The Big Cheese

It was dark when we left London. Gradually out the train window appeared little square French houses and pointy churches poking through fog. Lauch and I negotiated our way from the Brussels Eurostar station to Sylvia's flat through winding cobbled streets.

It took eight-ish hours to drive from Brussels to La Clusaz. Me, Lauch, Sylvia, Andrew, several packets of chips and the station wagon speeding along highways of frozen white trees and the French takeaway chain L'Arches.

Somewhere near 11pm we wound our way down the mountain and stared wide-eyed as the headlights lit up a thick layer of snow. Finally we found our rented chalet, guided by the elderly owner waving a lantern from the balcony. That is how it began.



This holiday was all about:

Cheese! Everywhere! We ate so many baguettes filled with Brie or Reblochon and whole wheels of other cheeses whose names I forget. The smell of cheese drifted through my dreams.

The feeling of skiing down a slope, swaying left and then right and then left and then getting terrified and suddenly losing my nerve, falling over, skis tumbling over my head and sliding down the slope backwards while snow collected in my bright orange ski trousers.

And it was about Christmas: blue skies during the day, lights everywhere at night time, drinking mulled wine and celebrating in a different way, far away from home. A million thanks to Sylvia for letting us stay with her in Brussels on the way back to London.



Watch and laugh!