Seachain an duine a bhíonn ina thost

I'm on my way back from a week skiing in the Alps and I'd just like to
say that once you leave the Alps France is very dull to drive through.
Mile after hundreds of miles of flat, flat fields with the occasional
wind turbine and service station punctuating the flat, boring, flat
landscape.

The Alps, though, are a different story. I love them. I think that
once I've made my contribution to working life, I'm going to have to
retire there. I'm going to live in a wooden house with a balcony and a
tree swing and a high-speed Internet connection (there's no sense in
cutting oneself off completely). And I'm going to be hale and hearty
with all that delicious clean fresh air and sunshine and yomping, and
because my lifestyle will be so healthy I'll also be able to eat
mountains of cheese and pate and bread without any qualms. And I'll
probably have a vineyard but I won't make wine, I'll just eat the
grapes - wine-making seems like a lot of effort when you can buy good
wine cheaply from people who like doing it. But maybe I'll find I like
it. I may even get a goat so I can drink goats milk and eat goats
cheese. And also because it would make me feel a bit like Heidi. And
I'll have long lunches and speak French but I'm going to retain my
Irish friendliness instead of being surly and unhelpful (although
that's a terrible stereotype).

So skiing itself was quite good but very exhausting, and also quite
emotionally draining. It was difficult and scary hurtling down
mountains, and I found mustering the courage to do that day after day
quite a strain (though it's also very exhilarating). Although I did
feel better when my hilariously uncommunicative ski instructor
revealed on the final day that I had been moved up from the beginners
class into class one after a couple of days, which might explain why
it was difficult ... Anyway, I did manage to keep up, although my
stance is wrong and my skis were too short so my legs hurt an awful
lot. But again my instructor only decided to tell me my stance was
wrong at the top of my first red piste when frankly I had other things
on my mind, and he told me my skis were too short after I come down my
last piste on my last day. I liked him, but that's just bloody
unhelpful. And goodness me ski boots are uncomfortable. Surely for
such a posh-persons sport someone must think it worth inventing a
comfortable pair of ski boots?

Thankfully we're only 20 miles from Calais now, although I've still
got the ferry to contend with. Embarrassingly, I threw up on the way
over right after eating a very fancy meal. In hindsight, foie gras and
steak wasn't the best meal to choose on a rocky crossing. In Calais
Andy's family are going to stock up on wine and I'm going to buy some
of my favorite wine, Pouilly Fumée. It's still not cheap here but far
cheaper than in England. I think I've earned it for being so brave
this week. In fact, when I get back to my flat I think I'll pop the
bottle in the freezer to chill and run a bath. The unpacking will just
have to wait.

Photos [and maybe even videos] will follow soon.