‘Sunrise’

Chamonix is in the L’Arve (yes, I know what I did there) valley surrounded by mountains, including the highest mountain in Europe, Mont Blanc. Because of this, when the sun rises, even when there’s a bright blue sky, it’s like the sun is hidden behind clouds. Everything is in the shade, and it’s really cold (it’s 1,037 metres – 3,402 feet – above sea level).

We’re here because Mr Pandammonium is on his company’s retreat. Happily, family is invited; sadly, unlike at his last company, there’s been no event held where family members can meet each other and so hang out with each other. This means I’ve got two days of knocking around Chamonix on my tod. Today is day one.

I was up and about before France wakes up, so nothing was open. Instead, I wandered round the streets, having an explore. Chamonix is all very quaint with lots of pretty.

I want to do some writing while I’m here, so I went in a bar for a coffee, which got me out the cold.

I checked Google Translate again, then spoke to the barmaid. ‘As-vous le lait de soja?’

She said something in French. French sounds unintelligible to me, but I thought I’d heard her say l’avoine at the end. My brain, after a difficult moment, told me that was oat. It learnt it yesterday.

Time for me to say some more French. ‘Je voudrais … une café au lait … du …’

She finished my sentence for me, seeing as I was taking a week to get there. I was very glad.

My brain knew it needed to speak foreign again, but it panicked. ‘Sí,’ it helpfully made me say in Spanish. Le sigh. ‘Oui,’ I said more usefully in French.

She poured the coffee, then went to the till and pressed some buttons. Then she said some numbers in French. My brain couldn’t cope with that. It made me repeat the last number I’d heard: ‘fifty’ (but in French). I was paying in cash to use up some euros from our last trip to the eurozone, so it wasn’t just a case of waving a credit card around: I had to know how many euros to give her.

Luckily, the barmaid took pity on me at that point and spoke in English.

She said she appreciated my effort to speak French. I told her it was difficult for me because I learnt Spanish at school, not French.

‘Is that why you said sí?’

Yes, yes it was.

Around half ten, after some more wandering, I was walking back towards the main rue ‘street’ when a hot light snapped on: the sun had popped over the peak of a mountain.

What a difference. It was so bright, and I was boiling in no time.

I wouldn’t see Mr Pandammonium for our evening meal, so I had to think about what I’d do. The evening vibe is very different to the daytime vibe, and I didn’t fancy eating out alone.

I had sushi for lunch and went to the Casino (a supermarket-type place, not a place to lose money) and bought a baguette, an avocado and a lime to make avocado toast for my tea in the hotel; we’re lucky: we have an apartment with a kitchen and everything. I also got some soya milk for the supplied teabags, a fig because they looked nice and a weird-looking fruit (remember that I have form).

I wanted to go back to the room for a bit; on the way, I saw someone biting into a baguette. Is that what the French do? I had no idea.

Back at the hotel, I saw a bloke taking photos of the retreat schedule on the screen in reception. I asked him if he was like me; he was. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hang out with him because he was taking his little girls upstairs for a nap.

Back in the room, I put my shopping away in the fridge, except for the bread, which I put on the side. I turned the telly on – there are some British channels. I was in time for the afternoon quiz programmes, and I had nothing else better to do. A cup of tea would be perfect.

I wondered how strong the teabags would be, so I sniffed one. Non-British teabags tend to be awful weak (there are exceptions); American tea is the worst I’ve had – so insipid. The teabags smelt of coffee.

A penny dropped: that’s what goes in the coffee machine! I made a cup of coffee instead of tea, with the soya milk, and sat down to enjoy a quiz programme or two. Meanwhile the baguette beckoned, but I resisted – for a while.

I went and got it and took a bite straight out of it. It was really nice: not like British baguettes at all. Ours are dry and hard, and can hurt your mouth a bit. This French one was, to paraphrase John Torode on Masterchef, crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside. I had to force myself to put it away otherwise I’d have none left for tea.

I got the weird fruit and cut it in half. It was a lurid green on the outside and was spotty, like thorns had been cut off. Inside, the colour was the same shade of green, and it contained a lot of quite large seeds. I wasn’t sure what to do with it. I got a spoon and scooped out the inside and ate it raw. I wasn’t keen: it was mainly the seeds I didn’t like.

I went out again when I’d rested from all that walking about, and found somewhere in the sun to sit and read my book, The Bees by Laline Paull. I am captivated by this book. If you want something different to read, give it a go. While I was reading, a couple of bees landed on the lavender in the planter that formed the back of the bench. It seemed appropriate.

The sun had travelled across the sky from one mountain to another. Everything was back in the shade, and it was starting to get cold. When I could bear it no longer, and as the vibe began to change to a more evening one, I went back to the hotel.

Mr Pandammonium had messaged to say he might get to the hotel bar before they went out for dinner (his group were running late), so I went to the bar. I bumped into one of them, and we chatted for a while. I lamented not meeting the other family members, which caused her to suggest everyone meeting up for a drink after their group dinners. I told her that was an excellent idea. Do you see what I did there?

She said she was going up for a shower and she’d be back in the bar if I wanted to join her. I went up and had a cuppa, but she wasn’t in the bar when I got back down. But some of the others were there – they recognised me from breakfast – so I chatted to them – one in particular about writing. When they left, I went back upstairs – Mr Pandammonium had showed his face for five seconds – and made avocado on toast with the fig for dessert.

I messaged Mr Pandammonium to let me know if anyone suggested going for a drink after their meals. Someone did ;)

He let me know where to go, and I headed off for around nine. When I got there, Mr Pandammonium was nowhere to be seen, nor was anyone else I might vaguely recognise.

I went to the bar. ‘Une bière.’ I seem to have forgotten my manners while in France. At home, I’d have said ‘please’. I also wasn’t sure if that was actually the French for beer. The barman gave me a beer, so it couldn’t have been too far off. I loitered at the bar till I saw a staff member go up a few steps at the end of the bar. Curious, I followed.

A group of people sat at a big table. It was some of Mr Pandammonium’s colleagues and co-workers! I sat with them and had such a laugh with them.

Eventually, Mr Pandammonium showed up on his own – his other group members had gone elsewhere. He went back round to the bar, but didn’t come back. Someone went on a recce and found him in the bar with some members of his group that had come here after all. We all piled round to the bar to join them because the table didn’t have enough space. I don’t think I spoke two words to Mr Pandammonium till we left!