The abundant calm of nature had slowed our body clock to less pressing rhythms as we set off on a trekking trail that traced the contours of the Arve river. We were on the outskirts of Chamonix, a charming French resort-town at the foot of Mont Blanc. We walked through a tapestry of secretive pine forests and snow-kissed mountains and pondered on the fact that the natural world’s mood was show-offy! We were in the midst of an autumn sonata: the village and the forest beyond were mantled in flaming autumn colours amber, yellow, burgundy, earthy rust… there was so much beauty compressed in a small area.

Endearing sights

The clanging of cow bells rose over the happy chortling of the river that seemed to glissando into a broad valley. The world had paused to catch its breath and we too stopped at Les Bois, a village, where a delightful church rose over the sleeping hamlet in silent benediction.

Here we joined the locals who had gathered in the village church where the ancient gilded altar had been brought from Italy via the Alps. We participated in the service and felt uplifted as we lent our voices to the celestial singing.

After spending a pleasant morning exploring enchanted alpine villages dotted with rustic slate-roofed chalets in the midst of lush fields; peeping into homes with doors left hospitably open; drinking out of mountain streams that flowed into fountains carved out of logs of wood, we drove back to Chamonix. Here the backdrop is one of the most compelling in the world: a robust arc of snow-crusted peaks dominated by Mont Blanc—the highest in Europe. In sharp contrast to its dome-like snow-covered summit surged a series of jagged massifs like the knuckles of a giant gnarled hand, which inexplicably filled us with a sense of desolation and insignificance.

Height of things

The next morning we were almost up there but not quite. We swung up from the valley of Chamonix in two cable cars to the Aiguille du Midi (3,842m) or South Needle below Mount Blanc which soars to 4,810m (Mont Blanc is a protected area and cable cars do not go all the way to the top). After the rugged ride, we stood on an observation platform where a keen wind knifed through our bones even as we admired Mont Blanc as it preened and seemed to flex its granite muscles, with snow pouring down its massive shoulders.

The cinemascope views held us in thrall for a while… it was delicious. Standing there, we saw a few dots of neon on the Glacier du Geant that unravelled below us like a giant white carpet. The dots turned out to be intrepid men and women in blindingly radiant garb who were trekking up the punishing peaks; challenging the elements as they trudged for seemingly endless hours to reach elusive massifs; they would sleep in flimsy tents at night or in rustic refuges en route. To reach the summit of Mont Blanc takes two days or longer depending on individual skill and expertise though one man set a record of a little over five hours (breaking that record is now forbidden because of the hazards involved). Indeed the Aiguille du Midi is the starting point of many skiing trails in winter from where skiers schuss their way to the Italian side or the Swiss side of the Alps.

Head to Causeway Bay to sample some of Hong Kong’s most authentic, local cuisine. Budget eateries abound here, with local snacks along Jardine’s Bazaar, Tang Lung and Matheson streets. Brilliantly lit, many of the food stalls stay open until the early hours to cater to late diners. Bars, sushi parlours and other fine eateries along Sunning Road offer a mouth-watering alternative for an evening out.

Go all the way

A couple of hours later, we were swinging back down to Chamonix, over the grey, scarred weathered flanks of the mountain. Slowly, the cable car floated down into a forested world which was a cauldron of colours akin to a Cezanne painting. Once in the welcoming warmth of feisty Chamonix, we walked the winding cobble-stoned streets, past minimalist luxury boutiques, tea bars, brasseries and cafes made for idling. There was everything from haute couture to skiing gear; restaurants with highly regarded kitchens to snug wood-panelled inns and open-air cafes ideal for people watching.

Here cash-rich, time-poor travellers gather in search of a world of experience in a single destination, for Chamonix essentially is for those who wish to flex their muscles, climb a mountain or two, walk, hike, play golf or just chill in its scenic embrace. Today, it is a far cry from the untamed wilderness that it was when it was ‘discovered’ by two Englishmen who rode in from Geneva on donkeys. It took them six days! Chamonix’s endearing virtue is that it is eminently pleasing for the most demanding hedonist and yet it never seems like it tries too hard to please. That evening we chugged out of Chamonix in the red and white Mont Blanc Express which rocked its way through the depths of a forest where nature was at her exhibitionist best. As the train meandered through the mountains, the icy brow of Mont Blanc brooded up above, almost coaxing us to return. Memories of Chamonix came flooding back—birds holding raucous court early in the morning; walking on dry russet leaves that crunched noisily underfoot; the blazing colours of the first movement of the autumn sonata; the quiet of a village church; people smiling and chatting over cups of hot chocolate and coffee… In Chamonix everybody has a story to share.