Avian Invasion

It's Monday morning, alarm goes off at 7:45. No, please just another hour!

No such luck, after a work-heavy weekend at Maunsel House (ancient stately home used as wedding and conference venue) it's usually the last place I want to be on a Monday when I'm tired and groggy. So imagine my dismay when I come upon the following situation:

I've been asked to check one of the cottages on the estate to make sure it's presentable for a viewing with potential new wedding clients. I'm thinking that it should be a quick and easy task, as none of the cottages have been used by guests all week. Well, it turns out that this cottage has been 'occupied', but not by any civilized beings.

I open the door and straight away notice two vases on the floor, one with a broken handle. Hummm, strange. I then go through to the living room and notice dark splodges on the cream rugs and books shelved above the fireplace have been knocked off-kilter like dominoes. Hummmm, I'm kind of worried now.

I turn to the left and go towards the bedroom on the left. Under the large mirror at eye level across the other side of the room is a large splattering of sludge coloured bird poo, and lots of it. Shit! Then I start to examine the room closer: everything is covered in poo. The wood-laminate floor, the fireplace, the window ledges, the curtains, the bed cover. Oh no.

Hoping that maybe the intruder hasn't investigated the rest of the cottage I go back into the sitting room and notice more poo. I walk into the other downstairs bedroom and this is worse. More poo on the cream carpet, much more poo on the window ledges and curtains. Oh, and a few picture frames are definitely squiffy. This clean up job is going to take ages. Where is the culprit - what if it's dead?!

It's a small consolation that the intruder did not poo in the bathroom, even though the door was open and inviting...

One more room to examine: the upstairs bedroom, (which is supposedly haunted) and as I slowly embark up the steep and tight stairs, the sun gleaming through a small window at eye level, I glimpse my first sight of him. Or her.

It's a black crow, a skinny one (we determined that it must have been in the cottage for at least three days) and it's misty white pupils glint in my direction as I come as far as I dare on the stairs. It doesn't squawk or move, just turned it's head more in my direction. I'm not superstitious, but I did feel a little on edge. To be honest, I was expecting it to be one of the ducks or chickens from the estate - for all the poo this bird excreted seemed too much for a crow to produce.

I'm too much of a wuss to go any further, so I head back to the main house and recruit house keeper Jane to assert her no-nonsense attitude on the crow. Jane is superstitious and she has regular psychic readings, so as we went back over to the cottage she was all-too confidently telling me that a crow in the house signifies death and she'll take the situation up with her psychic. Uh oh.

I show Jane all the poo downstairs and it's nice for someone else to share my outrage. She then bounds up to the room containing the crow, and closes the door behind her. Within seconds she's managed to grab the thing, and opens the door to show me the fairly-docile animal in her grip. She's laughing about how bony it is. It's not surprising; losing all that body weight out of its backside.

Jane opens a window and the crow flies off. I'm left on my own wondering where the hell to start on this avian invasion. An hour later, I'm fairly pleased with my effort, but not totally convinced I've detected all the brown and white matter-splatter. I then go over to the house and start deep-cleaning the industrial-sized kitchen, guh. Yuk. The man who collects the posh crystal glasses from the weekend's wedding moans to me that the motorway is clogged from here to Bristol because of a major accident. Uh oh, my parents are in Bristol, or on there way to Bristol. I can't help thinking a morbid thought that somehow the crow has brought bad luck to my family. But I'm not worried enough to call them to confirm this ridiculous speculation.

When I cycle over the motorway bridge, I am staggered to see the traffic still at a stand-still as far as my eyes can see. Little bit worried. When I get home I call mum, but it goes straight to answer machine. I leave a casual message advising them to take another route back. They don't call back till much later on in the day. Mum airily tells me that they took the motorway any way and do I need anything from Sansbury's?

I want to stop thinking about this odd start to my day, but it's one of those strange events that I needed to write down and maybe come back to. Crow, crow go away. At least he's free now and I didn't find a dead body. Must remind the management to mend the mesh over the chimney pots...

Seasonal Itchy Feet

What is it about the metamorphosis from Autumn to winter that makes me get itchy feet, desperately in need of a change of scenery or lifestyle? I know I'm by no means the only one who feels like this, but there are certainly a few things I'm working on to metamorphose into a happy winter-dweller.

First - I'm getting fit. Signed up at the gym three weeks ago, and beginning to feel stronger and although the weight isn't exactly dropping off yet, I am enjoying the exertion, near pain of circuits, weights and hardcore cardio.

Secondly, I've got to make a massive decision very soon as to where to spend my winter and spring months. It would be far too easy to head back to the Alps and live in a bubble of hedonistic bliss, now that I have a good friendship base there, work contacts, etc. all it would take to emigrate there once more is enough money for a ski pass and deposit for accommodation. I could kid myself that this time I'd spend more time writing and less time drinking, but seriously, I could get involved in one of the two magazines that are produced in the region as well as writing screenplays from home. I think that as long as I'm not working every evening until 3 in the morning like I did last year, there's hope for the creative juices to flow forth.

My other (much more sensible option!) is to move to Bristol and get work with an independent production company. I'm volunteering at a few film festivals in the South West in the next month or two, so I have the chance to scope out the options, see what kind of jobs are on offer and build more contacts, which may then lead on to job opportunities. It's about time I got a 'proper' job, maybe even enjoy an 'office' environment... and Bristol is an un-pretentious place; smaller than London, yet sharing London's off-beat, artsy community feel. I also have quite a few friends there, so it would not feel like too much of an upheaval for me, the self-proclaimed country bumpkin.

I guess one side of the coin offers fun and frivolity with a dash of character research (also a chance to improve my skiing, learn to snowboard and live in a sublime environment), whilst the other side of the coin offers financial stability, better job opportunities, arts and culture galore... and really, really bad weather! Aghhh, now I remember the main reason why I hate the English winter: mild, rainy, mild, rainy, oh and maybe a dash of dullness thrown in for good measure.

Ok, I think I may have made a decision... ?

Reflections on an Alpine Adventure

The following photos are a selection of my favourite views from my apartment, and on the slopes in and around the Chamonix valley during winter 2008 and spring of 2009.

A halo above the beautiful Mont Blanc mountain range - a view from our local park.

Bottled "Natural trouble"... the advertising couldn't be more correct... (well, in truth 'trouble' means 'cloudy' in French, but it caused us no end of amusement!)

One of our famous Alpine BBQ spreads

One thing I learned from living here is that dogs are the most important possessions of any self-respecting Chamonix resident. All shapes and sizes, dogs rule this town, without a doubt.

Taken on my way down the Grand Montet chair lift after the Boss Des Boss ski contest.

View from the Grand Montet chair lift, possibly my favourite chair lift due to these stunning views.

View from Grand Montet chair lift

Goodbye Vin Chaud, hello Xante. Easily my new favourite apres ski beverage.


Apres ski smiles with Vicky.


Apres ski smiles with Sophie.


A stunning sun-set above Mont Blanc, a view from our living room window.


Another stunning sun-set view from our apartment window.


The only charity shop in town had a hefty supply of classic and retro one-piece ski suits, which my friends and I utilised to the max. Here we are assembled for a 'one-piece extravaganza' and picnic at Grand Montet.


The 'Cham Bubble' after a hefty dusting of fresh snow.


Easily my favourite view/apres ski location up the mountain. Le Tour, I love you.


Iris and I after a successful day's skiing at Le Tour in the sunshine.


The Ice Bar at Le Tour.


One of the best day's skiing of the season - fresh powder, blue skies and no one on the piste! Blissful!


My ski gear. Such a difficult decision to choose a colour scheme... I thought fresh green would work well with the approaching spring...


Sun rise over the mountains, again a view we were privileged enough to witness every day from our apartment.


The approaching sun casting an eerie mist over the edge of the mountain - a view from our living room window. I still can't believe we were so very lucky to see scenes like this every day.