The answer has to be L'Aiguillette des Houches walking day. French walking was something so fresh and new to me. An environment which just made me giggle, so ludicrous were the randonnees suggested in guidebooks and leaflets, so liberating in comparison to the UK 50 walks in the peak style publication. The terrain so varied, and the joyful inclusion of things which in the UK would probably be prohibited in some way or fenced off or fenced in for health and safety reason. The walking was just such a huge joy. Even without someone to share the hilarity with, I giggled and smiled and grinned my way along.
L'Aiguillette took me along a fairly simple approach route involving up and up and up through woodlands and then pastureland and then foothills until I arrived at a snowy ridge walk.
The steep slope approaching was reasonably well trodden, so much so that compacted ice was pretty frequent, and I briefly toyed with getting the crampons out of the day sack. But instead did a measured and persevering plod of considered nature to arrive at the top. Walking along the ridge in the snow was kind of hairy. The sides were steep, the ridge was narrow, and the drop was immense. Consequences were clearly high. But although slow, I'm relatively sure footed and cautious, and walked along to the end of the ridge to sit on the map case and eat the obligatory baguette and cheese lunch, aware of walkers approaching and able to see on another two micro peaks around me, other walkers similarly sat eating lunch. An odd kind of solitude mixed with cameraderie. An acknowledgement that this was a beautiful day and a beautiful place to be. After all, just look at that blue sky. And a raven joined me for lunch.
I then bimbled along to the next peak of the walk, ready for the descending traverse which would take me to the next landmark on the list, a refuge.
I spoke to a group of French walkers, with much of my vocab being pointing (to the map, they wanted to know where I'd been, I was interested to know where they'd been). They seemed surprised to find someone using a map out there on the French hills. And we agreed that it was all magnifique. Because that's a word I can use in French.
The descending traverse was interesting. As I looked at the map, consulted the compass, used the sign posts, I kind of realised the route I was taking was perhaps not the most popular of the day, not taking you along the ridge but behind it so that the descent at the end of the day wouldn't just be a repeat of the morning ascent route but a proper circle. And I set off into virgin snow, compass held in front of me like a divining rod, feet sinking into snow, well, knees, actually at times. And I felt a) brave and b) incredibly competent and c) within my comfort zone. Out there in the French mountains, in a featureless snowy landscape I felt safe, me, my map and my compass. And that weird thing which sometimes happens on your own where you feel randomly playful, and yes, I can say the word ... happy took place.
The giddy high spirits of a five year old kicked in. And eventually there were multiple tracks of other walkers who although invisible, had also made their tracks through the snow, and there were decisions on directions and much consulting of the compass. The beautiful feeling of serenity and peace just kept on living.
The refuge was achieved with a sense of accomplishment and the appreciation of where I'd come from, where I was going and how far I'd been was one of those moments where you feel your heart, lungs and mind just swelling and filling with that moment. And again I talked to French folk, who excitedly advised me of what I was going to find on the next stage of the journey.
These boys.
And so many things made it a perfect day. The dream like quality of the woodland approach, the technical issue of ascending on ice, a knife edge ridge challenge in the snow, the navigational interest, the depth of the snow, the chattiness of the French, the unexpected joy of the Ibex.
Perfect day.
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