Pastures new

No, I’m not moving on. Perish the thought. This beloved little mountain farm is too absorbing to want to leave.

Besides I haven’t finished the ten year programme of landscaping yet.

But we did go away for the weekend to the Alps.

My husband had an appointment with the famous Marmotte cycle race. Up and down horrendously steep mountains and 170km of riding.

The finish was on the Alpe d’Huez. So that is where we ‘camped’ for the weekend. (He did the race in 7 hours 59 minutes which is a stellar result,)

And by camped I mean a wonderful four star hotel right at the top of the resort with hot and cold running luxuries.

I’m such a sucker for white linen and heavy silver cutlery. But you will be relieved to know I didn’t go for the 800 euro spa package with facials, baths, steams, massages and dancing nymphs for all I know.

I kept seeing happy smiling people drifting through the hotel in their bathrobes heading down to the swimming pool and jacuzzis with the intention of being pampered for hours on end.

Instead I did my version of the spa package. A long, long walk to the Col de Serenne ogling plants along the route.

It was a four and a half round trip and I must confess to being a bit weary by the end.

But it was the chance to see these meadow alpine plants that kept me interested and keen to see what was around each corner.

I was never that won over by alpine plants in a domestic setting.  My parents in law had an alpine bed in their Scottish garden. And it was more of a weed bed than interesting alpine collection.

But here in the natural context I finally understood the delight. And it is the antithesis of ‘gardens’. Here you marvel at the single specimen in among the low growing grasses. 

Less is more.

And that is a valuable lesson. Low growing, grazed by animals, thriving where the land is so steep nothing will munch, dots of colour and texture.

And then suddenly when you come onto a different soil type or slightly different micro climate, wham.  Colour and swards of amazement.

It’s a good thing I was only sharing the route with cyclists as I kept stopping to snap and gawp and try and see just what was growing here.  I would have been mown by a car. This is the route the cyclists took last year on the Tour de France and I love the contrast to this utter calm today, compared to the throng and shrill delight of cyclists going past in a racing peloton.

Naturally I stupidly forgot my notebook. And all the things I was ‘ticking off’ in my mind have quite disappeared.

But seeing verbascums in a mountain context rather than a weed like we have made me smile.

I blame the high mountain air. I have become an air head.

I am not won over by these ski resorts. I kept wanting to see the trees or the natural environment rather than chair lifts snaking all over these blasted bare mountains.

But this doesn’t happen in an area where the economy is involved in getting people onto slopes and racing downhill. Or even cross country. And relaxing in spa baths. I’m culpable for staying in such a luxury hotel.

I kept thinking of these botanical treasures hidden under the snow.

I’m delighted to have seen them. And I have now scuttled back into the lower mountains of the Ardeche happy to have had a weekend away.

And goodness I am grateful for the peace and quiet that our hidden paradise affords.