IT WOULD BE another couple of hours before the October sun reached the narrow valley floor. Over 3000 metres of rock, glaciers and snow slopes reared above me, still nursing the inky bruise of night. Only one peak was lit a brilliant orange, dressed in golden plumes of spindrift: Mont Blanc.
I stared at the awkward-looking arch marking both the beginning and end of the Tour of Mont Blanc. Do I walk under it? The plaza was deserted, yet still I felt self-conscious. Reluctantly, I ducked under (despite its 6-foot clearance) and headed along the road unsure if I was going in the right direction. To my left, a bearded man leaned against a wooden outhouse, enveloped in a cloud of steam and woodsmoke. I waved in acknowledgement and smiled. “Thé?” he enquired, nodding towards a blackened pot convulsing on an open fire. I nodded to the road ahead. “TMB,” I said. He raised his cup, called “Courage! Bon voyage!” then threw its dregs into the flames and reached towards the stove.
A DIFFERENT VIEW
The TMB (Tour of Mont Blanc) is one
