The drive to Verbier from Geneva where the tramp was waiting for the trampess’s return from London was quite straightforward but not exceptional. Our friends at the Verbier Festival were surprised by our arrival (for the second time since the trampess had warned them earlier that the WLW was planning to arrive in advance in order better to secure a spot in a friendly farmer’s field near to the village) and suggested that we park along the river in Le Chable below Verbier (apparently the village is too chic to allow such vehicles as the WLW to grace her streets) while they tried to secure a farm. The suggested spot looked a little too close to the main road to guarantee any sleep that night, but as luck was with the tramps there was a sign indicating a camp ground nearby.
We took the long, winding road through narrow village streets (one thinks of a lobster entering the trap: it is possible to enter but impossible to leave), slowing down at each bend to make sure the gate wasn’t falling behind us. Sure enough we found the site but with no one at reception we parked outside and hoped to find someone in the morning. We secured a nice space the next morning and managed to hook up to the electricity with the help of a very independent, experienced German camper of a certain age who had clearly stayed there before. The connection looked somewhat dubious (not as protected from the elements as one might expect) and of course the German plug did not fit the Swiss socket (the neighbour always travelled with spare adaptors and hooked us up telling the tramp that he could return it to her when we left – she seemed to be there for the summer for climbing and hang gliding!). Still no sign of Monsieur le proprieter. Never mind, with the top down on the Smart, and the wind in our hair, we drove up the long steep road to Verbier.
First impressions were not good: too many night spots, too many cheap restaurants, too much teenage bling. Not promising, but the festival attracted serious musicians and we were also visiting and meeting friends. The thought of driving almost half an hour up and down the torturous road was putting the tramp off – made all the worse by the fact that the cable car, which took only a few minutes, stopped at 5pm every day – just when the festival was going into full swing. How perverse are these Swiss??!!! Still, we armed ourselves with hiking maps, found the only two possibilities for a gym (both small and limited but ok) and headed downhill again. Later that evening Monsieur showed up – a small carafe of wine in hand to welcome us along with some helpful bits of information.
The next day we drove up to the gym and had a ferocious workout and an excellent shower (one appreciates these small things so much more now) and then met our friend who had arrived late the previous evening. Back to her chalet for lunch and 5 loads of wash in her washing machine! The joy of clean sheets and towels!! Talk focused on great hikes to take and the prospect of wonderful music. In the meantime an almost accidental text message to a friend in Israel resulted in his announcement that he would be arriving in Verbier later that afternoon for a concert the following day. It seems the world converges on music festivals. The opening concert, in the tent (the Verbier Festival still has no permanent home, a combination of objecting farmers and finance have variously stood in the way of a festival hall), was surprisingly good. James Levine was absent but Paavo Jarvi proved more than adequate in his place.
The next day, the local tourist office moved into high gear and we moved home, well not home so much (since it does follow us around) as its location: from down the mountain and across the river, the WLW moved to a farm in the village just below Verbier (and a steep but not unpleasant 20 minute hike to the festival tent – definitely precluding arriving in Manolo’s – although not precluding changing into them as long as the bag carrying them was big enough to hold the walking shoes necessary for the hike up). The views were stupendous, the farm quiet, and the farmer proudly hooked the WLW up to electricity (a few lengths of cable with Harrods’s bags wrapped around them to keep the rain out, a box over the top and a log to hold it down – occasionally, it has to be said, the trampess’s eagle eye on the controls of the fridge noticed that the WLW was unplugged. One doesn’t know whether a frisky horse or a forgetful farmer caused the problem, but it did mean vigilance on making sure the electricity was always available), and moved the fence to give us a patio. Two horses grazed in the field in front of us to complete the pastoral scene. We entertained friends to a cappuccino the next day in our garden and the wife is now worried, very, very worried. The tramp has found many soul mates; the trampess, a lot of sympathy, and some pressure not to sound too enthusiastic about the WLW lifestyle.
The next night we were invited back to the chalet of our friends for dinner – since neither of us were going to that night’s concert. As luck would have it, we were also invited by our now-in-town Israeli friend to a party at Chalet L Raphael after the evening concert. Although the tramp likes an early night, he thought we could do both, all things being equal. All things were not equal. While the dinner began early (and after some ironing of the tramp’s shirts from the efforts of the previous day and a quick shower), it was clearly going to be serious – not formal – but serious. The trampess was invited down to the host’s cellar pre-dinner to join in the selection of the wine (the tramp you will recall is allergic to all things fermented and thus takes no interest in cellars and their contents – the trampess however does!). The host and his old friend and colleague (who was also there with his wife) have put together an enviable collection. It was decided that tonight would be an Haut Brion night (it must be said that the trampess had no difficulty in supporting that decisions): we were to begin with 1990 for an aperitif and then move through 1982, 1970, 1961 and 1955 with, of course (let’s face it a night such as this demands a sweet wine to finish), a d’Yquem 1986 for pudding. When we got to dessert, our host tasted the d’Yquem and suggested that it really wasn’t up to scratch and that he would sacrifice himself and spare us, by drinking the bottle on his own. The trampess, as a long-standing friend, of course refused to let him make such a sacrifice alone. Friendship being what it is, the other six drinking members of the dinner felt compelled to join the sacrifice. The meal was a simple, but delicious, accompaniment to the wine.
It was, as you may have by now surmised, rather later than our normal bedtime, but the tramp agreed to drive to Chalet Raphael to at least say hello. Our hostess gave us directions with those never reassuring words: “You can’t miss it”. I needn’t tell you that at the end of the road where the chalet should have been there was nothing that remotely looked like there was a party inside. The tramp threw up his arms and drove on down to the WLW. The next day, when voice contact was finally made, it transpired that the text messages the trampess sent the previous day, had only just arrived. It seems that an English mobile in Switzerland sending to an Israeli mobile even in the same village, takes several hours to get through! We were invited to come by at 5pm and told we had missed a great party – dancing until 2 or 3am! (I can assure you, the tramp would never have made it and was probably glad that our hostess’s dyslexia caused her to eliminate one crucial turn in the directions). Come by at 5 we did, and were invited to a late lunch (never mind that we had already had one late lunch, the tramp thought this a perfect early supper!). We had a jolly time with our friend, his hosts and their other guests, including the late arrival of a young violinist who had given an apparently outstanding concert earlier that afternoon. Everyone rushed off (most leaving town), the hosts included but told our friend to have a party (!) in their absence and to enjoy himself until he, too, had to leave. No party, but the tramp and trampess returned after the evening concert for dinner a trois (yes, I know we had had supper before the concert, but a late dinner discussing the current state of the middle east and the up coming US elections with our well informed friend made the tramp hesitate not one iota in breaking all his evening rules! I won’t mention that the Asian kitchen staff cooked beautifully prepared light meals with lots of vegetables and made fresh fruit sorbets – a particular weakness of the tramp).
A tour of the chalet followed along with an invitation to come by in the morning for a work out, a Turkish bath, and lunch. Dear reader, the gym is clearly the best gym in Verbier, and one of the best, public or private, we have visited so far in our travels. The Turkish bath, a replica of the oldest public bath in Istanbul (where the trampess did have occasion to have an assisted bath some 30 years ago): marble walls and floors, a domed ceiling with stained glass, buckets of cold water to sprinkle over one to ease the stay in the steam. Outside, by the showers, stacks of towels and bathrobes, the finest shampoos, body scrubs and ointments, all waiting to be used – and who better to use them but a weary trampess? Well, certainly weary after a late night and a serious 2 hour session in the perfect gym – although it must be said that when trays of water appear and then, yes this is the finishing touch, one of the staff (not even Jeeves could have done better) appeared with two tall peachy coloured drinks and asked if perhaps a freshly made apricot smoothie would encourage the work out, the trampesss thought she was less in gym than in heaven! The tramp managed to drink his as well.
Did I mention that each meal was eaten in a different room? No? Well, they were. The evening meal in the study with a fire (it does get cold in the mountains, even in summer) and by candlelight. Lunch after the arduous work out (well one had to make up for 4 meals the previous day!) was on the terrace with the mountains as backdrop. Many of the trampess’s friends have asked HOW she manages to survive in the WLW. Dear reader, I can assure you that I could get used to this life!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment