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.