Under The Dominican Sun - Where Morning Trucks Go Past Stucco Walls Bright

I saw that the morning truck had come and had reason to travel through a small passageway couched by two tall buildings. The stucco walls were bright and clean there, and in places the windows could be seen when the sun wasn't too strong. Those windows waited with small and ornate railings in front - railings that were affixed to those good walls.
It was morning itself that I was after because some places, if seen properly, can be known to contain worlds within worlds, or else can be a world unto themselves. I would have been fine with only the walls and windows, the pathway behind that linked to the sand and the sea, and strange and wild shrubs that waited down the way. I could not see on that path any spirit world, but would have sworn an oath attesting to the existence of some kind of benevolent garden devas hovering.

The world had brought the truck and so I accepted the truck as part of the whole. Two rows of workers sat in the open aired back along horizontal benches facing one another, reminding me of an amphibious land rover I'd once seen. I decided I liked the truck because looking a little closer I could tell through markings and dents that it, like I, had arrived somewhat haphazardly across bumps and misfortunes.
As it stopped ahead, the workers jumped out and began their morning routines. I went back to thinking about the sky and the sea, the thick sturdy lawns and even a couple of birds testing nearby branches. I was interrupted when one of the workers said something to me. We spoke in curt words, like small clouds that only float past in quick whiles. Like those white parts of the atmosphere that have unlatched from their bigger homes. Our accents were divergent. He was on the clock, as it were, and his time was limited. We were strangers in the morning sun.
He was a heart-oriented person, amicable to a fault, and smiling. A breeze announced itself through our shared stucco wall corridor as he tried to guess my origin, labelling me as various countries.

-You are America.
-No.
-You are England then. I know this.
-No.
-You are Canada! No. Yes. You are Canada?
-Yes. I am Canada.
-That is better. So friendly.
-Good. That’s good.
-I know Canada and Bryan Adams! I know I know I know...And I LOVE Bryan Adams. Do you? Do you know?
-I understand. Ya. I know.

I smile, which is rare, and realize that it should not be so rare to smile. This lack of warmth on my part is symptomatic of something, some existential angst that is not cool or intelligent like the wise, natural morning sun and the way it carries itself, but instead is misplaced. I secretly hoped it was just because the sun is much older and has had more time to evolve. He smiled and I smiled. We looked to the sky for some reason but an awkwardness passed between us. It was a sort of silent brotherhood of the morning. I was visited by a semi-theory that I disliked in content and because of a lack of coffee, couldn't wholly form in structure. It had to do with the great entertainment conglomerates and multinational corporations, and all those globalist machinations of oddly esoteric origins.
Someone and something too big to pin down had placed a musical figure as the connection between two human beings saying hello. I wanted it to be something else. I didn’t know what IT was: perhaps a more soulful figure. Or else no figure at all. Real people like us were not supposed to know about such trivia. I decided that it was also my fault. I should have been stronger. I've never defended against the onslaught of media information including everything from points cards to pop idols. I know so much that I wish I didn't.

I should have hopped on the truck and grabbed a shovel. 
Been something. 
Be. Something. 
Something. 
Some things. 
Done. 
Some things. 
It’s too late. Too much thinking loses many things. 

So we shared a strange cultural reference point. One he obviously liked and that I had no feeling for one way or the other but I liked the worker’s intent which was pure and true. He wasn't jaded or cynical, or if he was he hid it well. We talked again here and there throughout the days. Sometimes he called out across the grounds, ‘Bryan Adams!’ He meant only to say hello, and I simply said, ‘Hi,’ with a good wave or type of half-salute half wave creation gesture.
Each morning the same stucco walls wait to meet the sun while at night the colours recede. I try to watch the invisible winds or listen to the sounds of the sea, hoping one or even both will impart some message to me. Nothing arrives. You can’t chase the sea or the air or the secrets they hold. Can’t wrestle them out or twist them off like a tightly fit lid of a jar. It’s like love. It has to find you unawares. Has to arrive when you aren’t looking.

My friend and the amphibious land rover that is really just an old truck eventually disappear. I head back to where I came from like the colours of the stucco at night. Once bright pastel blues, greens, oranges, and yellows go like the unseen and uncelebrated part of a wave, into the undertow of time and events.

Written by Brian Barbeito.

You can read Brian's full profile here.

Retirement: The Penultimate Journey

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about this retirement malarkey. I get more than a little confused when I speak with other retirees (as they sometimes like to be called) about what they do with their new found time. Most seem to be of the opinion that they can’t imagine how they managed to find time to work before retirement. They are so full of activity now that there aren’t enough hours in the day to fit it all in. Frankly, I’m not sure what planet they come from; I'm on the other side of the retirement coin. My pre-retirement life was full to the brim. I was engaged, part of the team and my opinions were sought. Now it’s as empty as a politician’s promise and the majority of people only speak to me if they have to and then in a raised voice to make sure I’m getting it. I can only assume that before retiring these oh-so-busy others led very boring and uninteresting lives. Becoming a retiree has opened up many wonderful new opportunities for them such as “The Men’s Shed’, volunteer driving for local communities or painting by numbers.

When I was a working person and still a valued member of society, let's say 'pre-retiree', I would arrive home each evening and join my family for dinner. We'd talk about all sorts of things but rarely about my work or what I'd been up to all day. Now my wife returns home, she being a pre-retiree, and asks the question ‘what have you been doing today then’? Something about this smacks of the questions my mother would ask when I got home from primary school but, thankfully, without the added ‘little man'. My usual answer is ‘not a lot but thanks anyway for asking’. I have to admit, I’m confused. Is she asking because she wonders what the hell I fill my time with or because she thinks it’s unfair that I can stay home each day while she has to face the endless grind of employment? Or am I being mean by assuming either of these? Perhaps she's only asking because she thinks I need to be quizzed to give my retired life some meaning.

For the bored retiree, alcohol in its many wonderful forms can be a marvellous escape. It also doubles as a great pain killer and triples even as a reason for living on through retirement. Five or so large glasses of some five percent lager, two or three times a week, can make life appear to be a whole lot rosier than it actually is. Conversation with three or four mates, all retired of course, whilst enjoying these beers can reach incredible heights and being in such a position means you're both old and in turn very, very wise. We tend to make a lot of happy noises on our table which can sometimes cause concern and alarm to those at other tables - non-retirees who usually sit glum-faced over their beers, cursing whatever it was that went wrong at work. Sometimes they think we’re laughing at them whereas in reality we’re laughing at each other and the shared predicament we find ourselves in. Alcohol, retired friends and a local tavern, which must be surely one of man’s greatest inventions, can bring out the very best in almost any ex-worker. You see we simply don’t care. We don’t care if you're offended by our retiring conversations, we don’t care if you're offended by our raucous retiring laughter and we don’t care if we look like a bunch of old farts who have somehow managed to sneak past the front desk at the nearby retirement home. We retirees share a common thread: a feeling of all being in the same leaky boat, not sure if we'll make land before it all turns turtle. In some groups this can cause conversations to dwell on those less healthy subjects such as strokes, diabetes, heart attacks, hair loss and the cost of funerals but our retiree table doesn't speak of such morose subjects. We talk of bad women, cars with side valve engines, where you can get a cheap beer between three and five and how being retired is a complete load of old bollocks. We also laugh. A lot. Which they say is good for the classic retiree.

So to those pre- retirees out there who are busy counting down the days when you can join the ranks of the retired, a little advice: be careful what you wish for as you may find that being retired is not all it seemed from the outside. When your time comes and should you find yourself similarly stranded on the isle of boredom and frustration, fear not, as there may well be room for one or two more on our little table.

Written by Jeffrey Williams

A Scottish Sojourn

Floating Leaf, Pitlochry

Kite Flying, The Meadows, Edinburgh

Douglas Fir, The Hermitage

Rocket, Hopetoun House

Crocuses, The Meadows, Edinburgh

Rock Tower, Pitlochry

Daffodils, The Meadows, Edinburgh

Waterfalls, The Hermitage

Tantallon Castle, Seacliff Beach

Snowdrops, Hopetoun House

Lara S. Williams can't believe the sun has finally come out.

Trekking in the Picos – A Surreal Journey Through The Spanish Mountains

Above us projected the sharp peaks of the mountains, overlapping and competing for the sky. Below us were trees and fields of grass gambling with the altitude. Around us were the four panes of the cable car, the uncomfortably positioned handlebars of mountain bikes, and enthusiastic Germans discussing the mechanics of this gravity-defying structure. Armed with my walking boots and two good friends, I was exploring the Picos de Europa in northern Spain. The Fuente Dé cable car had picked us up from amongst the picnic tables at the end of the bus route, hauled us vertically up against the sheer rock face and spat us out into the mountains which stood desolate but gracious. As the operator, oblivious to the odd elbow nestling in his back, picked at the ends of his regal moustache, a single track cut through his rugged kingdom below, to reveal the fate which we were bypassing. Only a fool or a goat would attempt such a treacherous path.

Detangled from the mountain bikes, we barely had time to retie our boots before striding out, the whir of the cable car motor and hyperventilating camera shutters left behind us. After negotiating snarly shepherd dogs, who rose from their lazy stations in the shade to reveal their powerful physiques beneath ragged coats, we didn't meet another person. We dropped down from the unforgiving terrain to our path on the el lomo del toro; the spine of the bull. The track lay on a small ridge surrounded by steep green pastures which stooped away towards the slopes of the real, towering beasts either side of us. The grass was like paint running off to reveal the bare rock beneath. The spine of the bull slowly descended through the valley, negotiating its way between herds of horses and sheep, twisting to reveal a dramatic crag. The air was still and the sound of silence was calming yet there was something slightly sinister in the solitude: there was a crucifix silhouetted on an altar in the middle of a pasture. The mountain ridges around us lay dormant like the crested backs of prehistoric beings.

In the distance a cluster of buildings surrounded the path as it traced the basin of the valley. Ready for a break and curious to meet the souls living here, we slowed our pace and approached. The village seemed to morph into the landscape. To our left a wooden fence met the walls of a cave, creating a pen or enclosure. There was nothing inside. The terracotta roofs nestled in amongst the pastel colours of the valley, the dry stone walls as old as the limestone around them. A hand plough lay rusting against a wall. There was no one here. One building stood without a roof. Inside, the weeds and nettles had grown tall in the sunlight. Amongst the jungle a figure lay partially visible, dominated by the leaves. Its ashen bone reflected the midday sun, hollow sockets open, and two unspoiled, curved horns were tangled amongst everything. The skeleton lay disjointed, its limbs at peculiar angles, head slumped. We sat with our backs against the stone wall but the hostage remained inside. I imagined the village bustling and prospering during a spring harvest and wondered exactly what had happened here.

Further down the track we turned off into a separate scatter of hills. Clustered together and covered in thickening woods the hills encroached on us with a sense of claustrophobia. Whispers of mist met us with a chill. Concealed in this vacuum, our senses grasped for the world around us but were only met with the deep resonance of cattle bells to guide us. After a long afternoon battling through the mist, which became so thick we almost impaled ourselves on the horns of the grazing toros, we descended into Bulnes. Descend was definitely what we did – the path plunged into a valley so precipitously that no map’s contour lines could do it justice. It crossed over countless creeks and tributaries, conjuring up images of a swelling river at the bottom, engraving its power into the rugged landscape. The first buildings of Bulnes appeared alongside a narrow brook, slender and serene; we would find the menacing river the next day, further down the valley. To reach them we crossed a wooden bridge and were ushered into the small village square by a cobbled lane. Pulse rates dropping to a regular rhythm, we wandered off in different directions, thankful for an alternative to traipsing single file along the narrow mountain paths. Like a scene from a comedy, none of us had gone thirty paces before we hit the perimeter of the village and met each other again. Bulnes had a population of forty-five. The stone buildings couldn’t have imposed themselves on more than a 100 square metres of the green mountain valley.

Dazed, with our sugar levels in need of replenishing, we slumped ourselves on our packs and picked at the remnants of the bread, cheese and tomatoes we had rationed. The tomatoes from local markets were so red, succulent and foreign to me that I felt embarrassed to have called the pale, turgid things in Britain by the same name. The cobbles cooled my feet and with my eyes easily shutting they were the only indication that we had stumbled into a village – everything else was still except for the stream’s persistent chuckle. Only the shutters of one café were peeled back and crates of the local sidra (cider) were stacked behind the bar, against every wall and under tables. One bottle between the three of us was all our budgets and exhaustion could handle. We let the barmaid do the honours of pouring it traditionally from above her head into a glass held below her waist. It was rough and dry but refreshing and delicate as if bottled from a spring in the mountainside.

Until recently Bulnes had not been accessible by road, although we saw no evidence of motors as we searched for a spot to pitch our tent. Even the men constructing a stone dwelling across the river relied on donkeys to transport materials. Our tent, although concealed amongst foliage, looked out of place amongst the dry-stone walls and spluttering hand pumps; it was like taking a step back in time. After the perpetual trudge of hillwalking, heavy breathing and footsteps on the path, it was time to adjust to a new pace of life. An odd horde of goats, geese, chickens and an intimidating rooster gathered in a semi-circle around as we set up camp. Like a surreal story-time we contemplated each other, wondering what the other was doing there. By dawn the mist hadn't lifted, but had accumulated in the trees above us. Droplets launched an attack from the leaves onto our tent, eventually permeating through to our foreheads that peeped from the sleeping bags. Denied of any more rest we rose with a chorus of birdsong, roosters and hungry goats and prepared for the next leg of the journey.

As we walked out of the village and dropped below the mist, the river emerged beneath us, surging over rocks and propelling itself over waterfalls in rough, foaming shapes. The path narrowed and plunged precariously down to the river’s banks. The spray greeted us at the bottom and at ease walking on level ground, we crossed wooden bridges and negotiated stepping stones in the calmer bends of the river. In one sweeping curve a shallow pool had been created in the shelter of some boulders. Every pebble on the riverbed was visible and radiated in the reflection of the thick moss that smothered the rocks. Sheets of limestone rose above us and a ceiling of mist engulfed us as we floated in the cool water. Our aching limbs were soothed and our lack of showers alleviated. It would have been easy to let the flow carry us further down the valley but I'm glad we didn’t. The river eventually met the Carnes gorge - a domineering, fast flowing river. Where the two courses of water merged we picked up a road in pursuit of the next town. The spluttering fumes of locals abusing their accelerators came as quite a shock. We joined a sparse caravan of walkers, all appearing on the road from behind the folds of various valleys, some of whom we had walked alongside before reaching the cable car. It was as if we had all entered a fantastical land where any sense of time and place, altitude and distance, emotion and reason were suspended. Protagonists in our individual fairy-tales we reconvened in a silent awe, not quite sure what we had all just experienced. The rigid march of boots on tarmac brought us back to a reality we weren’t quite sure we liked.

Written by Ettie Shattock

Ettie's full profile can be found here.

Slopes Around The World - Part Three

All the ski resorts I mentioned in my previous articles are world renowned, (at least in the winter sports community), and I have been blessed with the crème de la crème of each region I've visited. Unexpectedly, this includes China – before university I spent a gap year in Beijing where I attempted to learn Chinese. For a foreigner, this is practically an impossible task but I had an amazing time visiting places that most people only ever read of: the Great Wall, the Terracotta Warriors, the Forbidden City and the Nan Shan Ski Resort, the biggest and most advanced of Northern China. It was composed of four artificial slopes and was the craziest, weirdest place I have ever skied in. Even weirder than skiing besides a giant Pink Panther.

A bus ride away from the capital, Nan Shan (which means South Mountain) is a popular and expensive ski resort for wealthy Beijingers and ski-deprived foreigners like myself who will do anything for a fix. To understand what I went through at this resort, you must know this: in China, social rules do not apply. I am not passing judgment; I am simply stating the fact that what we consider normal social behavior does not exist in their culture. Therefore, a westerner like myself could only qualify this ski resort as completely chaotic. Within the 23 kilos Air France allocated me on the flight over, I didn't think of bringing ski or snow boots and so my friends and I had to rent all of our gear directly at the station. By the time I'd explained that I needed men’s ski boots for my larger than size five feet, ignored the snickering of the Chinese people around me, tried the boots on and realised they were from two different pairs, got my rented ski poles snatched while I was trying to correct the error, went back to get new ski poles, got on the slopes and fell a lot because the ski latches didn't fit the boots, I was more exhausted than if I had competed in the Winter Olympics. And all of this speaking Chinese! Don’t get me wrong; this was probably the funniest skiing experience of my life.

In Chinese cities, where pedestrians, bicycles, motorcycles, cars, and sometimes donkeys try to coexist on the road, rules become arbitrary. On the slopes, the same situation applies. I was brought up with two very important ski rules: you don’t cut in front of someone at full speed and the person bellow you on the slope always has priority in the turn. I forgot about all of that in Nan Shan because once you're on the slope it becomes survival of the fittest. This carelessness probably makes Nan Shan the most dangerous ski slope and this is coming from a person who jumped off a ski lift. I also have to rank Nan Shan as the most idiosyncratic place. I saw a huge variety of curious things while there: one woman was casually skiing with her baby in her arms while another had brought her pet dog that ran after her as she nonchalantly worked her way down. Couple that with the broken English on their safety signs and I really was expecting the sky would fall on my head.

Written by Camille Soulier

Camille's full profile can be found here.

Slopes From Around The World - Part Two

I feel bad that my last article was so critical about Russian ineptitude on the slopes. Especially since I've had a pretty outstanding moment myself. On this particular day I had left my skis in the locker in favour of a snowboard (which I'm not very good at). I was just getting the hang of it and my friends, my brother and I were joking around, waiting to ride the ski lift. As we sat down, I miscalculated the buttock-to-seat ratio and as the lift left the platform, my behind was not on it. Out of reflex, I grabbed hold of the handlebars of the chair and my friend caught me under the arms to try and haul me beside her. This was not easy in full skiing gear (including fluffy mittens). By the time I realised what was going on, the lift stopped with me dangling high above the slope, barely holding on. All I could think was: “this is the end”. My life flashed before my eyes; tears became ice as they rolled down my cheeks in the frosty winter wind; we all panicked as my friend screamed that she couldn't hold on to me any longer; passengers on the neighbouring chairs cried out advice, encouragement and prayers. Finally, my brother removed his snowboard so the weight wouldn't pull him forward and leant over to unclasp my own board. The excess weight removed, I still couldn’t manage to get up into the chair. At that point, everything came into focus and I knew what I had to do. I eased myself away from my friends, still desperately clinging to me, until the only thing securing me to the footrest were my fingertips. I closed my eyes, held my breath and let go. Turns out I was only three meters from the ground and the thick snow under me completely broke my fall. It was like landing in a pile of goose feather pillows. Even so, this was my heroic moment: sacrificing myself so the others could reach the top of the slope and continue skiing. By the time I walked up to meet them, a group had formed to applaud my level-headed decision to jump.

If Val d’Isère gives the ultimate skiing experience in terms of quality and high standard (and fear), I believe the most beautiful place I have ever skied was San Carlos de Bariloche, in the Argentine Andes. It's located close to the Chilean border, in the southernmost region of Patagonia, which meant I was skiing in August! It may be hard to wrap your head around August being a full blown winter season but if half of the world does it then so can I. This was during my university year abroad in Buenos Aires and three of my friends and I decided to go skiing for a weekend. We were young and adventurous and didn't mind the 24 hour ride to get there, plus they served us champagne (or champán as they say) so it went pretty well; even when my camera was stolen aboard the bus. Thankfully, the weekend in Bariloche made up for this material loss and I’m terrible at taking pictures anyway, so really it was a blessing in disguise.

San Carlos de Bariloche is a quaint little town built first by the Swiss and German settlers. The architecture reminded me so much of the Alps and the chocolate was a-ma-zing. But to the slopes: as I have said, I've never been so baffled by the splendour of mountains in my life. We were lucky enough to be there on the best weekend of the season and a coat of fresh powdery snow had just covered the wooden housed resort. It looked exactly like a winter wonderland. I felt like I was in Narnia or in the Nutcracker’s enchanted kingdom. We admired the sunshine and the grand lake from the peek of the mountain and I felt extremely privileged to have laid my eyes on such magnificence. For these two incredible days, we stayed in a lovely hostel where our hosts were adorable; the Argentines are a very welcoming people, mostly because they are so proud to show the richness of their country. We ended up sharing our skiing and chocolate eating experiences with people from all over the world.

I’ve skied in a total of three places in the Americas: The Rockies, the Andes, and the Quebecois station of Mont Tremblant – don’t even ask me how they pronounce it. French is my mother tongue, yet the Quebecois accent sounds even more foreign to me than any accent in English I’ve ever encountered (and if you’ve been to Singapore you know what I am talking about). The Quebecois are a very proud people, and especially of their French, which distresses me because I have a laughing fit every time I hear them. Quebecois TV shows are actually subtitled if they are broadcast in France. It’s not just the accent but the vocabulary as well, and the slang, and the direct translations from Canadian English into French which make absolutely no sense to a born and raised Parisian like me. I thought I could just speak English the whole time, and that my American accent would hide the fact that I was French (the Quebecois get very vexed if you are a francophone but don’t speak French to them). As it turned out, in the little town of Mont Tremblant the residents didn't speak a word English! Fortunately, I was with my friend Nelson (a bilingual like me) who was studying at McGill University and had long ago come to terms with the challenges of the Quebecois dialect. He even learned to mimic it quite convincingly, at least to my novice ear. Aided by his local expertise, we embarked on the two hour journey from Montreal.

Mont Tremblant is the most famous of the ski villages around Montreal. Purists say that the really good skiing is in British Colombia in the Canadian Rockies but it takes a little longer than a two hour bus ride, so we opted for the closer option. Mont Tremblant is located in the Laurentian mountain range and, to be perfectly honest, is not very impressive when it comes to ski slopes. The summit of the Mont Tremblant Mountain is 875 meters high, not very high for someone who has skied at 2000 meters. I'd recommend this station to beginners or good skiers in search of a relaxing time. You can’t be in a hurry in Mont Tremblant: riding up the ski lift takes three times longer than it does to plummet down the hill and all of this sitting around doesn't help when you realise what's for dinner.

Quebec has many specialities, the most famous being maple syrup and any of its derivatives. In addition to this is reindeer meat and many surprisingly good microbrewery beers but the one dish that kept my trousers unzipped for days was poutine. Poutine consists of a generous layer of thick French fries covered in melted cheese curds, then drowned in dense, rich, gravy. No amount of skiing in Mont Tremblant will ever make your body forgive that decision but I admit that poutine is the most delicious guilty pleasure fatty food I have ever had in my life. And when it's as cold as it is in Canada, it makes sense that this is their national dish.

Written by Camille Soulier

Camille's full profile can be found here.

Slopes Around the World

The season is upon us, along with twinkling lights and snowflake decals, warm jackets and fur-rimmed boots. Winter is here and here to stay, at least for the next two months. Sipping hot gingerbread lattes and breathing in the cool Edinburgh air makes me think Christmas and for me, Christmas is inseparable from a trip to the mountains. I enjoy a snowball contest as much as the next person but what I’m really after are powdery, bumpy, steep ski slopes. I'm a skiing fanatic; it's my favorite sport in the world where I feel freedom, nature, speed and sometimes snow down my trousers. As I'm always searching for new sensations, and enjoy a life of travelling, I've had the opportunity to experience various slopes all around the world. I’ve compared them in beauty, difficulty, nightlife, danger and complete randomness and you’d be surprised at some of the slopes I’ve swooshed down.

I am French and as you may know, some of the most renowned skiing stations are in the French Alps. My grandparents bought an apartment in Val D’Isère back when they were really cheap, before the winter break rage, so I was lucky enough to escape the exorbitant prices of Savoy-style chalets and tiny apartments away from the town center (far from the good après-ski bars).

We’ll have to come back to Val d’Isère because this isn’t actually the place where I learned to ski. When I was two, my family moved to Colorado and this means the legendary Rocky Mountains. The first slope I went down was in the ever so chic Aspen and the best part was the giant mascots of Pink Panther and Cookie Monster whizzing down the slopes and giving out candy. In retrospect, I think that learning to ski as a child in the USA is a fun, easygoing experience. We French are very serious about our skiing; exams, medals and technical terms. In the Rockies, the snowplow (a beginner’s position, when the tip of your skis touch in a triangular form) was called the pizza slice and parallel skiing was called French fries. This still makes me chuckle. The Rockies' Aspen, Wolf Creek and Arapahoe Basins are, as well as fun, breathtaking. These are ancient mountains, with rich pine forests and deliciously white snow from November (great for the long Thanksgiving weekend) to the end of April (my birthday), and national parks so closeby you may find yourself running into a deer or giant grizzly.

After skiing in Colorado where there is so much space, Val d’Isère and its neighboring station, Tignes, seemed like dollhouses. As it's such a popular winter destination, Tignes becomes extremely crowded during the season peak and there's a good reason for this: state of the art equipment, crazy nightlife, variety of slopes, views from Mont Blanc and the fact that it's not yet as pretentious as rival Courchevel or Méribel. I say not yet because in the past few years I've spotted an increase in very rich, very tan, very blond Russian women in the trendy hotel bars, and I have had to pull a few fur-clad Russian men off the more difficult slopes and hors piste – they think very highly of their skiing skills when clearly they should be back at the hotel bars with the ladies. Instead, they yell and bicker noisily at each other, at the risk of provoking an avalanche, and just ruining it for everybody. Other than that, Val d’Isère is probably one of the best places for experienced skiers. The proof lies in the 1992 Winter Olympics and the fact that every year, Val d’Isère hosts some of the Alpine World Skiing Championships.

Val d’Isère is great during the day but something also needs to be said about the nightlife. I was too young to experience the apparently famous Aspen nightlife last time I went (although I had some pretty wild times in the kiddie park). Over the years more and more clubs have opened in Val d’Isère but the best bar remains “Le petit Danois” (The Little Danish”). Home to all the Danish visitors, it’s a great place for a pint or five after a delicious dinner of typical savoy melted cheese specialties, like fondue, raclette, tartiflette, or before a pizza from the all-night pizzeria which serves slices so hot they warm up your gloveless fingers in an instant.

To prepare yourself for a trip to Val d’Isère you need to make sure a few things find their way into your suitcase: warm socks, long underwear and the knowledge that you aren’t going to sleep more than 4 hours a night if you want to party with the saisonniers and be there when the lifts open in the morning! Don’t worry though' chances are when you stumble back to your room after Brit club Dick’s Tea Bar closes its doors, Chevalot, which is in my humble opinion the best boulangerie in all of France, will just be laying out their freshly baked croissant. Oh, and afternoon naps are compulsory.

Written by Camille Soulier

Camille's full profile can be found here.

Reflections: That Other Kind Of Travel

Just last week I was sitting in my garden watching this year’s batch of cabbage moths checking out my herbaceous borders. They finally settled for the nasturtiums growing around the herb garden and while I left them to their own devices I got to thinking about the past. It seems that after fifty, or in my case sixty, years you think about the past more and more. I'm sure this is brought about by the sure and certain knowledge that you have less distance to go in life than you've already travelled; in racing parlance you're settling down in the straight for the run to the judge. What's more, I suspect we will be judged if not by the almighty then certainly by our friends. It would therefore seem that the past has a stronger pull for us than the unknown future. It was the cabbage moths that got me started on a memory of me as a twelve year old - standing five feet tall like some ancient guardian of the gates, in the centre of my parents' tiny back garden set in the middle of a row of terraces, dealing out lethal and telling blows with my sister's old wooden tennis racquet to any poor cabbage moth that dared attempt a landing on my father’s lettuces. Forehand, backhand, overhead smash, I dealt out instant death to all. Nowadays, with a more liberal approach, I just let them get on with it.

It doesn’t just stop with the moths; moments of reflection can come unannounced at any time of the day or night. Day time I can handle - in fact, some days I positively encourage them by closing my eyes and settling back in an easy chair. Off I go into a trance where both the dead and the living come flooding into my life as if they never left. Night-time is a different kettle of fish all together; waking from a deep sleep at three am seems to invite all of those unwanted memories back for a good old think-a-thon. I've always believed that I can easily come to terms with things I've done in the past which on reflection I shouldn't have done. What I do have problems with is dealing with those things I didn’t do. These regrets are easily managed during the day with many distractions at hand but on a cold winter night one tends to roll around the bed unwilling to leave its warmth, agonizing over something that happened forty years ago. Why does it still bother me? There's no easy answer to this question; I've tried walking around the house, visiting rooms I hardly ever go in, watching television and checking for any new emails. On returning to bed the same thoughts crowd me and only disappear when sleep grudgingly returns.

So what does one do about the past, or at least about travelling into it? Is it a healthy road to travel and good for the soul or should it be avoided wherever possible and regarded as wasteful and self indulgent? After all, when we finally turn up our toes our past goes with us. We can write it down for posterity, hand it on to the up and coming, but it’s not the same and they will always be our memories, experiences, failures and triumphs no matter how well we recorded them. Perhaps I should continue to enjoy those solitary moments of travel when I drift back in time to relive some of those more rewarding and happy moments etched into my brain. Thinking back now I do recall a newspaper article written about a game of tennis I played in a Tuesday night comp. They described my forehand cross court as lethal. Oh how little did they know.

Written by Jeff Williams