Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things – air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky – all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.
Our journey home was punctuated by a night over in Dijon, the home of French mustard.
A slow day for three of us while Kas went for a long run in the morning. All four of us went for a short walk in the afternoon.
Today was that traditional day in each holiday where we didn’t really do much. The weather was a bit showery and grey and we were all a bit pooped after a long day out yesterday.
Geocaching in three different countries in the same day. I haven’t done that for a couple of years.
We didn’t quite do what we’d planned to do, but what we did do ended up being good.
Chamonix is a living geography lesson. It’s the one where the teacher was talking about moraines, eskers and U-shaped valleys, if you remember it.
A trip up to the top of the scarily tall looking mountain that overlooks Chamonix. Thankfully, the resident Bond villain was out.
We started the day in the home of champagne and needed to get to the home of, well, I’m not sure. The first Winter Olympics. That should be enough to convince you.