I’ve been meaning to get up there.
The Puy de Dome is like the symbol of Auvergne, the French region we live in, and it looms up over the city like a pert boob.
You can’t miss it.
Everyone says the view is amazing, something like 1400m high. They also said it was a 45 minute walk to the summit from the highest car park, so I’ve been a little hesitant to conquer her in the heat of summer.
Last weekend though, it was cooler. A little cloudy, maybe a little rainy. But it would clear, especially on the top of the mountain – we’d be high above the weather.
I recruited a friend, and with her Jack Russell in tow, we headed for the summit.
It wasn’t really raining, we assured ourselves; it’s just mist. We’ll warm up once we get going.
Thirty minutes later, approaching the peak, we were caught in a whipped fog, hair plastered to our faces, sweatshirts damp.
Little Harry was slick with rain.
But we pushed on.
And we made it. To this.
So I didn’t see a damn thing.
But you know; I loved it. It was fucking miserable, and cold and you might even say completely pointless.
But it was an experience. Something a little different. We couldn’t believe we’d gone up there, and we were absolutely exhausted. I thought it was a pretty successful day.
Sometimes sightseeing is more fun when it’s not perfect. And sometimes it’s not all about seeing the sights.
