Lake Annecy

I am from Wisconsin. I moved there in 1979, when I was already a total fan of small farm, artisanal cheese. If you asked me then what foods I could not live without, I would have answered without hesitation -- good bread and cheese. Since then, I've visited many cheese makers -- goat milk cheese, sheep's milk cheese and of course cow's milk cheese. In Wisconsin, in France, in Italy. Maybe this love of good cheese is in the blood: my grandkids, fussy eaters all (I'm lookin' at you three Wisconsin guys!), make an exception for cheese. All of them love an aged cheddar or a smelly d'Affinois spread on a flatbread cracker. 

So this morning, after a stroll by the lake...

(like the bronze statues sprinkled throughout farmette lands, only different...)

I sit down to breakfast and I say non, merci to the eggs and I say non, merci to the pain perdu and I focus my attention on the platter of cheeses  (a Tomme de Savoie, a Comté and a Tamié) offered for this morning meal. Because, of course, cheese is to Savoie what it is to Wisconsin. They're known for it! [Technically, a Comté, sometimes affectionally called the "black dress" of all cheeses -- so versatile! -- is not from Savoie, but from the valley of the Jura Mountains, maybe 50 miles north of here. Cheese makers have argued for allowing on the market a Comté de Savoie, but this brings on nothing but hostility from those involved in the production of the authentic Jura Comté -- read about it, for example, here, with the help of google translator if you wish.]

I pick for breakfast a cheese that it new to me -- the Tamié. What the heck is a Tamié?

(Here's my breakfast today:)

A few words on this new to me cheese on my plate. A fresh cow's milk cheese, the Tamié is produced locally, at an Abbey in the valley that's just a five hour hike to the south of where I'm staying. No, I'm not going to hike there! I'm satisfied in reading their story here: Fromagerie de Tamié.

What impresses me with all these very local Alpine cheeses is how much care the cows are given, how fussy they are in their diet (just Alpine grasses and flowers in the summer, just locally grown wheat and barley made into hay for the winter, none of this random silage stuff). It becomes a point of pride to take in milk from these animals. Happy cows, fussy cows make for excellent milk, excellent cheeses. [And yes, we have them in Wisconsin as well, though we also have the commercial stuff back home. Ed and I bike past countless farms where, in the middle of summer, the cows are huddled in muddy enclosures, without access to pasture, to meadowland, to prairie. But, there's a market for this kind of cheese too. You don't eat it as a single slice with or without bread. You eat it stuffed in a thick sandwich, or grilled over a burger. And yes, there are plenty of burger places cropping up all over France as well. 1548 McDonalds alone, as of last month.]

So, full of Alpine thoughts, after breakfast I set out for an Alpine hike.

The desk clerk had suggested a walk to the waterfall. But I'd stopped by the village Tourist Office yesterday and the grumpy bored guy there put forth the idea of simply going up the mountain to a small church that offers a good view. How long is the hike? -- I asked. One hour each way. I study the map. How can that be? The trail is maybe 4 inches long. The one I'd followed my first day here took me three hours and it was easily 12 inches long.

I have the answer to this puzzle today: this one, to the church, has me walking straight up. At least for the first half of it. But no matter! I have my walking stick with me! I'm up for it, albeit at a slower pace than a French person's estimate.

(no, I'm not aiming for the summits!)

And here's the thing, I am embarrassingly slow as compared to the people who pass me. Unbeknownst to me, today is the day of the annual Gravity Race. The participants (and there are many! though thankfully very spread out) run and swim and for some reason, some of them are connected to each other by rope and it's all extremely athletic and their uphill is my uphill only I walk it, relying heavily on my stick and they run it. Straight up. Then down. Then who knows where.

When the trail flattens out a little, they veer off to a more uphill destination (of course they do!) and I walk in the quiet of a forest.

And when I emerge by the church, the views open up...

... and I hear the distinct loud clang of cow bells. Even thought the cows are far, sound carries in an Alpine valley. (I've watched enough Pete the farmer YouTubes that I know why this bull is off by himself in the field!)

I'm above that blasted rock of my first day, so now I can see all the way up to Annecy...

Oh! I hear  the runners again, fortified by this pause stop...

And encouraged, as always in France, by anyone and everyone shouting at them -- courage, courage! Allez, allez!

I turn around and head back down the mountain. I take a less steep trail this time. My knee has been behaving, but I dont want to push it.

In the early afternoon, I go to the garden of the Auberge. It's time for a "lunch" and there isn't a doubt what I should have:

This time I'm less in a sharing mode with the sparrows. All mine! 

But they outsmart me. As I keep the tart out of their reach, a brazen bird snitches my macaron. What are you going to do...

I had thought that a sauna would be a sweet way to end the afternoon, but honestly, just sitting outside today felt pretty toasty warm (it's sunny, with a high of 75F (24C) today). Instead, I opt for a massage. I earned it, no? The last one I had was back in March and it was fabulous. This one, called "the hay of the region" has a different feel to it (it starts with a foot soak in a basin of water, milk, salt and hay), but it's totally fabulous as well. I have friends my age back home who have a massage every week. I get it. If you can afford it, it's a life line toward total relaxation.

Afterwards, the goal should be to sit back and read, twiddle thumbs, recline, repose, do nothing. But there is one thing here that I had wanted to do and I haven't done it and I'm just so curious about it that I give up on the do nothing idea and instead ask the desk clerk instead if I can use their electric bike. 

I wouldn't have been tempted if my Annecy driver person yesterday hadn't told me that once you're out of the village, you can pick up a dedicated bike path that makes its way all the way around the bottom of the lake. That seemed safe to me and even the village roads -- one-way for cars but two-way for cyclists! -- seemed doable. The French are mindful of rural cyclists because there are so many of them! Sometimes I think on the weekends the whole population is training for the Tour de France. They're all out there screaming down the mountains and up again. So, despite the fact that the bike comes without a helmet, I decided I am up for an (flattish) Alpine ride.

It was a fast bike! By comparison, the e-Bikes back home, both the rentals and my own Alpine Blue (!) require effort, even on the strongest boost setting. This is a good thing. You want some exercise! The Auberge bikes have an intense burst and though I went all the way down to the bottom of the lake and up the other side some, I have to say, I exerted little effort throughout. I pedaled, sure, but I felt the bike was dismissive of my efforts and did its own thing.

(the "bottom" of the lake is a nature preserve...)

(I'm never the only cyclist on the bike path...)

(a timed release selfie...)

And in the evening, I eat at the 1903 again. It's a tiny bit more special than the Marius Bar and I go all out and eat a three course meal. (Breakfast was a long time ago!) And honestly, I am surprised at how good the dinner is! I'd asked for recommendations with each course, and with each paired wine. And I listened. And it was perfect. This, at the lesser Auberge restaurant than the one for which the chef claimed rosettes? The ever genial water suggested I go with the mushroom appetizer. They're in season now! We have a mix of chanterelles, trumpet mushrooms... I'm sold. And for the main course? They had 4 choices and I didn't want to pick the fish yet again. I nearly always default to the fish. Out of habit. But this time I again let the waiter speak. The duck, he said. With orange and cocoa. And bits of cabbage. Fantastic! And I would have called it quits then, but this very helpful waiter seemed surprised that I should pass on dessert. Okay, bring me the lightest dish on the menu. Without hesitation, he carted over the apple, poached, cut up, spiced, and importantly -- covered with a thin layer of meringue. How did they do it? It was.... fabulous.

I'd convinced myself so many times that I don't need great food to make me happy when eating alone during my travels. (In France, I am always the only one eating alone in the room.) Good enough is just fine for me. But when everything lines up to create something so delicious, I have to say -- I'm glad I occasionally get hit with a bombshell meal! It makes me humbly grateful for all the hours that went into its preparation. Believe me -- been there, in that restaurant kitchen, done that, and it is not easy.

In my room, I pack my suitcase and think about tomorrow: I'll be catching a morning train to Paris. There, if all goes well for them, I'll be meeting up with some friends, ones I haven't seen for... a whole year!

Until tomorrow then, good night from the shores of Lake Annecy.

(out my window...)

with love...