Les Gets physical

After several relatively static weeks in Spain and the UK it was time for a vacation within a holiday within a visit, fleeing on a Plymouth filled stomach to France and a tiny piece of Switzerland. For most of the week I was staying with extended family in the French Alps, including my nephew Guillaume, their parents and French relatives. Kind of like the Swiss Family Robinson but just across the border.

Before fully embracing the mountains I dabbled a little in French supermarkets and parks before walking down the road to Switzerland one afternoon to sample glorious summer through the country lanes, fading sunflowers, thriving vineyards and orchards and general all round serenity of the Swiss side of town.



In the distance, Mont Blanc and its surrounds was alluring, and with the chirp of a cuckoo clock, it was time to cut some chocolate with a Swiss Army knife in a neutral and sensible way and head into the hills.

We were staying in the Alpine town of Les Gets, in the Portes Du Soleil region, a lumpy bit of terrain rising south of Lake Geneva and culminating towards the south east in the white Toblerone triangle of Mont Blanc itself. The town was simple enough – not too busy or large but ample opportunities for eating, drinking, walking and watching giant mushrooms walk down the street. Our residence was central and convenient, ample and charming, the best view from the house evident when having a pee.





From Les Gets there are immediate opportunities to escape the hustle and bustle of town through a few chairlifts and cablecars, ascending to ear popping altitudes up in the hills – Mont Chery the highest at around 1800 metres. A lot of people use these to dress up like a ninja turtle and hurtle down steep tracks on two wheels, others jump off the mountains with a piece of flimsy material attached to their back. For the most part I used these to avoid arduous climbs, capture horizons and descend by foot.through forests and meadows, cowbells and manure smells.







It wasn’t all walking and gawking, and on the Tuesday both Al and I did a bit of driving at Les Gets Golf Course, powering drives (ahem, sometimes) down ravines and hoping the brakes wouldn’t fail in our little golf buggy. The golf was average, the views sublime as we chipped away at 18 undulating holes and enjoyed every one of the 19 holes we experienced (the 19th was hard to beat) on a warm, sometimes arduous day.





So far all this activity with little mention of food to keep the energy levels up. To say that cheese was a staple part of our diet would be an understatement, either on its own with a piece of bread or combined in one style or another with potatoes, cream, bacon and onion. There may or may not have been some salad on the side. One morning we popped off early to a little fromagerie where some French bloke blu-blu-blurred on about the cheese making process and we had a few frankly disappointing tastings. The cheesiest thing all morning was probably the picture of Allan, Vero and Guillaume outside.



Following cheese with water is a good thing and afterwards we headed off into the next valley along for a little walk (or, for some, carry in a backpack) to see some cascades, beautifully and naturally poised for people to hurtle down them on a piece of string.



Towards the end of the week the proper speaking, correct side of the road driving contingent was boosted by the arrival of Dad who, for me, provided a good excuse for further cablecar rides and walks around the mountain tops. The first day we took the lifts up to the top of Mont Chery for awesome clear views on every side, boosted by a mid walk ice cream at the idyllic watering hole of Mont Clary.





Embracing a good dose of entente-cordialle and a better dose of Gruyere all nine of us headed out for a late afternoon beside the waters of Lac Montriond. Here stood a juxtaposition of sun seeking playground and natural splendour, of hairy men and cycling hoons, of rubber rings and canoeing things. Things couldn’t get any more laissez-faire.

And before you knew it the final day was upon us, the cheese building from simple sandwiches to croutes to tartiflettes and raclettes and culminating in artery clogging fondue. The excellent multipass usage was meanwhile culminating in an extravaganza of cablecar and lift rides as the Stafford Boys (minus Monsieur Le Stumpy) edged closer to the less sensible and more jagged part of the Swiss border. C’est la vie.



The day of departure dawned as all days of departure should – chilly, cloudy, a spot or two of rain in the air. A sign that things are changing and time is up, perfect weather for lugging luggage and sitting in cars and planes and trains. A day when I woke up in the French Alps and put my head down in the north west of England, probably dreaming that somewhere, someplace, high on a hill, there is indeed a lonely goatherd. A bientot.

Coasting along

The Westcountry is dangerous to your health, or at least my version of the Westcountry is. I’m sure if I lived here permanently things would involve maybe less clotted cream and pastry and cake and pork products packed into such an undiluted period. I may even dabble in salad once in a while. Maybe. There is a solution to this though, at least psychologically if not physically. It’s called the South West Coast Path, which at least involves some exercise (if you can avoid the tea houses, ice cream vans and chip shops along the way). The coast path is its own little addiction, something I find I am drawn to if I find myself in any coastal town in Devon and Cornwall, something which drags you along to see what’s around the next corner ad infinitum. This is not a bad thing as it’s usually very good, sometimes sublime and with a sprinkle of sun, warmth and horse manure, jolly pleasant.

Shockingly we had some consistent nice summer weather over the past week (enough for shorts and sunscreen at times), so I have taken advantage of this and made a couple of visits to our coastline. The first trip was down to Falmouth, perched on a vast harbour on the south coast of Cornwall and home to many of the archetypal Cornish features… fishing boats, glistening beaches and coves and rolling green fields dotted with cream producing cows.

With its sizeable docks, Falmouth is in places quite industrial, sometimes unremarkable, but of course the proximity of the coast and the coast path means there’s plenty to keep a visiting exile happy. At the head of the harbour is Pendennis Head and its castle, no doubt strategically placed to shoot onions at marauding baguette hunters. From here, the path takes you past several beaches, each terribly unAustralian but not without their own particular British seaside charm, including the wonderfully named Gyllyngvase. Struggling to avoid the tempting eatery overlooking Swanpool Beach, the path then becomes more typically rural, through tree lined, mud laden tracks and over green pasture to Maenporth, where more food options signal the end of my little jaunt. Definitely better than staying at home and watching the first day of the fourth Ashes test.





Now, in the second part of our enthralling adventure along the Cornish coast, I bring you details of a trip a bit closer to home, embarking on the little red Cawsand ferry from Plymouth’s Barbican (and top marks Plymouth on the new wharf at the Barbican for all these cruises and ferries). Being so close I have visited here and nearby Mount Edgecombe Country Park several times, but it really is only half an hour from Plymouth and another world away.

This time around, I headed south from Cawsand and followed that old coast path through woodland in the overflowing green burst of summer and out to Penlee Point, at the entrance to Plymouth Sound. Another mile or two further along brings Rame Head, a more dramatic and unmistakably Cornish piece of rock, where half of Devon and Cornwall is on view.





After hanging around here for a little while, I went off road – or more accurately on road – following winding country lanes with ten foot high hedgerows back to Cawsand, and its adjoining neighbour Kingsand. A hotchpotch of narrow lanes and cottages eventually spat me out at the Devonport Inn, where you simply purchase a pint of warm beer and take it outside overlooking Kingsand Beach, soaking up the sights and sounds of a very pleasant summer’s day. Reward indeed for the ‘toil’ of the South West Coast Path.

Back to the Start

After seemingly endless hot nights, the constant purr of the overhead fan, the early morning quack quack quack of ducks floating in with the stifling breeze and that very first submersion in the soothing waters before breakfast, we were on the move to a cooler, damper place, where duvets are duvets and rain is a nuisance. It was a darkening, sodden Devon countryside as we landed in Exeter for a trawl along familiar sights – Trago, the Wrangaton turnoff, the Little Chef – building up to the bright lights of Plymouth – the Sainsbury sails, the ski slope, the signs for Home Park. It may be half as cold and, yes, a little damp, but the comfort is unparalleled.

There is a ritual to a homecoming, beyond the g’days and hugs and “give us any of your washing” instructions. This involves a trip to town, a Cornish pasty from Warrens and a walk up Armada Way to the Hoe and around the shoreline to the Barbican. The pasty was disappointing, but that’s okay, it gives me improvement to strive for. The walk was as it has always been, footsteps paced a thousand times before, minute changes in evidence here and there, but the same, fabulous view from the Hoe, the same ice cream vans struggling for trade on a blustery cool breeze, the cobbled streets and smell of sizzling onions on the Barbican. And as I become older, the memories seem to get more vivid, like a Noel Edmonds sweater… the warm days clambering about the foreshore, the rides on the Gus Honeybun train. The ice cream or fudge or pasty or fish and chips or Jasperizer or pint of cider or multi-stacked burger in that pub somewhere. The spring tide and people canoeing in the streets. The Lord Mayor’s parade and endless majorette bands. Playing computer games at Ian Lowman’s old house on the Hoe. Having a beer at the Notte Inn when the barmen were dressed in drag one night for some reason. Stepping in dog turd near the Court in the chunkiest shoes I ever owned…

OK, time to stop reminiscing I think! Back in the world of Digital Technicolour, life goes on in the city of Plymouth. Shops are closing down, people are drinking that awful coffee in those awful coffee chains, the sun is flitting between dark clouds, Tesco is selling clotted cream and scones and – suddenly – all is well with the present.