Empty Chair

Chair lifts stop sometimes. And they always seem to stop when you're at the windiest, coldest part of the ascent. Or, when you're so close to the top that you could almost contemplate jumping off anyway. Or, today, both. Still, the five minute break gave me a chance to get out the camera (not usually attempted on chair lifts for fear of dropping camera or gloves or ski pole) and blip the downward bound chair opposite.

We went over to the furthest right (not sure on compass directions here - maybe west?) valley - which turned out to be a beautiful, quiet, long sweeping run. Or it would have been had it not been a sheet of ice. Skiing on ice is not for me. You can't brake or turn well and I'm not keen on the going fast bit of skiing. I don't mind so much on snow where I know I can stop fast, but ice just scares me. So, a slow descent with much swearing from both of us. And no possibility of going off piste due to the vertiginous rocky crags on either side of the ridge. Officially my least favourite ski run in Europe (and I am including the mogul field my friends erroneously took me on on my first ever day skiing).

We finally made it back to the snowy side of the hill, and down to see the kids' award ceremonies at the end of ski school. Lamentable organisation (not our fault for once) had us sprinting to catch the end of Conor's, then sprinting to catch the end of Katherine's. Not easy in ski boots. Both the kids were practically in tears about their end of ski school race: Katherine because she'd been told there was a practice run before the main race (there wasn't, so what she thought was a practice was the real thing) and Conor because he didn't win. All attempts to convince him that the 'big girl' (a 9 year old) won because she was heavier failed, until we bumped into his instructor (day off today) at the bottom of the hill who confirmed our explanation. Still, it was a downbeat end to a wonderful week.

After changing out of ski gear in the hire shop, we piled into the car and headed off back to France. We had an appointment to see a house not far north into France, which looked very promising. However, its commanding hill-top position with views of the Pyrenees, also meant that the house was tearing itself apart by slipping all four ways down the hill... And too much work to be done for us to afford the price. Shame though - couldn't beat it for views.

Onwards to the next town to pick up some flowers for our hostess in Castres this evening - and an unscheduled 25 minute chat with the florist who was most interested in our house-buying and (mainly) garden-building plans. She was also keen to teach me the names of all the flowers in the shop which are mostly just the same as the English names, but said nicer. So Gerbera just sounds better with a French accent, I think. Mr B's menacing presence tapping his watch in the doorway scurried her along a bit and I must say the creations were quite extraordinary - with ribbon laced in front of the Amaryllis, and all manner of greenery (and, unusually, bark that looked like huge cinnamon but was actually eucalyptus bark) interspersed with both bunches.

And so on to Castres, with a beautiful sunset lighting our way and no time to stop and take photos. And then an evening of food (yum - tagine), wine and chat. Perfect.