There had been a big music festival the night before and as I set out through the pre-dawn streets people were still tottering home, glasses in hand, smoking their last cigarettes. They looked at my skis and boots reproachfully.
In pine trees close to the start of the Cry d’Er cable car, I fixed skins to the base of my skis and began sliding uphill, following a winding path through the still-dark forest. The noise of the town soon faded, the only sound the crunch and glide of my skis on the snow.
I was out of practice — it had been at least 12 months since my last ski-touring trip — but gradually I found the familiar, reassuring rhythm, the pole plants and pace becoming automatic and my mind wandering free.
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