Five years in Grenoble

FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur. -- Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

- Tintern Abbey by William Wordsworth

Well five years have passed and we are still here in France, awed by the mountains all around us. Grenoble is a valley in the Rhone Alps region, a triangle surrounded by three mountain ranges Vercors, Belledonne and Chatreuse . Stendhal, an author from Grenoble famously wrote about his home town, “At the end of every road there is a mountain”. I wonder if he was speaking metaphorically. Perhaps down every path in life there is an obstacle we must climb. I, however, rarely see mountains as a problem one has to overcome. To me there is something very spiritual about them. Every time I look up, I feel uplifted. Most cultures believe that the Almighty resides somewhere above us. Heaven is above, Hell is down below. Perhaps that is imbedded in all our psyches, believers or non-believers; that to look up is to revere something which is beyond human power, above all the pettiness and deceit that thrive in our petrol-fumed, urban lives.

I have often been asked by the local people (usually ex-Parisiens) “Do you find the mountains oppressive?” and my answer is always a surprised No. For the Hindus, mountains are holy places where ash covered hermits retreat from the world to meditate. It is the abode of the Gods. The faithful walk up the mountains to Paradise, never looking back. It’s the “no looking back” that is a key thing to ex-pat life. Look forward, embrace the present, and above all enjoy what the country has to offer.

We certainly do. Our lives have changed in as much as we are now empty-nesters and therefore take full advantage of rekindling our youth, hanging out in bars and cafés, going to movies, taking weekend breaks away in South of France or Turin in Italy. Our palates have tasted such fine wines, and cheeses that I am afraid of becoming a food snob soon, turning up our noses at wines from vineyards we don’t know or insisting on Comté  that has matured for at least 18 months. Luckily for our friends living outside France we have not yet reached that stage and will eat just about anything. Our culinary tastes vary from pie and mash to tête de veau, not forgetting our delicious Indian cuisine. I have to say Grenoble has still much to learn about the latter so we head off to London or Paris for a masala dosa (crispy rice pancakes filled with savoury potatoes) or if we’re lucky to Kolkata.

Marrow bones L'os à moelle