Food for thought



Cake. One of the Good Things in Life.



My local restaurant’s not quite open for The Season. It’s open-ish; you can eat and drink there, but it’s not quite firing on all cylinders. And that means a number of things. It means that for the next ten days, it's as if the No Smoking in Public Places law never happened: you step through the door into a fug of roll-up smoke. It means that the only lights are the lights around the bar; there are still great cavernous restaurant spaces in there I’ve never seen. It means that I've never yet had to pay for a drink (though who does pay, I can’t quite fathom). And it means that the full menu isn’t up and running yet, it’s Plat du Jour or nothing. Or, as the barman told me, ‘No a la Carte yet – just Wish of the Day’. Wish of the Day! Now, who wouldn’t trade an a la carte lunch menu – however mouthwatering! – for a daily wish?

Just imagine: one wish every day, and all the worry taken out of it. ‘Be careful what you wish for’, they say. Sound advice for a la carte wishers - but no such caution needed with a Wish of the Day! Here it is, today’s wish; priced and packaged, chalked up on the blackboard. Take it or leave it or come back tomorrow and try your luck again.

And all this begs the question: what sort of wish should a Wish of the Day be? In an ideal world, perhaps World Peace; An End to Poverty; A Cure for Cancer … but this is no ideal world (wish fodder there?) – and, let’s be realistic – this is a quick lunchtime Wish we're talking about, so it really needs to fit within a sub-10 Euro price bracket. So. A promise of fair weather? Put a price on that. An afternoon better than the morning? A letter from a friend; a good word from the boss? And just how specific ought a Wish of the Day to be? Quite open ended, I think; one size must fit all and it needs to cover every sign of the zodiac. So, a stroke of luck? A compliment; a piece of good news, perhaps? (Maybe A Tall Dark Stranger …?)

So, the Wish of the Day: food for thought. For now, I can tell you that today’s Wish was faux filet. And no, I didn’t try it … but perhaps I’ll try my luck again tomorrow. Perhaps it’ll be croque monsieur tomorrow! (I wish …)

Bounded in a nutshell

Oooh, it’s been too long since I wrote. Anything. But surely that’s one of the great things about Notes to No-one: maybe I have been neglectful – but who’s complaining? In fact, if I’ve been neglecting no-one recently, well, surely I deserve a commendation.



No place like home



Trouble is, too much stuff – that’s capital S, Stuff – builds up, and then, where do I start? And soon enough, the temptation is not to start at all … I get all caught up in Doing Stuff. Whereas writing’s not Doing Stuff, it’s Thinking Stuff – and that’s trickier.

So, many thing’s’ve preoccupied me since I was last here – but the one that keeps coming back is the concept of Boredom. Boredom! It’s an interesting one. Boredom. The more I think about it, the more I wonder. What’s it all about? And where can I find the time for it?

Let me put this in context. I’ve been here – here, out of season, in the resort – for maybe 6 weeks. More people are arriving every day; the place is filling up – the world’s descending; life’s starting. And these new people, they say – incredulously, or just as if they’re stating a fact – ‘you must be bored!’ Or else, ‘call if you’re bored’, ‘pop round when you’re bored’ – things like that. And I ask myself: am I bored? Have I been bored? Should I have been bored?

Well, I’ve been many things since I got here. Frustrated – ooh, many, many times frustrated. No one does bureaucracy like they do it here. My word, at times it’s been frustrating - Catch 22’s a fine novel, but imagine living in it! More on this another time. Scared – well, yes, a few times; you’ve heard about Halloween but there’ve been other times too. And I’ve been pretty solitary – yes, out of season it’s certainly quiet here.

But bored? No. I’ve thought about this a bit, and it seems to me I don’t have the patience for it. But is having the capacity for boredom a good thing or a bad thing? The jury’s out. Define Bored. I’ve not got the internet right now (of course not! It's Sunday!) (This comes under Frustrations and Bureaucracy; see above ...) and no dictionary, so I’ll just have to scratch about inside my head for a definition of my own. Bored: having nothing to do? Nothing to think about? No demands on your time, no worries? Well, it sounds just dandy! What a luxury. How easy is the life of the bored! “Lord, I could be bounded in a nutshell and think myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams” … or something like that.

But, just a minute: back to those dreams. Aren’t they what makes the nutshell interesting? In the nutshell, without the dreams … well, how would I even imagine Infinite Space, let alone rule it? So, without the dreams, yes: I reckon that soon enough, I might get bored. Do the dreams have to be bad? Not sure. But I’ll take bad dreams over no dreams, thank you very much. Inquietude over boredom, yes please.

Is that my conclusion? Well, for now, yes. I’d say it is. Just about bedtime, and I think I’ll stop right there. Don't want to bore you …

Halloween Horror Story



The snowline: endless winter/autumn valley

 No idle thoughts and musings today: today, it’s a real-life Halloween Horror Story, fresh from my Mountain Idyll. Illustrating that Idylls are for Idiots – but we’ll come back to that another time.

So, are you sitting comfortably?

Once Upon A Time in the Mountains, it was a bright October morning. A sunny Sunday morning; sparkling snow and clear skies; and I set off – backpack, sandwiches, camera (survival bag; headtorch; emergency rations; better safe than sorry) – for an all-day adventure over the skyline to a village in the next valley and back. 

Phase One: 1900m up to the col at 2417, a mere hop. Out of my village; into the snow. An aside: some aspects of French cartography are a mystery to me. By and large, the IGN maps are marvellous – but how can it make sense not to differentiate between the kind of ‘path’ you could drive along, and the kind where you scramble across rocks on all fours? As a walker, it’s no worse than baffling – but if I were trying to negotiate the route by car, what then?

Anyway, my path started as the first kind, but soon dwindled into the clambering sort. The snow grew deeper; features disappearing into white. I pressed on. Truth be told, I was unwilling to retrace my steps over the increasingly treacherous terrain; blundering through deeper and deeper snow; each step more cautious than the last; images of avalanches, trips, slips and falls running riot in my head; ice filling my boots as I sank knee-deep or deeper.

So, stumbling along the rocky edges of the snow-bound path, I reached to the top. Cold, wet and shaken, I crawled up over the skyline into a biting wind. Imagination full of snow-filled quarry holes and broken limbs, I felt sheepish and relieved. And – joy! – surprised and delighted to see that the valley below was utterly free from snow. Thanks to the direction of the sun and wind – or who-knows-what other factors beyond my understanding; another mental note, I Do Not Understand These Mountains and Must Not Treat Them Lightly – the snow stopped in a crisp line along the mountain crest; some fairy curse had plunged one valley into Endless Winter whilst the other basked in autumn sunshine.

Phase One, done. All that remained was to get back ...

Relating what I could see on the ground to what I could see on the map, I judged that I could make my way back without straying from broad, snow-free cart-tracks. I checked the map; I double checked – and I headed on down. Down, down; 1,200m down to the village below. Which, as I approached, grew increasingly unlovely, promising nothing but the prospect of turning to head back up, up, up …

I reached the village at last, said hello to an (unnervingly red-eyed) ginger cat, and set off back. So far so good. At every junction I chose the widest track; the one I was sure a car could pass; the track that must surely lead me to the lowest col and the safest crossing back into my valley. I was making good time as I headed towards the top of the treeline at around 1,850m ... and then I heard it. A car engine sputtering behind me. I was warm in my hat and gloves – but a chill ran through me. Why so? Impossible to say; but let’s just say that sometimes you know when something’s not right. And this car, here, now – it wasn’t right. As it drew nearer, my skin began to crawl. Every nerve cried out that I should not be seen; hide NOW; whoever was in this car must not see me. Why so? Why indeed! I fought down the impulse to dive off the track into the cover of forest.

The engine noise inched closer. I braced myself and kept walking. The roof of the car bounced into view along the rutted track behind me and, as it dropped out of sight again, my instincts screamed, run! Hide! I hesitated at the edge of the track. Should I run? Was it too late? (And what am I running from anyway? And could these thin trees really hide me?) And all too soon it was too late; the car jolted up out of the last dip and into plain view. A battered old blue car; ordinary enough – but my skin was prickling from the effort of resisting the impulse to get away.

Far from anyone and anywhere, the car drew up. The driver was alone, and he wound the window down as he approached. Bonjour, he said. Bonjour, I said, as nonchalant as I could manage, determined to compose my face. What he was looking for, I don’t know, but a cold horror ran through me as I met his eyes. He seemed to pause. The car slowed almost to a halt; the world held still – and then he drove on. Before I could breathe a sigh of relief, his brake lights came on and he stopped just metres ahead of me – but, again, he seemed to reconsider and set off again, oh so slowly. I kept walking, determined to appear as purposeful and assured as possible. The moment he rounded the corner out of sight, I was searching my map in a panic, desperate to spot some thus-far-unnoticed track that would take me back into civilisation in minutes, not hours. Of course, no such path materialised – but I did find a three-way fork in the road ahead. All three tracks converged again in a kilometre or so, but – hopeful that one of the branches might be the kind that would be impassable to a car – I abandoned my resolution to follow the widest roads, and determined instead to take the narrowest path I could find. And at all costs I would take whichever track he hadn’t taken.

I rounded the corner and came to the fork. Disappointment: all three routes were cart tracks and – worse yet – there was the blue car, just past the junction, almost hidden around the corner of the right hand track. I chose the centre fork as the one that would take me most quickly out of sight; walked briskly up it and – the minute that I was out of view – started to run, aiming to take the next branch in the path – however narrow it may be; the narrower the better – anything to get myself away from the road. But before I’d run a hundred yards, I heard it: his car engine, unmistakeably behind me again. Now this time there was no reasonable reason for him to be on my tail; the road he’d set off on soon converged with mine, after all, and there was no feature, no building, no chalet, nothing to cause him to switch from one track to another. Only me.

This time, I didn’t hesitate. The final clump of trees before the mountain scree was just ahead of me, and I sprinted that last 50 metres and threw myself into the undergrowth. Just in time, as the engine growled round the hairpin onto the stretch of track I’d been standing on moments before. I’d snatched my coloured hat off my head, the better to hide, and I cowered low amongst the broken branches, heart thumping, waiting for the car to pass. Slowly, slowly, oh-so-slowly. I peered up through the branches, torn between the need to be ready to react if worse came to worst, and the compulsion to stay well out of sight. The roof loomed into view, and soon I could make out the man in his wound-down window, searching. The car slowed. I cowered. The car half-halted – and passed on by. I breathed again – but didn’t move; didn’t dare rustle my map nor put on my hat; listened whilst the engine noise moved slowly, oh so slowly, up the track ahead of me. And now what? All day I’d been heading for this safe route home – and now it was no longer safe; no longer even an option. What to do? I looked again at the map … and at last spotted an ‘un-marked’ path, a route straight up the mountainside that would take me far above my safe col but well out of the way of this new, more pressing danger.

I waited a little longer. I had only a borrowed French mobile phone with me and no local numbers, so I made a quick call to a number that I knew, reasoning that someone, at least, ought to know where I was. Answerphone. I left a message, reasoning that the danger of doing so – what if the call should be returned at the wrong moment and give me away? – was less sure than the danger of being caught high up in the Alps with the evening drawing in. I ate a bit, reasoning that low blood sugar was maybe, just maybe, the source of this sense of dread; I waited just one moment longer … and heard that engine again. Approaching, again, from below me: he’d driven a loop around the three converging tracks, and was coming back to find me. This time there was no doubt in my mind. The first time I’d heard that sound, my rational mind had overcome my instincts, and I’d regretted it. The second time, my instincts had overcome my rational mind. This time, there was no rational doubt left: I was far from anywhere, and, for reasons unknown, the man in that car was looking for me.

In the moments before the car rounded the hairpin bend, I pressed myself further into the undergrowth, I drew myself in, I held still and hardly dared breathe. The engine coughed and spluttered; the car came up alongside me and crawled on by … and then I heard it stop. Gravel crunched; gears shifted; the car reversed. I cowered down, unable to see it; visualising its movements. It manoeuvred again, the engine rattled.

An age passed. The door didn’t open. The engine didn’t stop. And the car drove on. I breathed. Now, no time to lose – I’d lost half an hour already, dusk was falling and the temperature was dropping – I had to break out of this loop in the road. I set off running. My phone rang – thank heavens it hadn’t rung five minutes earlier. Hurrying up the hillside, trying to find a balance between speed and the need for endurance – my new route meant that I now had over 600m to climb, and quickly – I forged on, map in hand. Looking across towards my original intended route, I saw the car blocking the way; looking out onto the path I should’ve taken. I hurried on. The temperature continued to fall, but I was grateful as the visibility closed in – I could follow the line of the chairlifts up here, if need be, and in the fog the man in the car would stand less chance of picking me out against the landscape. Up, up up, and the snow began.

Colder and colder. The snow grew heavier; I hurried on, not yet daring to put my bright, warm hat back on for fear that I’d draw his attention, the only coloured thing in a black and white world – up, up, up, until at last I was sure I was out of sight … and growing colder. And, once again, in the situation I’d sworn that I wouldn’t put myself in – battling up a steep, narrow track in deep snow, this time in the gathering dark. I pressed on. The snow was lying, thick and thicker, covering my tracks behind me and driving into my face. And night was falling.

And shall we leave it there? Ugh. Shudder!

I’m here to tell the tale; so there’s my happy ending.
What was it all about?
Who knows.

But I’ll say this. My skin crawls now at the thought of it. The image of that man; that car; the sound of that engine ... I won’t easily forget them.

And yes, it was Halloween.

One Life, Live It!

Tonight, I don’t feel like writing to no one. I’d rather be writing notes to Someone – but, dammit, I can’t; thanks to my erratic internet connection and low stationery supplies, it’s just me and the keyboard tonight.

Liberating in its way, I suppose?

I have a theory that all communication (including writing, of course, but going further to encompass all the rest) is looking for an audience – and I’ll stand by that theory. But I suppose when there is simply No Audience, all that self consciousness/consideration can fall away, and one can write … what one wants. Whatever comes to mind, without fear of disapprobation, of boring anyone, of going too far …

No. It’s no use. I don’t want to go too far tonight; the kind of writing I had in mind was more the kind of chatting-over-coffee, first-drink-in-the-pub, idle-talk-whilst-out-running kind of writing. Nothing profound, nothing controversial – just this and that, odds and sods – the detritus of the day, you might say. And why do we want to talk about that stuff, anyway, if it’s so insignificant? I say ‘we’; I think that’s fair – I don’t think I’m the only one who feels this urge to share. Well, I’ve thought about that a bit – and I think it’s a kind of Affirmation of Being. I’m not trying to be overly grand here, so bear with me: it strikes me that we’re all, consciously or otherwise, living AT one another in the normal run of things. Look at Facebook; look at Twitter. It’s thronging with folk desperate to make the day to day minutiae of modern life matter. It’s not enough that a thing should happen: before it can really count, it’s got to be told.

Of course, I think we’ve got a little extreme these days. Go to a gig, and what do you see? A sea of cameras and mobile phones, recording Now to keep for Later. Evidence, you see. I Was There. I saw it. Tourism’s overtaken with this compulsion to record; I’ve been there myself; I’m as guilty as the next person. Too busy framing the perfect picture of the Taj Mahal to really take it in. Too busy fumbling for my camera to soak up that stunning sunrise; composing the email or text that’s going to … well, what? There are plenty of uncharitable answers to that one – but I think, at root, it’s is nothing more than the desire to connect. To prove that one Is. Not enough to have seen a thing; done a thing; enjoyed it for itself; been fulfilled by the experience or swept away by the beauty. We hardly know how, any more. Only when we see ourselves – our thoughts, our dreams, our days – reflected back at us in the eyes and minds of others, acknowledged and refracted in the world’s commentary, do we truly feel that we have lived.

And is there anything wrong with that? Well, I’ve thought a bit about that one, too, and the answer’s no – but also yes. Let’s say, It Depends. Without this compulsion to communicate, to share, to interact, I’m not sure that we’d be fully human. They say, I think, that language is one of the defining features of the species. But perhaps it’s more the need for language; the need to be understood and to connect; than the fact of language itself that defines us.

That said, there must be limits. Yes! When I am King we’ll see some changes; oh, yes … But seriously. My worry is that this excess of sharing, the facebooking and the tweeting, the snapping, the texting and the filming, are getting between us and our Real Lives. One Life, Live It. Wise words indeed; spotted on the back of a touring caravan heading south on the A1. I like to think it wasn’t a caravan kitted out with plastic flowers and a satellite dish. Technology is a sweet temptation that we need to learn to resist. Yes, me too, absolutely; I’m working on it! Take that camera out of the picture. iPhone back in your pocket, please. Get out there! Let your mind do the recording; live a little; dream a little. Get back inside your head; be alone with yourself a little. Without urge to communicate, we wouldn’t be quite human: I stand by that.

BUT – and here’s my caveat – live first. Live, be, see. Breathe, enjoy, experience. Absorb, understand, appreciate. Enjoy – and enjoy it for YOU, not for what the world out there will think when they see, hear and read about whatever it is you’ve thought and seen and done. This is it; it’s all yours – and it’s all that ever will be yours. It’s your turn at life; it’s not coming round again. The sharing’s good. But the living’s got to come first …

Right. I’m not sure where that’s got me, but I have a sneaking feeling I may have just fallen foul of my own maxims here. Well, so be it. Just because I’m not practising what I preach doesn’t mean that what I’m preaching’s wrong … right? Right. And now I think it’s time for tea …

Over and out.

I wanted the world to hold still ...

England, lovely England. Here am I. Wrestling with a wireless internet connection. Feeling a certain sense of déjà vu. Forging through the Rosie-fingered-Dawn on the Oxford Tube, not taking in a bit of it, so preoccupied am I with my wretched internet connection. Modern Life, eh. What did Blur say? Modern Life is Rubbish.

And on my way to the Ski Show. My mind still heavy with last night’s dreams; last night’s dreams heavy with ski show; the what and how and when. And, as much as ever before, I wanted the world to stay still. Stop the world, I’m getting off! Who said that? Some singer, some time … anyway. If the world won’t stop, I suppose I’ll just have to get off the bus and get on with it …

Home

It’s not as simple a concept as it used to be.

Where’s home? Home is where the heart is.

Home is … one’s house?

‘Where you live at a particular time’, says the internet. ‘The physical structure in which one lives; a house or apartment’. Then – perhaps closer to the resonance of the word – ‘A dwelling place together with the family or social unit that occupies it’. ‘An environment offering a sense of security and happiness.’. Warmer. ‘A valued place regarded as a refuge or a place or origin.’ Yes, it’s something like that.

A place of rest and safety?

Home’s a big old concept. And I’ve been out of the UK for all of, ooh, 10 days? And already I feel I’ve lost my certainties as to where exactly ‘home’s located. I fly from Geneva to Gatwick. Am I flying home? Or will I be going home in a day or two, when my work in the UK’s done?

Home’s an emotive word. Don’t use it lightly.

Say ‘I’m going home’, instead of ‘I’m going to mum’s’; ‘I’m going to dad’s’ – and already the emotional landscape’s shifted; an affiliation’s created; a base is established.

But this is a different problem. The problem here is one of not knowing – truly knowing – just where ‘home’ is, and just what makes it so. Trying out one place and the next against the concept of ‘home’, and finding that there’s no clear-cut certainty as to what the ‘right’ answer should be.

The North? No. The place has resonance; yes; I’ve roots there and I always will have. But move ‘back’ there, and I’ll be moving forward – or sideways? – anyway, not ‘coming home’. The ‘family or social unit’ that made the North home is changed.

Oxford? Doesn’t fit, does it. ‘Where you live at a particular time’ – that’s the internet’s no. 1 definition; thank you Google. Well, I don’t live there; it won’t do.

France? ‘A valued place regarded as a refuge or place of origin’. Nope. That’s not working either.

So, where is home? Are any of these places home? Are all of them?

When it comes down to it, I suspect Home is something one carries inside oneself. Figure that one out, and you’re grounded. Find it, and you’ll not be lost again. Can that be right? I hope it is. Am I there? Well, maybe not yet. But perhaps I’m on the right track.

Stymied

Thinking: it’s tricky. It’s easier said than done.

I have an old analogy – to me it’s old, anyhow; it may be new to you – of trying to break down a stone fortress with a wet sponge. It came to me when I first came across the fortress of German Grammar. My mind was the wet sponge. No matter how gamely I hurled it against at the walls of Grammar, the stone rebuffed the sponge; my understanding slip-slid down rock face of nominative, accusative, genitive, dative and landed with a splot on the ground.  

Now, my mind’s still the wet sponge. The fortress changes – perhaps there are many fortresses. But today’s is the question of How to Be; How to Think. I want to think! I do. I want to lose myself in thought and emerge, weeks, months, years later, richer and wiser, full of answers; sure of myself, my place in the world. But somehow my mind shies away from the starting block; I don’t even begin. I hedge the question; like the teenage me, procrastinating over the exam revision, colour coding the revision timetable rather than making a start on the work – I do nothing. I fidget around the edges of the problem, and I don’t throw myself in.

Stymied.

Window on the World

Black and white world

My window on the world’s turned white.

It’s all mixed-up clouds and snow; take a picture and you’d never know which way’s up.

Yesterday, up in the mountains I was the only living thing. Me and my shadow. Me, my shadow and my footprints – first tracks walking up; last tracks hurrying down. (And alarming, how easy it was to lose track of those tracks in the flat light of the late afternoon, when every landscape feature dissolved in mist and the Hansel-and-Gretel fear prickled behind me.)

The world up there was monochrome. White sky, white sun, white light. Black rocks, black water, black shadows – and then for a moment, the clouds cracked and a ragged patch of blue burst through. Improbable because it just didn’t fit: not a hint of black or white about it.

And all was silent. So silent that when noise came – cracking of ice thawing when the sun reached its peak – it was so unexpected as to be frightening! Partly, because silence had become the norm. Also partly because there was simply No Good Reason for anyone or anything to be up there, in the snow, on a day like that, causing noise – so the fear was, that anything that had taken itself up there to make noise was Up to No Good.

Another day, I’ll walk the same paths again, in the sunlight, and see the mountain vistas. But somehow yesterday I was grateful for the nothingness of black and white and cloud and snow. Somehow, they negated the possibility of bleakness. The mountain-face in autumn can be featureless, grey green and empty. But with the cloud coming and going, the outlook never stretched further than the next brook, the next rocky outcrop; never so far as the mountaintop until you’d reached it. So, you could never see much: but, flipside, you could walk for hours without ever being discouraged by a horizon that grew no closer.

Another thing: with such short vistas, your focus changes. Up by Tignes, there's a sculpture of a woman by the roadside. Slender and otherworldly, a giantess poised on the brink of a cloudscape. Her flowing lines summoned up words like ‘maiden’ and ‘chanson’; ‘chivalry’ and ‘sorrow’. On other days, she might be standing on the shore of the lake. Or at the head of a cliff, or looking out over a village and rolling farmland. On other days, she’ll have context, and with it, meaning, and with it, identity. But today? Today she’s anyone and no one; she’s a blank page. Peasant girl or princess? Snow queen or milkmaid? Who is she looking for? In the white, she’s lost her reality: she’s what I make her. Another day, she’s herself; she’ll have her story back and the world will fill the blanks around her.

Windows on the world, you see. We’re what they make us.

Notes to no-one

So. All the best stories begin like that; don’t you think? And a deep breath – and so it starts. New worlds, big adventures. OK, maybe now I’ve raised false expectations …

So, again. Here am I. In my mountain eyrie, loin des bruits du monde, writing. I write because I am. I write because … it proves that I am. Reassures me. Right? Right. Write!

I’ll give you a bit of the landscape. It’s alpine. It’s remote, but it’s lived-in – just. Here, I’m in my flat (it’s small; it’s a pocket handkerchief of a flat – but every inch of space in here is Mine; all Mine!). I’m inside, but I’m right up by the window. Beyond the window, the balcony. Beyond the balcony, Space. Mont Blanc is my neighbour to the west, and my word, it’s splendid. (Though it struck me today: I don’t look at it properly. I see it, yes. It’s breathtaking, yes. Wordworth and Coleridge? They’d have loved it. But do I really see it? Take it in; its many peaks; foothills, contours, colour and textures? No. I’m too lazy. I need a pair of binoculars. I need a crash course in patience and stillness! I will look properly; I’ve promised myself. I will! But not today. Another day, when I’ve the energy to be stiller …) So, that’s Mont Blanc to the west. And in the other direction – though I can’t see it; not from here; my windows look out westward – the ski resort. Empty. Even the cows’ve headed down the valley for the winter, bells and all. It’s the limbo time; the Inter-Saison, and the emptiness and silence is mindboggling. It’s not like wilderness emptiness; no: this is emptiness that’s built to be full. It’s pile-em up, cram-em small apartment blocks, jam-packed full of emptiness. It’s quite something. No-one, no-one at all, is here right now. Or, if they are, they’re experts in solitude. Or else they’re very, very lonely ...

OK, so there’s the ski resort. And beyond that, the mountain face. What will soon be the snow-front – but not yet. It’s green-grey; not so very long ago it was dotted with chestnut cows, but now it’s not. It was dotted with diggers, remoulding the pistes for the coming season – but now it’s not. It’s empty of summer flowers; it’s waiting for winter snow. It’s greeny grey; it’s murky as Kipling’s green-grey greasy Limpopo river. ‘C’est jolie, non?’, my boss said hopefully as he showed off the view over the resort. Non. It’s not pretty at all. The mountains, yes - in microcosm (stream, leaf, flower); in macrocosm (peak, valley, horizon), they’re beyond jolie; they’re sublime. But that particular outlook? No. You couldn’t call it pretty. It’s a perfectly good mountain with a sixties comprehensive school of low-rise ugliness squatting on it. Just waiting for snow to soften it.

So where was I? The landscape. There, that’s a piece of it; that’s enough for now. I’m sure it’ll come up again; you’ll see more of it in time. The mindscape: I’m not even going to attempt that just now; it’s too muddled for a snapshot, and a detailed exposition will bore you. Never mind you; it’ll bore me! And besides, it’s a slippery quicksand of a mindscape –no sooner is it articulated than it’s changed. So let’s leave the mindscape out of it.

Let’s stick to the facts. I’m here, it’s Wednesday. I’ve been here since Saturday night, but time’s twisted here: I’ve been here no time at all, and I’ve been here forever. One short dose of forever with all of its elements stripped of their proportions; all jostling for space in my head bigger and smaller than they should be. But stop me if this is starting to sound like a mindscape!

In fact, let me stop myself. Let’s hold it right there and call it a night. And next time, I’ll try to bring you something a lot more, er, concrete. Something with facts and real-life people; maybe even something happening. I’ve set the scene, so you’ve got something to be going on with. Bit like a toy farmyard set, if you imagine that it had a Mountain Edition. So now you’ve got the basic set up. Next time I’ll bring something to put in it.