The mountains will always call my name. I think I have a genetic predisposition toward loving mountains — and forests — because for as long as I can remember I have felt a spiritual longing toward them, a comfort in their shrouded topographies and a sense of protection next to their mass.
The French Alps were the middle leg of a larger “tour de France”, part of a trip that involved proposing to my then-girlfriend in Paris. The trek into the Haute-Savoie ended up being a literal high point of the trip. We stayed in Annecy and made day trips to Chamonix and Yvoire. Annecy is a smaller town with medieval foundations, sitting adjacent to Lake Annecy; it was a welcoming place to hike in the surrounding territory, especially after Paris. The town center is picturesque and curious, with its historic Palais de l’Isle — which once served as a prison — arising from Le Thiou.
Chamonix was what stole my heart, however. We didn’t have the best weather when we arrived: we were denied a view of the peak of Mont Blanc, and prevented from reaching the full extent of the Aiguille du Midi cable car. We did some hiking at the mid-point we were able to achieve, in search of Lac Bleu, which seemed interesting. Our hike was blanketed in fog, but as we went the weather broke and we were treated to magnificent views; the oscillating veiled and unveiled landscape was likely better than had we arrived on a clear day. The dynamics made for a spectacular experience, and spectacular photos. And I personally love foggy weather for the atmosphere.
The town of Chamonix itself was charming, and appealed to me to look for real estate there. We enjoyed great pizza at Casa Valerio and later an Irish coffee and crepes at Irish Coffee. It is a day I find myself revisiting in memory often.
f/J
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