Castles, Caverns and Canals
Our hotel room in Grenoble is accessed by walking down no less than five long corridors, all connected by swinging doors. I hum the tune from Get Smart every time I walk through. It was moving day today so we packed up and hummed the tune one last time before hitting the road. It was hard to say goodbye to that view.
We had two spots to stop at on the way today - a lake and a gorge - both with unpronounceable names. Plugging in the first destination, Siri announced, in her broad Australian accent: “Ay-goo-bill-etty”. Somehow I’m not sure that’s it.
Lac du Aiguebelette was a stunningly deep shade of aqua and the little village on its shores, with its grey rendered houses, wooden shuttered windows and cobblestone walls was just beautiful. The clouds stayed low on the surrounding mountains and every tiny village we passed had a pointed church steeple poking up towards the clouds on the horizon and a friendly farewell sign saying “À bientôt” - see you soon. There was a lakeside visitors’ centre with a really modern cafe that had some delicious snacks and looked like it would serve a decent coffee. Looks can be deceiving. The snacks were a good consolation for the atrocious coffee.
Winding through the country roads, past fields of cows, corn and canola, we could have been in Australia had it not been for the great castles appearing on hills every now and then (oh and the huge mountain range surrounding us). The Montrottier Chateau loomed large as we approached and with its Rapunzel Tower and stony turrets, it looked like something straight out of a fairytale. Originally serving as a fortress, still bearing scars from opponent’s arrows, this magnificent 13th century castle cum mansion was passed to a bloke by the name of Leon Marès, when his sister passed away. This guy was a hoarder of inordinate proportions and a collector extraordinaire! His immaculately maintained castle, which he bestowed to the public when he died in 1919, on the proviso that a large public mass be held in his honour every year, was packed to its big heavy rafters with objects he had collected. My favourite was the “coco-buttocks” - the biggest, heaviest seed in the world- that fell off the back of a ‘truck’ sometime in the 16th century. He had masks, hats, instruments, paintings, plates, medals, sculptures. He even had a full crocodile skin! I can imagine the look on his wife’s face when he arrived home each day with more stuff. ‘Oh Leon, where are we going to put that?’
We climbed the 90 teeny, twirling steps up to the dungeon tower in the centre of the castle. There were break out rooms on the way up, so you could pull over and take a breather. In one of the rooms was a relatable, exasperated looking statue. Maybe the Saint of Tiny, Steep Staircase Climbs?
Just down the road from the castle was the impressive Les Gorges du Fier, a deep gorge carved out over centuries by the rushing waters of the Fier River, flowing at its base. We ventured deep into the giant gorge, by walking in the footsteps that gorge-lovers have been taking since 1866, along a suspended timber walkway (that has hopefully been upgraded since then!) Signs erected at the entrance of this Alpine natural wonder encourage walkers to identify the hidden faces in the cliffs. As you’ll see from my photos, I’m confident I found a few.
Our next stop and home for the night was the pretty little, very Instagrammable, village of Annecy. No cars were allowed into the village where our hotel just happened to be, so we dumped our bags at the edge of the town, where I stood guard until Rossco parked the car.
Cobblestone pathways, lined with bustling al fresco restaurants run along the clear, blue river, that winds right through the old town, with its adorable, rustic buildings of stone and pastel colours. Bridges criss-cross the narrow river, their railings adorned with plump boxes brimming with colourful blooms. There are baskets and boxes of flowers everywhere, only outnumbered by the number of ice-cream shops, in what must surely be the ice-cream capital of Europe, if not the world. If you’ve got a hankering for some rum and raisin, Hokey Pokey (or my favourite, “pistache”) Annecy is your town.
Annecy was pumping with people so, after an afternoon apéritif involving beer, cheese and toast (much better than it sounds), we thought it wise to book ourselves in somewhere for dinner. When we arrived back to our perfect people-watching perch, right on the street, overlooking the water, the waiter remembered we were from Australia and quoted my phone number back to me, by heart. Either he’s got a phenomenal memory or he’s a psychopath. I’m hoping for the former.
