//on top of the world
It was Sunday, the holy day; I ascended to the heavens.
From London, a flight to Turin. A bus to the train. A train to Ivrea. Another train to Pont Saint Martin. A bus to Gressoney la Trinite. Each town a little smaller and a little higher until finally a ten minute ride up a ski lift to a small mountainside bar called Punta Jolanda. Phill met me there and we embarked on the one hour hike up the mountain to Orestes Hutte. So here I am.
The Hutte is a ski retreat in the Italian Alps. The ski‑lift ride, an hour's walk below us, took me through the treetops and through the clouds. Now, as I glance up through the wide window I can look beyond the balcony to a small road, meandering as only mountain roads do down through the peaks. I can see snow adorning the mountainside, interrupting the grass that dances in the wind like ocean waves. A small blue lake twinkles in the triangle of the valley; beside it is a shed that houses the hydro electrics. The clouds are scarpering eastwards, the chill wind chasing them away to leave behind a vacant blue sky. The sun throws shadows through the rocks and there is barely a sound.
The Hutte is owned by my friend Phill's girlfriend and her family. Marta and her brother Emil run the place, with the help of various travellers, a cook, and Phill. In winter they cater to tourists and local skiers but in summer tourists are few, so I have my own room downstairs. The main room upstairs houses a small library and bar, with an outlook across the mountains.
As much as possible, they arekind to the environment here. In winter the food is stored in a concrete space that surrounds the house like a verandah: in summer the same space provides insulation. This summer has been the coldest and wettest that Marta can remember, but to a girl from Australia it is nevertheless beautiful.
After I arrived yesterday we sat around and chatted in various languages. Marta showed me a tea that changes colour as you brew it. First the water turns blue, then violet, then orange, yellow and finally settles on a muddy transparency. She said that while pretty, it doesn't taste like anything much at all.
Not to be outdone, the sun also put on a display, casting pink light across the sky as it went to bed at 9pm. In keeping with the colourful evening, the chef made an orange risotto (amazing) and we shared a local wine, swappped stories and laughed. Finally I went to bed around 11 and arose this morning to the bella vista I've described.
For the next few days I will meditate, do some yoga, increase the number of red blood cells in my body (thin air up here) and rest. Already life feels slow and the world is quiet.
It was Sunday, the holy day; I ascended to the heavens.
From London, a flight to Turin. A bus to the train. A train to Ivrea. Another train to Pont Saint Martin. A bus to Gressoney la Trinite. Each town a little smaller and a little higher until finally a ten minute ride up a ski lift to a small mountainside bar called Punta Jolanda. Phill met me there and we embarked on the one hour hike up the mountain to Orestes Hutte. So here I am.
The Hutte is a ski retreat in the Italian Alps. The ski‑lift ride, an hour's walk below us, took me through the treetops and through the clouds. Now, as I glance up through the wide window I can look beyond the balcony to a small road, meandering as only mountain roads do down through the peaks. I can see snow adorning the mountainside, interrupting the grass that dances in the wind like ocean waves. A small blue lake twinkles in the triangle of the valley; beside it is a shed that houses the hydro electrics. The clouds are scarpering eastwards, the chill wind chasing them away to leave behind a vacant blue sky. The sun throws shadows through the rocks and there is barely a sound.
The Hutte is owned by my friend Phill's girlfriend and her family. Marta and her brother Emil run the place, with the help of various travellers, a cook, and Phill. In winter they cater to tourists and local skiers but in summer tourists are few, so I have my own room downstairs. The main room upstairs houses a small library and bar, with an outlook across the mountains.
As much as possible, they arekind to the environment here. In winter the food is stored in a concrete space that surrounds the house like a verandah: in summer the same space provides insulation. This summer has been the coldest and wettest that Marta can remember, but to a girl from Australia it is nevertheless beautiful.
After I arrived yesterday we sat around and chatted in various languages. Marta showed me a tea that changes colour as you brew it. First the water turns blue, then violet, then orange, yellow and finally settles on a muddy transparency. She said that while pretty, it doesn't taste like anything much at all.
Not to be outdone, the sun also put on a display, casting pink light across the sky as it went to bed at 9pm. In keeping with the colourful evening, the chef made an orange risotto (amazing) and we shared a local wine, swappped stories and laughed. Finally I went to bed around 11 and arose this morning to the bella vista I've described.
For the next few days I will meditate, do some yoga, increase the number of red blood cells in my body (thin air up here) and rest. Already life feels slow and the world is quiet.
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