A traveller's tale.
I've just left an abridged verion of the following review on Trip Advisor.
Those who follow me on Twitter will have watched the episode unfold, no doubt chuckling at my blooming incredulity and obvious discomfort. I'll post some pictures to help set the scene. This all occurred on Thursday night. It's all true.
Title: Welcome To The Overlook Hotel Mr Torrance
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
I was on business in Geneva and had failed to observe the maxim 'book early to avoid disappointment', choosing rather to trust to my customary good fortune (and Hotels.com) to find somewhere 'close to Geneva Airport' so I could commute to and from work each day. The photos on the website showed a jolly ski lodge adorned with snow and fairy lights, boasting a heated indoor pool and proclaiming all manner of warm and welcoming things.
The resort sits in Les Rousses a-top the mighty Jura, the skiing Nirvana that looms over Geneva. This would, I surmised, make a tasty treat for a seasoned curmudgeon like myself, tired as I am of staying in homogenised look-a-like MarrioRamadaInns.
I arrived late at night having driven up the winding mountain pass from Geneva. The SatNav took me to the map location but this was clearly wrong. Nothing but the silhouettes of deserted buildings set between tracts of open fields. Having peered into the darkness at the mountain top for some time I spied the soft glow of a cigarette in a doorway. In my best pigeon French I asked after the place. A nod, a swarthy smile, a long drag on the Gitagnes.
'Oui. A gauche' - an arm signal 'et deux a droit' some more hand gestures.
I followed his directions, cursing him silently as I sought signs of life amidst the darkness. Just as I was about to abandon my search a huge shadow loomed from the inky black. Eureka. No lights appeared save a lone flickering bulb over the entrance. No signs of life; no cars in the car park (Hotels.com said '2 rooms left' when I booked), not so much as a scurrying mouse. Could this be it? Ah, yes. Here were my keys, taped to the reception window in an envelope marked with my name and 'Appt 4'. The only suggestion of life in the vicinity was the pervasive, eye-watering waft of raw agriculture coming from the nearby farms.
I found apartment 4 (door unlocked and slightly ajar). To say the room was sparsely decorated would be an understatement. No pictures (anywhere), no soft furnishings. The doors to the balconies were open (with outer shutters loosely closed). It was freezing cold. In a state of mild shock I searched the rooms. The shower appeared to be Louis Pasteur's original lab, so advanced was the biological development in the loose tile/ mouldy grouting. The bedroom was a treat. A large, low bed, devoid of sheets, pillows or covers, just an old hairy blanket covering a decrepit, sagging mattress.
The 'living' room/ kitchenette boasted a fairly new pine shelf unit on which sat the original microwave. It was so large I thought the glass plate must be a TV screen. Alas no, such advanced technology had yet to reach the area. Next to it slumped a sorry looking coffee maker. There was no sign of refreshments, no vending machines in the corridor, no drinking water in the fridge (I wasn't going to try the tap in case blood ran out). To be fair there were no bugs either. French insects have high standards. The laminate, presumably glued onto the kitchen furnishings shortly before man landed on the Moon, had bubbled and started to turn green-black at the edges.
By now I was waiting for the kid on the tricycle to show up. There was no sign of RedRum anywhere but the night was young. I was tired and not a little hysterical. The drive back to Geneva involved a degree of alpine slalom beyond my weary ken so I opted to stay until sunrise. I found some blankets in a slightly beaten, metal school locker and cowered on the spongy mattress, teeth chattering, wondering if Leatherface might be about to pop in. It felt like some bizarre test to satisfy the last will and testament of a wealthy but vindictive relative. Eventually, mercifully, the sleep of the weary traveller came upon me.
At sunrise I took my leave, depositing the key on the deserted shutter-sealed counter. Still no signs of life, no other vehicles, no sounds save for my own ragged breathing and the rather too loud beating of my heart. I made the descent into Geneva in record time, bruising my shoulders as I threw my little rental car into every hairpin.
The good people at Hotels.com provided a full refund and I am happily now installed in a more expensive (but occupied) hotel near Geneva airport. The moral of the tale? Book early to avoid disappointment, don’t believe everything you read in the interweb.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Reminds me of the time Mrs MLCM and I went out of our way to seek out a Country Club Resort out in the backblocks that boasted high-class accomodation, restaurants, its own lake and its own golf course. Sure enough, as we neared the place there were plenty of signs indicating all of the above, including "restuarant now open!" signs.
As we followed the signs off the highway, the road turned to gravel, then dirt then corrugated dirt with massive pot-holes. By the side of the road (passing yet more "restaurant now open!" signs) and through the undergrowth we could see the golf course ... so overgrown that the greens were knee-deep in grass.
When we finally arrived at the resort it was utterly deserted. The restaurant was indeed open - wide open and with a "Please wait here to be seated" sign, but with no staff. The tables however were set and the kitchen seemed usable but for the lack of food and no power. The bar though was fully stocked - with empty bottles. Outside, beside the lake were yachts, kayaks and those little paddle-things all for hire. But they were chained up and falling apart. There was no sign of human life anywhere and that spooky music started playing in our heads... you know, when the hair starts standing on the back of your neck?
We thought we had discovered the Mary Celeste of resorts, but eventually we did find a caretaker living in a grotty caravan behind the resort who told us the resort had gone bankrupt six months earlier and the owners had been forced to leave everything in a hurry - not even bothering to take down the "Now Open" signs.
A strange and interesting experience. Am only glad we didn't book in advance.
On site life (working on events/ exhibitions) has never sat well with daily running. Located in Geneva for a week of early starts and late nights I need to find a solution. My daily outings at home have gone pretty well. The pups have matured into muscular adolescents; lean, mean hunting machines streaking across the downs, flat bellies brushing the short grass as they play high-speed tail-tag. We're up to four kilometres now - that takes us past the stables and halfway up Mount Harry (aka Wicker Man Hill). Another few weeks and we'll get all the way to BlackCap.
Last night I sauntered into my (extremely well-appointed) hotel. To my right the terrace sang its Sirens song 'London Priiide, London Priiide ...' to my right the stairwell descended into the sweaty bowels of the building like a yawning Hellmouth beneath a large sign that read 'FITNESS'. I had precisely an hour to kill; not enough time to work out and have a beer. It was either or. I waited patiently for the shoulder-mounted angel and demon to start whispering into my ears.
Much to my surprise I went for the former, throwing on shorts and T-shirt and heading purposefully towards the gym. All manner of contraptions awaited; elliptical trainers, a lone 'normal' treadmill, several upright and laid-back peddling machines and some state-of-the-art multi-application Weapons of (Body)Mass Destruction. I took to an upright static bike and spent the next 15 minutes trying not to slide off the seat. I dialled into the Madrid ATP Tennis semi between El Fed and Nadal. Nadal had lost the first set, a close encounter, 5-7, but had evidently roared back to take the second 6-1. A break up in the decider he was trying to close out, but the Swiss Royale was having none of it. The two men traded fearsome blows, sweat pinging off their glowing bodies as the ball scorched across the net. The rallies grew longer and more intense. Even without sound I could feel the tension in the crowd as their Homeboy fought tooth and nail for every point.
When the death blow came the relief was palpable. I glanced about the gym for local reaction, realising almost immediately that no-one here would give a toss anyway. By virtue of them being in an airport hotel there was every chance that none of them were Swiss.
With the game over I slid one last time off the slippery seat and mounted something akin to an Aliens Powerloader. Giant footplates slid back and forth, propelling hand grips to and from me at waist height. I felt certain a false move would lead to evisceration or, worse, emasculation, so I grabbed the dancing hand-holds and found I could assist my ungainly stride by working them as well.
Ten minutes in and the readout showed I'd gone virtually nowhere. I was distraught, not to mention extremely warm and frustrated. Behind me a lithe blonde goddess flowed effortlessly on an identical machine at approximately four times my cumbersome pace. I redoubled my efforts to no avail. I reached for my iPhone.
'Andy? Hi, it's Ash -'
'Ash! Can I just say I'm watching a recording of today's R's match - DON'T TELL ME ANYTHING ABOUT TODAY'S FOOTBALL!'
'OK ... er, how the hell do you run on an elliptical trainer?'
I explained the nature of the beast and El Gordo, chuckling softly, explained how it works. I needed to extend my stride to get the most out of the experience. It worked. I could feel my glutes engage (Glaconman’s words rang in my ears as I did so) and, encouraged, ploughed on for a further twenty minutes. After a total of half an hour I'd covered approximately 1.8 kilometres. Andy assured me distance was irrelevant on these contraptions but I still felt cheated. Next time I’ll just plod around the block.
I did sneak in a swift half before we set off for my restaurant of choice en Genève - 'Spice of India'. Terrific Indian food cooked fresh to your precise instructions - as hot, spicy or as mild as you wish, washed down with a brace of Guinni across the street in the slightly surreal Lord Jim Pub. What’s great about the Lord Jim is the attractive and effervescent hostess, of unspecified Eastern European extraction, who fusses around you like a young mother hen insisting that you have food ‘or at least try some penis’. This was clearly her attempted pronunciation of ‘peanuts’ as opposed to an unusual and unwelcome offer. It made me giggle like a schoolboy the first time I heard it just as it did again last night. Little things ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I moved hotel for the third and final time yesterday, rocking up at Annecy, a French lakeside resort some 45 minutes south of Geneva. I have to say this is a stunning location, offering breathtaking views across Lake Annecy to the mountains beyond, lakeside running paths and all manner of interesting flora and fauna.
Having spent a lot of the day in my tiny little SEAT Leon speeding up and down Swiss motorways I set off for an evening plod. At eight thirty the air was thick with residual heat, offering a warm damp blanket in which to run. I set off east along the southern shoreline, exchanging grunted 'Bon Soir's with the cyclists and rollerbladers as they flew by. On the return journey I was delighted to spy one of a pair of Great Crested Grebes bobbing for supper. These birds are majestic, adorned with punky black crowns and a burnt orange flash on each cheek. When younger I used to draw and paint birds, usually copied out of one of my large, heavy bird books. The Great Crested Grebe engages in a complex pre-mating ritual that included a carefully choreographed bobbing of heads. If you ever indulged (as I did) in the curious thumbs-in-belt shoulder-to-shoulder-bob-weave-and-dip dance to Status Quo (denim jackets with patches de rigueur) you'll know exactly what I mean.
Earlier in the day I fulfilled a dream I've held for many years. Having seen the show open successfiully I high-tailed it up to the charming hilltop town of Gruyere. This ancient picture-postcard perfect enclave is surrounded by lush, sweeping valleys and vast looming mountains. It attracts all manner of tourists, on this occasion mostly retired folks in pastel shades pottering gently amongst the well appointed cheese shops and slightly tacky curio stalls. No, dear reader, I have not harboured a secret fetish to sport a diamond pattern sweater and interlope amongst the oldies, appealing as that may seem. I was here for Gruyere's other main attraction: the H R Giger Museum.
Hans Rudi Giger is the twisted, tortured soul behind the creature and much of the landscape in Alien. Regular visitors here may know I'm somewhat obessed with that film and all things connected to it. In 1979 (year of release) I spent money I could barely afford on a weighty tome of Giger's work, a collection of reduced sketches and airbrush paintings used to convey the nature of the beast to Ridley Scott's horrified model makers. Here, in this sleepy idyll, sits a monument to one man's terror, a genuine House of Horror. The museum is housed within the outbuildings of Gruyere's impressive (and outwardly benign) chateau. The rooms are suitably dark and dingy, adorned as they are by visions of hell.
The entrance offers a foretaste of what to expect. To the left of the door, out in the dappled sunlight, incongruous on the ancient cobblestones, stands a Biomechanoid. Rendered in polished silver this head and torso certainly owes something to the Alien creatures, being an apparent blend of flesh and metal. She (for it is most assuredly female) stands watch, ready to eviscerate anyone dumb enough to offer anything but head-bowed reverence. To the right one of Giger’s many pre-Alien works; a cutaway sculpture of a handgun. Again rendered in silver this wall-mounted display stands around one and half metres tall and shows the internal workings of a pistol, technically accurate and proportionate. The bullets however appear to be babies (or at least very small people) clutching semi-automatic weapons and dressed in goggles. They are soldiers of war, the suggestion being that they are born to fight, ready to be fired directly into conflict.
Opposite the museum is perhaps my very favourite place; the Giger Bar. This modest watering hole is festooned with the visceral imaginings of a man not afraid to confront his nightmares. Chairs cast from bovine spines and pelvic bones line up at the organic silver bar. Another biomechanoid appears to be coming through the wall above the entrance. In an alcove, behind seats apparently made from humanoid remains, stands a wall of grotesque babies' heads. The walls and ceiling of the bar climb out of the ground as if they've grown there, spinal plates interlocking, winding upwards to link in the murky shadows above.
Best of all they have Guinness. I sat in one of the heavy swivel chairs, sipping on my cool pint as the barmaid played her Best of Depeche Mode CD. We watched the startled faces of visitors returning from the Chateau tour as they peered inside. A few wandered in, bewildered, but they didn't stay long. I did; several hours in fact. I could have stayed for days.
I have to say that Switzerland is an outrageously beautiful country. Sweeping vistas greet the eye in all directions; fields of rich green grass populated by plump, gently lowing cattle replete with jangling bling, majestic, breath-taking snow-capped peaks abound. I wondered at the richness of it all as I fiddled with the radio dial, landing by chance on a most bizarre radio station. FM 74 Geneva is a total trip. It can be found on the web but in case you don't care to look it up here's a snippet I recorded as I drove back to Geneva:
How lucky I am that my job affords me moments like this. I pondered life’s occasional perks this evening as I slogged back towards my lakeside hotel, as well as what the good people of FM 74 might make of Herr Giger and his world. The sun had disappeared over the rim of the valley. The air had started to cool, a signal to all midges and other flying beasties to come out and bite. I rasped back up the hill, shirt translucent with sweat, breath short and ragged. Six plus kilometres in around thirty five minutes felt like much, much further.
Ah well. If you will sit around all day drinking Guinness in a house full of demons ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Is 'Cranial Osteopath' swanky enough? Caus I been there.
I've also been bemoaning the misfortune of a blocked eustachian tube, something that occurred when my left ear failed to 'pop' on descent into Gatwick from Geneva. It doesn't sound like much but it's thrown me for a loop and no mistake.
The pups went in for their nip-tuck ops a week ago last Thursday. The meant gentle walks on the lead post-op which removed a running opportunity. Hook that all up with regular 4 hour round trips to visit Mum in hospital and I've had little time for much other than work/ eat/ sleep.
Happily there is light at the end of the tunnel and it doesn't appear to be an onrushing train. The visit to the CO achieved a minor shift in the ear blockage, enough to return some balance and remove the sense that someone had left the TV on inside my head. Then Mum came out of hospital last Thursday (not totally fixed but well enough to get home) and the pups are fully healed and back in full flight. I celebrated with back-to-back runs to BlackCap over the weekend and another 6k yesterday. As I bash away at this remarkably small iPhone keypad I'm basking in another beautiful sunrise about to strap on my runners.
Here's to June, and progress.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Welcome back Sweder Hopefully we can catch up soon for a gentle plod. After the 100 mile relay this coming Saturday and recovering from two other races this week ...... for once ........ I do actually mean ...... gentle.
![[Image: glassesheath-robinson.jpg]](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZItgL_ILBMc/TQ91NN7n4uI/AAAAAAAALCs/1hnxGvc2KOk/s1600/glassesheath-robinson.jpg)
