and one white-clad soldier making a dash for it. Somewhere in that whiteout is the dignity I left behind.

Still, I’ll admit it: arriving at the top of a mountain by helicopter beats the alternative. Chasseurs Alpins did plenty of climbing the hard way, but on those days, we got the express route.

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The author offers two theories. Either we had finally arrived, or I’d just realised the army-issue cigarettes hadn’t been left behind. Honestly, in 1975 the second explanation carries serious weight. Back then, a pack of rations-issue smokes was a currency, a comfort and a morale-boosting miracle, all in one flimsy cardboard box. Health advice has moved on since. The relief, I suspect, has not.

Behind me, the section is in full break mode: some crouched over their kit, one perched on his pack, a couple of comrades quietly eating whatever the army had decided counted as a snack. Poles planted, rucksacks dumped, nobody in a hurry. That’s the unspoken rule of the mountain: when the order to halt comes, you stop mid-sentence and sit wherever you are, even if “wherever” is a slope.

Note the footwear: gaiters and snowshoes, the unglamorous heroes of the day. Elegant? No. Effective at keeping me out of the powder? Mostly.

Whatever the reason for the smile, it’s a good one. Fifty years later, I’d like to think it was simply the joy of being young, a bit tired, and surrounded by friends in a very beautiful place.

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The deal is simple. Hours of climbing, each step a small negotiation with gravity. Then the summit, the skins come off with that satisfying rip, and the mountains hand you your payment in full: the view, the silence, and the smug glow of a man who has earned his downhill.

And here I am, scanned from a print that has clearly seen things (note the battle scars on the sky). White camouflage, fur-backed mitts, skis, and a moustache that was, I’m told, regulation in spirit if not in paperwork. I’m giving the camera the look of a man who knows the hard part is over and the fun part is about to begin. Behind me, a valley sleeps under the snow, a few chalets tucked in like afterthoughts.

No lift, no café at the top, no selfie stick. Just a pair of skis, a lot of sweat and a view that no gondola could ever quite match. Fifty years later, I’d still take that deal.

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After a full day spent pretending to attack, or be attacked by, the resident Foreign Legion (who, I suspect, were not pretending quite as hard as we were), the night brought its own mission: guard round first, then a turn on the field radio, with one overriding objective. Do not fall asleep.

Look at the composition. Helmet low, rifle slung across the chest, one boot propped up in the dugout like a man at home in his favourite armchair. Sleep deprivation has a way of blurring things, and the photographer seems to have caught that perfectly. The photo is soft, creased, torn at the corner and gloriously grainy, which is exactly how that hour of the night feels. At 3 a.m., everything is a bit out of focus, including your will to live.

The radio watch is a special kind of torture. Nothing happens, and you must stay awake for it. The crackle of static, the cold creeping up through your boots, and the quiet bargaining with your own eyelids: “Just one blink. A long one.” Somewhere in the dark, a lieutenant is counting on you, and a Legionnaire is possibly counting on you to nod off.

I held out. Mostly. The photo, at least, is my alibi.

Return to Mission Control

Dispatches from a TGV, somewhere in the fog

I am currently gliding through the misty hills of the Minervois on my way to Lyon, wrapped in the kind of fog that makes you feel like the lead in a moody Scandinavian crime drama. All that is missing is a mysterious corpse and a detective with a troubled past. Instead, I have a laptop and a mission.

I have, against all odds, managed to connect to the train’s Wifi. It looks stable. It looks reliable. It looks like the kind of connection that would never betray you. This is, of course, a lie. It is slow, it cuts out whenever it feels like it, and it seems to have the work ethic of a civil servant on the eve of a long weekend.

Which brings me to my great philosophical question of the morning: why is it that in every TV serial and film, the bandits get to log on from absolutely anywhere? A moving van. A cave. A hot-air balloon. They tap three keys, say “I’m in,” and suddenly they are inside the most secure facility on the planet, with progress bars that always finish dramatically one second before disaster. Nobody ever buffers. Nobody ever sees “Connection lost, retrying.” Meanwhile I am fighting a duel with a loading wheel just to open my inbox.

And the stakes of my own little heist are considerable. In 30 minutes, I must log on to the ticket office of the Le Mans 24 Hours to snap up the two tickets I am still missing. It seems the general public sale opens this very morning, a fact that escaped me entirely until I was already hurtling through southern France at 300 km/h. In hindsight, I could have delegated this noble quest to someone sitting comfortably at home with fibre-optic broadband and a nice cup of coffee. But no. I will do it myself, from a train, in the fog, on Wifi with commitment issues.

It will be a battle of nerves, thousands of racing fans clicking at the same instant while my connection decides whether today is a day for working or for existential reflection. In the real race, cars travel at 340 km/h for 24 hours. In mine, a tiny loading wheel will decide my fate.

So if you will excuse me, I must now concentrate. Lock in. Crack my knuckles like a movie hacker. Somewhere ahead lies a ticketing page, and I intend to get in.

Wish me luck. If this post suddenly stops, assume I entered a tunnel.

Some people track flights. I’ll admit I dabble too. But lately I’ve upgraded to a more seaworthy obsession: following things that float.

On screen one: the Route du Rhum armada, sailors who set off yesterday to cross the Atlantic powered by wind, grit and what I can only assume is very little sleep.

On screen two: the AIDAstella, which left Mallorca bound for Cape Town, powered by diesel, buffets and a cocktail menu. Aboard are our youngest son and his family, which is, naturally, the only reason I’m checking it so often. (Two or three times a day. Okay, maybe four.)

Same ocean. Completely different definitions of “roughing it.”

One fleet is battling swells with a sleeping bag and freeze-dried meals. The other is deciding between the pool and the second dessert. I’m rooting for both, though I suspect only one of them has a midnight snack station.

Fair winds to the sailors, and bon voyage to the family. I’ll be here, refreshing two maps and calling it “keeping up with the family and the sport.”

Return to Mission Control

Monday

A bit of a non-event day apart from the arrival of 3 comic books at once which had to be read sitting outside in the timid afternoon sunshine resulting in a very pleasant time.

Tuesday

In Which We Close a Pool and Open a Bar Tab

Some days begin quietly. Tuesday began with the pool man, who arrived, tucked our pool in for the winter like a very expensive, very wet toddler, and left with the news that a couple of replacement parts will be needed before spring. Of course they will. Pools, like cars and teenagers, are never truly “done.”

The moment he left, we leapt into the car. I may be exaggerating the leaping. There was a pause for knees, and a brief negotiation about who had the keys. But we were off, heading north, or at least in the general direction of “not here.”

First Stop: Aigues-Mortes

Home is Carcassonne, a magnificent walled city, and I say that with love. But Aigues-Mortes is also a walled city, only this one is lively, beautifully kept, and sits by the water in the Camargue like it knows it’s the good-looking sibling. I spent a good part of the visit wondering why we didn’t move here in the first place. I have no answer. I have since been told there is a mortgage involved.

Lunch was at Banaras, an Indian restaurant I’d scouted online with the focus of a man planning a heist. Verdict: excellent. Pleasantly spicy 🌶️, and then came the Indian café gourmand, which was a dessert platter that might, in hindsight, have been a cry for help from my stomach. A digestive stroll followed, past restaurants with every outdoor table occupied. End of October, and the French were still sitting outside as if winter were a rumour. Respect.

On to Nîmes

Fifty kilometres later we reached Nîmes and our home for the night, the Novotel Atria, a couple of minutes’ walk from the famous arena. Not our first stay, and the location in the old town is perfect. We had barely unpacked before we were out again, which is the sort of discipline I usually reserve for finding the biscuit tin.

First up was the Maison Carrée, so well preserved it makes the rest of us feel poorly maintained. Nîmes is basically a Roman history buffet, and we were hungry for more. Then the Jardins de la Fontaine, which were absolutely worth it. We even sat on a bench for a few minutes to take it all in, which at our age counts as an extreme sport. The spring of Nemausus bubbles away a few yards off, and you can’t help picturing yourself in Roman times, wondering what it was like. (Mostly, I suspect, a lot of sandals and no gin and tonic. A tragedy.)

We then couldn’t resist buying tickets for the arena. Of the 200-odd Roman arenas still around, this is one of the best preserved, and it’s still used for shows and concerts. I must attend one soon. Gladiators optional.

Aperitif O’Clock

By 6pm, a tough fact had emerged: visiting ancient monuments is thirsty work. Fortunately Nîmes’s old town is generously stocked with bars, and we settled outside one for a couple of drinks plus one gin and tonic. (The maths is deliberately vague. History is hard to count.)

Still full from lunch, we staggered back to the hotel bar for a couple more G&Ts and a planche mixte, that glorious French plank of charcuterie and cheese, then retired very early to a very comfortable bed. I say this with authority.

The 1 a.m. Plot Twist

I woke just after 1 am, an odd hour even for a man who has just consumed a small distillery. And then it hit me: exactly 15 years ago, at this very time, I was having a rather nasty heart attack and being rushed to hospital in the German town where we then lived. It was touch and go, but I made it through in the nick of time.

So here I am, 15 years on, in a Roman city, full of cheese, gin, and curry, with a perfectly good heart and a very comfortable bed.

Maybe I should celebrate this anniversary every year. In fact, I think I will. Same menu, please.

Wednesday

In Which We Survive a Roman Hangover and Celebrate Not Smoking

Today also marks 15 years since I gave up smoking. The heart attack wasn’t directly caused by the habit, but lying in a hospital bed I took the hint, the way you do when a doctor looks at you over his glasses. After some 45 years of a nasty and, may I say, extortionately expensive pastime, I quit. And here is the annoying part: I had no problem stopping. No patches, no gum, no dramatic scenes. I’d like to say it was willpower, but I suspect my lungs simply filed a formal complaint.

So, a double anniversary. One heart attack survived, one cigarette-free decade and a half. Frankly, I’m getting good value out of this particular date. Next year I’m asking for a discount from the hospital.

Breakfast, or The Plan That Actually Worked

After a not-so-calm night, I was awake and upright at an hour usually reserved for bakers and the very guilty. The plan was simple: walk into town towards Les Halles and find a bistro for breakfast. And, in a rare triumph for the human race, the plan worked perfectly. We ended up at a place on the Place de l’Horloge that we remembered from a previous visit. The pain au chocolat was good, the coffee was good, and for ten glorious minutes nobody asked me to make a decision.

Maison Carrée, Part Two: The Interior

Having admired the Maison Carrée from the outside the day before, we decided to go in. We paid our entrance fee and stepped into… one room. A single, lovely, ancient room with a few boards explaining the history. It’s a bit like being invited to a famous restaurant and being shown a very well-preserved menu. Still, two thousand years old and it hasn’t needed a pool man once. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

The Great Car Extraction

Then came the logistics. Back to the hotel, collect our things, check out, and liberate the car from the hotel garage to find a spot near the lunch restaurant. Which, as it happens, is a mere 150 metres from the Maison Carrée. Driving there took twice as long as walking would have. Then add another ten minutes to find a parking space. I’m told the Romans had chariots and still managed to build a sensible road system. We have satnav and a sense of dread.

The Whole Point of the Exercise

Eventually, and with time to spare, we arrived at Le Questel, where we were meeting our friends Cécile and Thierry from Montélimar and Gérard from Pézenas. This, you see, was the whole point of the trip. The Romans, the gin, the arena and the cardiac anniversary were all, strictly speaking, a very elaborate pretext for lunch.

Everyone turned up on time, which at our age is practically a miracle, and we caught up on each other’s news over a lovely meal in a pleasant atmosphere. I can recommend the restaurant and will certainly be back. The conversation flowed, the company was excellent, and nobody mentioned the previous night’s gin count. Friends like that are rarer than a well-preserved Roman temple.

Homeward Bound

We parted ways after lunch and hit the road for the two-hour drive home, where we spent a quiet evening in front of the TV. After the previous 36 hours of ancient monuments, curry, gin and cheese, the sofa felt like the greatest civilisation of all.

Thursday

In Which Rubber Meets Road and Whisky Meets Glass

Chores. The word alone is enough to make a grown man lie down. The new tyres, ordered last week with great ceremony, finally went onto the car, so we can now be unsafe in style. Then came the weekly shopping expedition, a ritual in which two adults enter a supermarket for milk and emerge forty minutes later with a pineapple and no milk.

Normally Thursday evening means the online pub quiz, where I confidently give wrong answers to strangers. Tonight there was none. A void. A man cannot be expected to sit quietly with that kind of silence, so I cracked open a bottle of whisky. Purely as a stand-in for general knowledge.

Friday

Blues Rock and Other Medical Treatments

Much of the day was spent at the computer catching up on new music and updating playlists, a task that has no end and which I am therefore very good at. The mood was particularly partial to Blues Rock, which is the correct musical diet for a man who has recently celebrated surviving things. Somewhere a guitar was being bent into unspeakable shapes on my behalf. I regret nothing.

Saturday

Markets, Mojitos and Demolition

The usual visit to the weekly market, followed by a coffee on Place Carnot, where I watched Carcassonne go about its business and felt, once again, quietly smug about it.

Then, with the energy of a man who has had his coffee, I undid a set of cellar shelving that needs replacing. Note the phrasing: undid. Taking things apart is the fun half of DIY. The putting-back-together half is a future problem, and future me is notoriously bad at keeping promises.

The afternoon went back to the screen, where plans are being made for the forthcoming trip to Paris in February. The hotel is booked and the itinerary is set. Train tickets and show tickets are still to be bought, so we have the glamorous parts of a trip, a bed and a plan, but no means of arriving and nothing to watch. Minimalist travel.

In the evening we went out to celebrate Halloween at the newly opened bar and restaurant Coco Bongo. Nobody was dressed as anything frightening, unless you count my dancing, which I kept firmly seated. The Mojitos tasted good, which is the only review that matters.

Sunday

The Tower of Babel, With Lunch

Today the Route du Rhum set off at 13:02 from Saint-Malo, 115 skippers heading out into the Atlantic with nothing but courage and very expensive boats. I would have loved to watch it live. Instead I had 7 guests for lunch, so while 115 sailors braved the open sea, I braved the dishwasher.

They all arrived at midday for aperitif, followed by an excellent home-cooked lunch. And what a table. Everyone spoke at once, at volume, in a United Nations of accents: 1 Canadian, 2 Americans, 1 Scot and 4 English, plus me. Once again I am the only French person in my own house. At some point I stopped following the conversation and just enjoyed the sound, like a very chatty orchestra tuning up. By 5pm they were gone, we did a quick clear-up, and I changed into relaxing clothes, the sacred garments of Sunday evening.

Then it was the sofa for the F1 Grand Prix of Mexico, followed by an NFL game. Other people were racing across oceans. I was racing a cushion to the best seat.

And So Ends Week 44

One heart anniversary, one smoke-free anniversary, two Roman monuments, an unspecified number of gin and tonics, one pool tucked in for winter and nine people at one table. Not bad for a week. Frankly, I’d do it all again, minus the 1 a.m. wake-up call.

See you next week for number 45.