The Mountain Air

It’s cold here, up in the mountains. From the stifling streets of Venice to the snow-capped peaks of Cogne, it’s quite a change. When we leave the house we have to wrap up in coats and when the piercing sun fights its way through the clouds we joyfully peel off our layers.

The air is different too. Breathing in is like inhaling one of those ‘mountain fresh’ air fresheners. Although of course this isn’t artificial, it’s the sweet breath of firs and grass and life. Yesterday tractors came to cut the meadow grass. Now hay bales cast shadows over the golden fields; this summer ritual contrasts with the icy peaks of the Gran Paradiso mountain range, looming over like fierce guards.

The food here is incredible as well. On Friday we visited the best restaurant in town and I ate the most astounding spinach tart, perched in the middle of a cheese fondue lake and bordered by fleshy smoked trout. This place hasn’t won awards for nothing you know. I’ve also eaten polenta for the first time, laden with melted local cheese, oh and the fruit: the peaches, the raspberries, blueberries, plums, all plump and oozing the goodness of this mountain  air.

Staying here isn’t like working, in fact, I’m treated like a queen. We eat out almost daily (wonderful, but not great for the waistline) and in terms of babysitting, well, I take the children to play mini-golf occasionally and try in vain to teach them English. So it seems I have it easy; living my temporary life, in this secluded mountain town.