C'est Cheese

A few months ago, around the time of the World Cup Final, I was staying up late cocooned in my sleeping bag on a couch in a cold Canberra house watching the northern summer whizz by in front of me, climbing its way up a mountain in a yellow jersey. From 12,000 miles away I could almost smell the cheese. For once, I was envious of the French. Like a superlative Aussie coffee it didn’t last too long, but it was enough to get me motivated to head back to the future and entangled with the past, Euro 2010 Part 2 was on.

That summer had well and truly faded come the end of September, a grey and rainy day looming as I woke in Annemasse for the start of le tour de fromage. The picturesque, verdant Jura Mountains were still picturesque and verdant, but slightly less fun in a raincoat. It was a day for sitting indoors and smoking a diamond encrusted pipe, which most of the residents of Saint Claude were seemingly doing, if the presence of France’s very own Big Things are anything to go by.





Following the route of the fitter tour up to Les Rousses, the fatter tour found a little highlight among the hammering rain, a rather excellent aged Comte, a local Tomme De Rousses and a little nibble of the nearby town of Morbier. Avec baguette, picnic in the car French style.

Sunday was more of a sun day, especially in the morning as that magical transition from France to Switzerland took place faster than a Roma being chucked out of the country. Cross the chocolate marked line guarded by a cuckoo clock and the sun appears brighter, the birds chirpier and the pocket knives more adaptable to various occasions. The little town of Hermance lacks the truly high Alpine scenery but is, in most other ways, Swiss chocolate box.





I think chocolate more than likely featured for Sunday lunch, certainly in the petites gateaux I sampled, bringing on the impending likelihood of an afternoon snooze. This was tempered, though not in the same way chocolate can be tempered, by a delightful jaunt out to the Vallee Verte and the green waters of Lac du Vallon. All of the Alpine flavours were here in one handy compact pocket of water...snow capped mountains, shady forests, the moos and dings of cows, a remote church and the acquisition of muddy shoes.





After more munching on bread and cheese to pass away the evening, the next day dawned again bright and promising, and, being on my own, I braved the foreigners and navigation of the transport system to make my way through Geneva and on to the pretty Swiss lakeside town of Nyon. The town is dominated by a gleaming white chateau, but beyond this a compact old town contains satisfying cliché after cliché of shuttered terraces, hanging baskets, water fountains, clock towers and Foux Du Fafa.









Down beside the lake, things were rather blissy with warming sunshine and peaceful waters accompanying the latest combination of crusty bread, cheese and a few healthy leaves. C’est la vie.



Now, are there any other Swiss clichés I am yet to mention? How about little red mountain trains, trundling their way alongside grassy meadows and flourishing broad leafed forests, peppering green leaves across the neutral wooden chalets of clinical bankers eating fondue with an army knife at 2:32:16 pm exactly? That was the train up to Saint-Cergue, perched someway above Lake Geneva on the Swiss side of the Jura range. Like most towns around this way, it seemed to close between 1 and 3pm, exactly the time when you fancy popping into the Boulanger Patisserie for one of those scrumptious looking goodies. Not that it was much more lively after 3pm, as I rejoined the little red train scattered with old people and headed back down the hill into the throbbing, pulsing heart of Nyon.

From here, a living, breathing, illustration of clockwork. Across to platform 1 and straight onto a train to Geneva. Exit Cornavin station and hop immediately aboard Tram 16 to Amondelier. Walk down to Eaux Vives, with a little bit of running (okay, we’re heading into French territory now remember) and aboard the train to Annemasse. More good luck than clockwork in what can be an annoyingly truncated journey. I even had time and skill to direct someone to Eaux Vives station, thanks to some dodgy pronunciation and memories of Monsieur Simpson and Toutes Directions, the French textbook littered with references to Gerard Depardieu and Johnny Hallyday. With my odour of cheese and persistently annoying neutrality, I was almost a local.

And of course, feeling now local it was now almost time to move on, the final day in France taking me across to Switzerland once again for further walks in the countryside. Weather-wise this was the best day of the stay, the afternoon comfortable for T-shirts and the sunglasses I bought at Sydney airport put to good use. The mountains were still cloudy, but they were around, popping out for a few glimpses as the daylight shifted around to the west. The birds were still chirping, the grapes bulging, the Swiss somewhat smugly revelling in their opulence (just where do they get all their money from?!) and no doubt sticking two absolutely minted fingers up to France just down the road.







Rather scandalously, I forgot to take my passport into Switzerland, and could have been stranded at border control re-entering France. However, it seems the muddy track and set of bushes signifying the border were unmanned today. Border security on strike? Receiving an early pension? Deported for looking a bit unFrench or taller than Monsieur President? C’est possible. Anyway, I was safe and able to salute a few bits of the French Alps for one last time before heading back to Annemasse.



With the sunshine persisting there was time left to regard le conversation de la parc, Guillaume climbing, sliding, waving at planes and trains and buses, providing pistachio shell presents to grateful uncles. Me, slightly envious of being a bit too old to slide away and climb and run round in random circles.



Et voila, France and, more so this time, Switzerland. A little degustation. Unlike the immense last supper of tartiflette de Neil. Jeez it’s good, as the little French man in Fyshwick markets would say, “if you want Reblochon, you really want Reblochon”. Arteries clogged, time to head over to the land of clotted cream, lardy cakes, pork pies and bacon butties. Welcome home.