Lonely Mountains: The White Peak
My memory of those weeks at the feet of the alps, over thirteen years ago, is so erroded that I want to affect the tone of a yarn or fairy-tale. Once upon a time, I flew into Geneva. The airport could have been a series of beige and gray arches punctuated with metal detectors and Swiss customs agents speaking to me in polite, accented English; we shared an awkward chuckle about their counterpartsā¦












