Leaving Chamonix

Run, run, run

The retreat is over, except for a group run first thing. Again, none of the other family members came, so I was still the only one amongst Mr Pandammonium’s colleagues, including the CEO.

A local guide took us on a beautiful route along the River Arveyron, a tributary of the L’Arve (yes, I know what I did there), through pine trees, past a farm with a barky dog and some sheep, up hills, over a bridge over the river, on tarmac, on bare earth, on gravel, on stones. It was a beautiful route. I brought my trail-running toe shoes with me because I didn’t know what sort of surface I’d be running on here; turns out I made a good choice (apart from the stones, which were horrible to run on).

The run was supposed to be 8k with options to turn back early for a 5k (3.1 miles) and a 6k. I didn’t know if I could run that far, especially at that elevation (a bit higher than 1000 metres, 3200 feet).

There was the main group and the stragglers. Mr Pandammonium straggled with me, and there were a couple of others behind us. We lost some people at the 5k breakaway point because of distance or having to go and catch planes and whatnot. Mr Pandammonium asked me if I wanted to turn back as well, but my stubborn side kicked in and I said no. In the end, I ran the whole distance, which turned out to be 6 miles (6.2 miles = 10k).

I was buzzing afterwards; a runner’s high is a good way to end a retreat.

Leaving Chamonix

The airport that serves Chamonix is in Geneva. We’d flown in to there from London Gatwick, and we’d be flying back to Gatwick from Geneva. But not today!

We got the bus to Geneva along roads that clung to the mountainside with a steep drop on the other side. I was glad I wasn’t driving.

Geneva

In Geneva, we found our hotel. We had to pass through turnstiles on a railing that seemed to be the road but also seemed to be the playground of a school. It was very confusing.

We had time to kill before check-in, so we went to an American diner for a burger. I seem only to have taken four photos today, all variations on Mr Pandammonium in the diner.

After checking in, we had a wander round the vicinity, taking in the British-style pub on the corner of our street, the Co-op and whatnot.

Beer controversy

We had a drink in the pub on the corner. I asked – badly – for the Feldschlösschen, and Mr Pandammonium asked for the Brooklyn lager. The landlord put down a Germanic-looking glass tankard with a yellow beer in it and a tall, thin glass with a short stem containing a browner beer. I went to pick the former up, but Mr Pandammonium sharply told me off for picking up his beer.

We sat down, and I tasted my beer. I wasn’t keen on it. Mr Pandammonium tried his; he liked it. He was about halfway through when something struck me: his glass had a picture of a red castle and said ‘Feldschlösschen’ on it, whereas my glass said ‘Brooklyn’ on it. Clearly, he had made made us pick up the wrong beers. I made him swap over; his mine was much nicer than mine his. He was not convinced that I was right; not one little bit.

There was only one way to prove him wrong: I told him to go to the bar and ask for the same again, and we’d watch the landlord and see what he put in what glass. Guess what: I was right.

Mr Pandammonium’s defence was that my beer had said ‘Amber’ on the pump, so he’d been expecting it to be darker than it was. That was a fair point, but it turned out that the landlord hadn’t used that pump to pour my beer; he’d used a secret one hidden in plain sight.

Nevertheless, I was right, and I couldn’t have been any more smug about the whole thing – but only because he’d been so snarky in ‘correcting’ me.