St. Martin Visubie

Around Nice the French Alps come close to the sea. It's not far to reach the snow and that's our mission. Through a narrow gorge and up the mountain roads leads us to St. Martin. Another 12th century town at the end of a high valley surrounded by white mountain peaks. Part of the river located near the town is diverted through the old main street. Constantly rushing down a gutter through the middle of the walkway, the icy water was used as a source of fresh water to wash and clean. Even while having lunch, the municipal workers came by with a 6 inch plastic elbow on a rope and a broom to clean the street. The elbow was used for diverting the water onto the side of the walkway and connecting courtyards. One man held the elbow while the other swept the grime of the cobble stone streets. Along the way the said hello to the shop keepers and gave the french kiss kiss - talked awhile and then back to work they went. The sun dried the streets in a short while and we used the man made stream to clean our slippers.

We drove to Borion which was further up the valley and started on a hike along side a rushing mountain stream. Quickly diverting away from the stream, the trail began to move up a steep ridge and toward a high mountain lake. At least that was the plan. Instead we ran into some deep snow and lost our shoes in the holes. After retrieving our foot wear, I tried to push further on like any man worth his weight. I didn't get much further as the snow got deeper and the top of the ridge wasn't any where in sight. I retreated by sliding down the snow in my shorts and wet shoes. 

On the way back to St. Martin we spocked a town high up on a ridge with the sun still highlighting the church tower. It was a 5 min. investigation into a beautiful town with a godly view of the valley and mountains. The mobile cheese and sausage van parked at the little town square and operated by a fat old man provided a good source of olive oil, sausage, and pasty provence honey. The honey on fresh baked bread with butter was a prize.

The drive home landed us again in Biot, Nicoles little hideaway. We stopped at the hotel, which in fact, did have the tables out in the street. The old man who owned the place chided us for not making reservations. "You were terrible" he sweetly said to Nicole. The church was having a musical event in it's spacious cloister and he expected a large crowd from it and the restaurant was already full. They found us a table and our waiter took our order on the table cloth, writing everything down according to the seating arrangement. I ordered rabbit and he wondered if Ava was going to have some as well. She said, "it's too sad". Off he went with our order written right on our table, and his high water pants jacked up his croch. Thankfully another gentleman came by to organize ordering of the food. He looked down at the table cloth and nodded his head in acknowledgment,  and reading off everyone's choices. It all ended at 11 and another hour and a  half drive. The cappucino  didn't help much, but my copilot helped through out the drive. She isn't a designated driver yet as the autoroutes left her quivering after a scant 10 minutes. She keeps me awake by talking sweet nothings.