Serre Chevalier buying weed

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Serre Chevalier buying weed

Oddly a couple of resorts in the big four Alpine nations also historically have low prices for booze along with perfume, cigarettes, etc. But you need to be careful if you do intend to light up a joint. Gambling is possible in lots of ski regions around the world, and many famous names have their own casinos. Basically if you think of any historic Alpine ski town, it most likely has a casino. Tremblant in Quebec, Canada, developed a whole new resort sector around its new casino over the last few years; of course Nevada, home of Las Vegas, is famous for its gambling and Heavenly, the Lake Tahoe resort which straddles the border with California, has vast casinos towering up in the middle of the resort a few inches after you cross the border. Nevada again. Austrian laws are fairly flexible, it seems, with larger restaurants able to allow smoking in a separate area but smaller bars and restaurants — including many in ski resorts — able to choose to continue to allow smoking. If you want to subscribe to our monthly newsletter, please submit the form below. Get all the latest ski news, gear reviews, snow reports and unmissable features direct to you inbox with our weekly ski update. Gambling Gambling is possible in lots of ski regions around the world, and many famous names have their own casinos. Get exclusive updates and offers!

The best places to snowboard in Europe

Serre Chevalier buying weed

We awoke in our corner in Marly Parc to a cacophony of singing birds and revving motorcycles. We paid up and headed south, away from Marseille towards the south coast. Our first stop was in the tourist town of Cassis. We managed to carefully squeeze into a space in the only motorhome-allowed area in town, tight to a weed-strewn rock on one side. The last space, steep and weedy, was very difficult to access due to lazy car drivers using the aire to go play tennis, rather than walk the 50m from the ample and empty car-parking further down the hill. From here we walked, stifled in the hot dry air, into town. We passed several lovely beaches, a thriving market and a busy marina, the centre buzzing with holiday-makers. We continued on around the coast, the crowds thinning as we left town. We were heading to a more special beach, the third of three celebrated coves. The first calanque was utilised as a long marina, lined on both sides with large sailboats. We followed a wide stony pathway thinking it would make a great aire, up and down following the rocky contours of the land. We reached the second calanque , Port Pin , a white pebbled beach with shining clear, inviting water that was close to seducing us to stop. Instead, we pushed on, 30 more minutes of sweaty walking through sparse woodland and up steep, dusty screes. Birds of prey soared and circled overhead. We dropped into what looked like a dead-end canyon, a fully enclosed cauldron surrounded by high cliffs. We had arrived at an utterly stunning stony beach, framed by tall cliffs, blue waters and thronged with people. Given the number of supine sun-worshipping bodies, the beach was very quiet — no children, no music playing, no loud chatting. Everyone here was of one mind — to relax in serene nature. We plopped down in a rare space on the white stones and spent the rest of the day sunbathing, swimming and people-watching. Some visitors had a more sedate arrival by kayak or canoe around the headland from Cassis , swelling the ranks on the beach. Others climbed the imposing cliffs and chose precarious perches on flatter rocks on which to rest, or jump into the calanque. The waters glowed with turquoise luminosity in the bright sunlight, inviting us often into their soft, majestic coolness. Having cooked ourselves sufficiently, we made the difficult decision to tear ourselves away from this little slice of paradise. We made our way slowly back, following the same route, passing the other calanques that no longer impressed us the same after seeing ours. Once we returned to Cassis we spent some time around the marina and in the quiet town streets, browsing in colourful stores. When we returned up the hill to where Benny awaited we found most of the cars had gone, enabling us to move to a more suitable and flatter parking space to overnight. The street was quiet, a no-through road, and only two other vans joined us. We enjoyed an exploratory walk around the tennis club site and buildings after dinner as the sun was setting, a simple restful stroll in the cool night air. We made a point of avoiding the tiny streets of Cassis. There were lots of spacious pull-off spots where a short walk led to a grand vista over the sea, and we took advantage of many as we snaked along. The road cut back inland when nearing the next town, La Ciotat. We tried to stop for a look but could find nowhere amenable to motorhomes, so had to keep moving. We drove the sea front of Saint-Cyr-sur-Mer , the most obvious resort town we passed, then along the busy roads and full beaches of Bandol to reach our destination, an ASCI campsite on the outskirts of Sanary-sur-Mer. As we flopped onto our pitch, the heat of the day, now reaching low 30s, sucked away our desire to move or explore. After a competitive game of table tennis under a shady tent not too competitive, Nicky trounced me , we lounged by their lovely pool, reading, dipping and dozing. This was more like it. The next morning was a different beast — a strong, wild wind blasted across the site. It was blustery, demented at times, shaking every tree and blowing up dust clouds from the dry dirt; not a day for resting by the pool. Instead, we chose a bracing exploratory coastal walk, back through Sanary-sur-Mer and on to a pointed headland called Pointe de la Cride. The morning brought calmness and sun, a long way from the aberration of the previous day. We ran an easy 2km downhill to the Plage de Portissol in the morning, relaxing and swimming often to cool off in the sticky heat. Huge banks of seagrass were stacked up on one side of the beach, but clearly not enough, as we still had to wade through five soupy metres of it to get to clear open water. We took turns having longer swims out to the extent of the buoys in the bay, it feeling good to use our arms rather than legs. After an afternoon back at camp we returned to the marina early evening. There were market stalls, talented painters selling canvases, a harnessed rigging climb for kids, and some competitive water-based jousting. The weather was too good for a restaurant, so we ate takeaway pizza and watched the various spectacles, enjoying a slice per bench as we moved around the crowded marina. We left Remoulins late morning, and after an hour and a half of easy dual carriageway we arrived in Sausset-les-Pins , the location of our first organised 10km well, Here we got our first true glimpse of the Mediterranean. We wanted to arrive early to ensure a space in the free aire We settled in, ate lunch then cycled the two kilometres down to the beach and picked out a space to flop into. We had occasional dips in the shallow bay, clambering over rocks carpeted with soft algae to reach the clear, cool water. But mostly we lay still, slowly roasting under the heat of the afternoon sun. We turned ourselves like burgers on a grill to ensure an even cooking, dripping hot sweat like fat on the white stones. We had to rest up — we had plans for the next morning. A 7am alarm, a quick breakfast and an easy cycle back to the seafront. Before we left home we had signed up for an We locked up the bikes and warmed up, readying ourselves for the off. Over runners were taking part, a larger event than we anticipated, but there was a welcome, friendly buzz. The morning was hot muggy grey, with flashes of distant lightning and growls of thunder and we had two short downpours to dodge. Each left the air cooler, but thicker and sticky; difficult running conditions. We set off exactly at 9am, following the coastline before cutting inland up a few dusty hills. Our tops were instantly soaked through with sweat, the humidity making a sodden mess of us. Fifty-eight hot minutes of crowded countryside trails later we arrived back at the start, drained and gasping in the heavy air. We helped ourselves to drinks, fruit and cake, picked up our finishing gift a neat rucksack rather than a T-shirt and our free beer and retired to the beach for a cooling-off swim. There are few pleasures better than the joyful relaxing after a hard run, and we revelled in the restful simplicity of our sweat-removing dips. Revitalised and fresh, we left the beachfront in Sausset-les-Pins and, after navigating our way through the markets, returned to Benny to eat lunch and pack up. We were moving on, down through the centre of Marseille to reach Marly Parc , a paid aire south of the city and, from an overnighting perspective, the only game in town. Our drive took us through the central streets of the city and the thriving heart of the Old Port, and even from within our van we could feel the historic grandeur. We arrived in Marly Parc This was to be our base to explore the rugged coastlines within the Parc National des Calanques. A quiet night of gentle planning led to preparing our bikes and we packing enough snacks and water to see us through a lazy afternoon. We set off, under hot, clear skies, thinking the 6km ride to the beach would be a simple, casual affair, an easy jaunt. But we had vastly underestimated the terrain we had to cross over to reach it, and joined others heading our way in pushing our bikes up most of the extremely steep 4km long hill. Once over the top we swooped down the last 2km on the opposite side to the sea, all the time aware that we would have to repeat the effort back up. We rolled into the Calanque de Sormiou , locked our bikes to a tree and walked to the water, joining hundreds of others who shared our plans today. The popularity of the main beach fuelled our decision to skirt around the back of the bay and explore wider. A dusty path led to a couple of small beautiful-looking beaches in hidden coves. Descending to the first and removing our shoes meant we could paddle and scramble over a rocky outcrop to reach the less accessible second beach. At this time of day it was in partial shade, so had only attracted a few others. Reclining on our towels we marvelled at the beautiful clear blue waters lapping a few short steps from us. We had refreshing dips in the calm waters as small boats and larger yachts edged into the calanque , providing us with a murmur of friendly noise and pleasant people-watching opportunities. An afternoon of intermittent swimming, sunscreen application, lunch nibbling, book reading, careful hydration and general relaxing kept us fully occupied for several slow and pleasant hours. The return journey saw us slowly grinding the gears and pedalling away from the coast. In contrast to our fast downhill approach, our speed on the return was slow enough to truly take in the beautifully craggy limestone valley that had been our host for the day. With a few brief breathers on picturesque corners and one bout of pushing our bikes, their handlebars higher than our heads, we soon made the summit of the pass. From there, a quick provision stop at a nearby supermarket and a couple of simple kilometres led us back to Benny. We remained at Marly Parc that night, quietly enjoying a couple of chilled beers tucked away in the shady warmth of our private little corner. In the times between our trips away in Benny, we have been pleased and excited to be able to host a procession of visitors from the UK. The first overseas guests of the year were friends from Northampton, Cathy and Graham. They arrived to stay for a relaxing week in May, with some gentle exploring punctuated with tasty meals and long bouts of relaxing. Unfortunately their visit coincided with the worst weather of the season. We had to deal with a cold snap and a biting wind that forced us to retreat indoors for every meal and wrap up in coats for local walks. Graham, although their visit was billed as time away from work for all of us , was keen to assist with a couple of on-going projects around our grounds. So, whilst the girls relaxed or pottered in the garden, we took a few hours each day to mix concrete and build stone walls. The first project was a low-level corner to level off the area around our pool so that we could add a paved surround at a later date. The second, a multi-day affair, was to rebuild a collapsed wall in one of our stone out-buildings, rebuilding the reveals and adding a chunky oak lintel above an existing window opening before closing in the stonework above. Both of these were of immense help as they would have taken me months to get to and Graham enjoyed the change and the challenge. They also made our evening beers taste that little bit better for the satisfaction of a job well done. We inspected the vast array of colourful porcelain items available in one nearby specialist store. Three of us went out for a couple of hilly rural runs. They had stalls selling everything from cheeses to cockerels, hunting dogs to hats, but we came away with huge loaves of bread and a fantastic strawberry tart. We visited Limoges on a clear, bright but still chilly day, walking miles around the central streets. We solemnly walked through the village of Oradour-sur-Glane , learning about the atrocity. We baked, we cooked, we ate, we drank. We even swam once, in our still cold pool 17 degs at the time , but for the refreshing shock rather than the exercise. This was a more sedate and shorter visit, and the weather was kinder. We did much of the same things as before, only with more emphasis on the relaxing downtime. We strolled around a local lake and along a voie verte, mixing exercise and fresh air with time resting in the sun. This visit took on a more poignant feel as we realised that he was the exact age now as many of the murdered children would have been if they had lived. We looked at their photos, only 10 years old, and thought about what kind of lives they could have led, what they could have achieved, and how the future was cruelly taken from them all. It underlined our privileged existence. We had exactly two weeks until our next visitors arrived. We used these days to complete a few more jobs and tidy up a few more corners of our home. A few days before their planned arrival a strange package arrived with us from Amazon. Neither of us could remember ordering anything, so our interest was firmly piqued. On examination, we realised it had been sent to us from our soon-to-arrive guests. On opening it, we found it was a 8-person raclette set and grill, perfect for interactive fun meals with friends. Very naughty of them to be buying gifts. We drove to the airport to pick up the gang. This time the weather was firmly on our side. A solid week of grey-skies sodden with rain broke the day before their arrival and bright clear, sunny skies held until the day after they left. They should visit more often. It was a balmy 20 degs first thing in the morning, climbing to 31 degs in the shade at its daily peak. The nights dropped to no less than 14 degs, but often held higher. Our time together was focused on long tasty meals, local walks and lazy days around the pool. The guys wanted to help with a few jobs, and chose to assist with adding timber battens to our blockwork pool shed. Together we decided a tighter spacing was required and no stain, that letting the battens grey naturally was best. Bringing out all their mathematical and architectural skills, the guys got down to work. Ollie manned the tape-measure and chop-saw, providing Jon and I with correctly sawn lengths of batten to nail carefully into position. Another huge thanks to for a job well done, and for the delivery of beers to site by the ladies. We ate every meal, breakfast lunch and dinner, in the breezy shade of our veranda. We spent long lazy evenings chatting, eating and drinking, catching up with our varied lives. A favourite meal was when we agreed to a first use of our new raclette. We all ate far too much, covering mountains of potatoes with self-melted cheese and various charcuterie slices, chunks of baguette, roasted tomatoes, buttered courgettes, leafy salads, mushrooms, fried eggs and much more. We ate until full, paused for a drink and a chat, then ate more. This was what days in France were made for; warm nights, fine food, great friends. We hope to be able to welcome everyone back again very soon. We said our goodbyes as clouds began to slowly gather, our hosting now complete, for a while at least. We have entered a few 10km races to add a skeleton of structure to our travel plans, but beyond those fixed dates our days are open, free and easy, so we will see where the winds and our whims take us. We sneaked away from the watery paradise of Empuriabrava back inland, with the idea of heading back to France. Our road leading out of Spain, the N11 north from Figueres , was lined with what appeared to be prostitutes, glamour girls in high heels and very little else, waving and bending over provocatively for the passing traffic. There was one woman every metres or so, each taking ownership of a junction or a scruffy parking lay-by. Most had an eastern European look, some looking grumpy and bored, others over-enthusiastic. It was certainly a strange and unexpected sight in the pre-lunch sunshine on Good Friday morning. A few hours later we were in a very different setting, parked up in a friendly Olive Farm on the outskirts of Trouillas , near to Perpignan. There were no gesticulating ladies of the day nearby, but instead a plethora of olive oil products to taste, products to browse and sunshine to enjoy. The producer, Les Oliviers de la Canterrane , had a wonderful free aire and, after making a few tasty purchases, we settled in for an afternoon of lazy sun-worshipping. The weather we had hoped for had finally arrived, just after we left Spain behind. We were blissfully alone most of the day, but around 4pm a string of vans suddenly appeared, slowly bringing the Olive Farm visitors today up to eight strong. After a slow morning we said our goodbyes, heading north-west. We followed the main road north to Narbonne and then took back roads, cutting through the gorgeous Haut-Languedoc Regional Nature Park. The road was wide and clear, empty of other traffic and perfectly undulating for a combination of easy driving and beautiful views. Looking around for pretty places to visit on our route, we settled on the village of Lautrec , north of Castres. After a few tries we found a simple parking area suitable for motorhomes just outside the village walls As is usual, we gravitated first to the stone church and the neat surrounding squares. We circled through their gardens, watching as the views over the countryside unfurled in front of us. We stood a while and picked out the route we had taken to arrive here, both on road from Spain and on foot through the village. The windmill was available for visits but we declined in favour of roaming their brightly flowering gardens. We dropped back into the neat stone village and passed through the narrow streets, slowly making our way back to where Benny was parked. In late afternoon we stopped at a small aire in Labastide-Marnhac , just short of Cahors. This was to be our final stop before arriving back home. On one occasion a long procession of tooting cars slowly passed, marking the happy couple either arriving or leaving. Otherwise, it was entirely serene, the surrounding trees filled with bright blossom. The only other notable occurrence was when a Belgium couple, fully settled in with the best corner site in the aire since before we arrived, packed up their awning and left around 8pm; to go where? It seemed a strange call so late on. But we enjoyed one last night of simplicity and quiet before returning to our long list of jobs to do at home. Waking up at Nanclares la Oca we found the overhead planes had now paused but the traffic flow had increased, leaving the humming background noise much the same. We followed the river Zadorra south on a free motorway before suddenly remembering our Wild Swimming Spain book had described a few tempting places in this area. We walked through the empty stone streets, walls lit in bright sun or hidden in deep shade. We first found a street-level balcony that offered wonderful views over the river and what we assumed was an old mill pond, replete with ducks and egrets. This was the spot. We found another street that led down to the old stone bridge where, courtesy of a weir underneath, the deep pond began. We had no deep desires to swim today, as despite the occasional bout of bright sun the air had a real sharpness, the chill of winter-coming, and we imagined the water similar. But the setting was beautiful and we enjoyed imagining the thrills of dipping here, in this joyous rural setting, on too-hot summer days. This was another wonderful looking swim spot, surrounded by tall reeds, overhanging trees and even a concrete platform with a niche to fit a diving board to, it likely stored for winter safe-keeping. There were reddish crayfish exploring the pool shallows and we wondered if they were local, or an invasive species who simply thrived in this region, like us. We watched them squabble a while as they foraged at the edges. We next planned to stop in Miranda de Ebro , but a police car was blocking the entry road into the aire for unknown reasons, so we decided to keep moving. Chris and Nadine, whom we met at Ulibarri-Gamboa lake , had recommended driving the northern bank of the Ebro, from a nearby dam into the deep mountain gorges, so we now took this advice. The first few kilometres were industrial lands, all pipework and chimneys, corrugated tin and rusting gates — an inauspicious start. But soon we turned left, off the main road and onto one that closely hugged the river banks. This was a different drive now. The road snaked like the river, the right side a crumbling cliff face and the left all high gorges, rugged and pitted, their tops hidden in low cloud. The blue-grey river flowed fast beside us, its surface churned confusingly in straight lines, like a boat wake but constantly renewed from below. We passed the dam and continued west, further into the mountainous gorge. We drove 10km more before turning around and retracing our steps along the same stretch, seeing it again from a different but equally engrossing perspective. The aire was reopened on our return but it was scruffy and rough, so we decided to move on rather than visit Miranda centre. We chose Casalarreina , and we were so pleased we did. The drive there was classic Spain; over steep mountain passes leading to wide open plains. There were grey jagged mountain peaks behind with dusty stubble fields in front, a scattering of occasional tall trees in yellows and reds, masses of dying sunflowers with drooping heads and unending rows of well-tended vines, their leaves beginning to turn orange or red for autumn. This was all so close by yet a world apart from the ugly industrial installations on the outskirts of Miranda de Ebro. We easily found the quiet aire in Casalarreina , set behind a walled monastery, each bay overhung by beautiful willow trees. We were the only guests; it was utterly serene. The village had a gentle, calm feel about it, with a small river and tuneful distant church bells. We saw a few locals working on the church walls, some walking dogs and others pushing prams, all seemingly contented. We would be happy to call this our home for a few days. We slept well after our night run in Bilbao and lazily packed up to head the 35 minutes east to visit the rebuilt town of Guernica , or Gernika in the local language. The morning was light with clear skies, making bright a town with a tormented history. Not many historic buildings remain due to extent of bombing raids during the Spanish Civil War. We reached the Parque de los pueblos de Europa, where we walked on leafy paths by a trickling stream, ending in a grassy meadow where several sculptures sat. Henry Moore and local Basque sculptor Eduardo Chillida had both created works to pay homage to the trials of the people of Guernica. The Moore sculpture was an abstract figure wrapped in shell-like shapes, representing the deep instinct of individuals to seek comfort, refuge, protection, refuge, the primordial urge to feel safe. It seemed poignantly appropriate. We passed the cathedral and market square, mostly untouched in the bombings, and walked through the currently empty market square, gently exploring at a slow pace. The highest governing body in the region, the Assembly House is seen as a living symbol of the history of the Basque people. Its oval Assembly meeting room, plush with red cushioned benches and portraits of previous leaders, is where Plenary meetings of the current General Assembly occur. Outside, the Tree of Gernika , a symbolic oak tree, is planted within a small formal garden in front of a neo-classical portico. The ceiling of a large function room tells the history of the oak tree and how it is intrinsically connected to the Basque people, as a place of meeting and discussion. The old trunk, planted around CE, is the oldest surviving remains of previous tree incarnations. It was replaced by a successor in , and that tree lived through two World Wars and a Civil War, surviving until The trunk of the old tree, the one planted in and survivor of the bombing raids, is now stood proud within a circular stone portico in the grounds. A new tree replacing this historic one was planted in , at 15 years old, as a symbolic continuation of the Basque spirit, renewed by each new generation, but never changing nor faltering. We stopped briefly in Artea for a bite of lunch, where we were bravely approached by two 8yo Spanish girls curious about us, and after our first greetings in Spanish we had them practising simple English Where are you from? What is your name? Less than a mile later we stopped again in Areatza , walking along the river through a pretty square to visit a tourist office that was unhelpfully closed until 4pm. So again, back in Benny and through steep-sided rolling countryside bright with rusty autumn colourings, similar to Limousin where we now live, except with fields here were full of sheep rather than cows. We reached Gorbeiako Parke Naturala on tiny, single track roads, expecting the visitor centre parking to be empty. Instead, it was mostly full, with dog and hillwalkers, campers, motorhomers and picnickers all around the ample parking area. After some deliberation we choose a spot and parked up, then visited the Interpretation Centre for a look at their exhibits. Late at night we could hear jangling bells, and although we could see nothing in the darkness we assumed a large wind chime must be hung in the trees nearby. We could see no sign of anything in the morning light and it was much later that we decided it may have been a flock of rogue sheep sneaking around, as the flocks on the hills all made similar sounds. We were parked at around m, so we only had an ascent of around m to contend with. The route was a rather dull path, a driveable, gravel road for most of the way, and low cloud prevented us seeing much of a view. We grasped occasional glimpses of the tree-lined valleys to each side during short breaks in the cloud cover, but only for a few seconds at a time. We passed a few hardy long-haired horses and a lot of grazing sheep, many wearing the tinkling bells we had heard throughout the night. Combined with the browning bracken, pine trees, prickly gorse bushes with small yellow-flowers and tiny, budding purple crocuses, this could have been any mountain slope in Scotland or Ireland. Nearing the top, the cloud got thicker, visibility dropped to tens of metres and an icy wind blasted us from the west. Exposed and feeling battered, we spent short seconds at the summit, pausing only for a hurried photo with the decorative trig point set below a metal tower structure, then began a hasty descent. Within minutes we escaped the bank of dense cloud and regained solace from the harsh wind, allowing us to begin warming up again. We jogged short stretches to ease wear on our knees and to aid the warming process. This descent, by the same route, was memorable only for us finally seeing our first other walkers of the day, near the bottom of the trail — three men with walking poles and wicker baskets, and we thought them likely to be mushroom hunters. The centre had told us the walk would be 3. We enjoyed a well-earned lazy afternoon in Benny, snug away from the wind. A later short pre-dinner walk led us to discover a nearby area of beautifully expressive and wild beech trees, long-fingered, knotted and gnarly, photos of which had initially brought us to this park. We had nearly missed them, yet they stood in all their wonderful, twisted majesty, set in a thick blanket of crispy copper leaves, only metres behind where we had parked. Share this: Twitter Facebook. Like Loading Subscribe Subscribed. Aaron and Nicky's travels. Sign me up. Already have a WordPress. Log in now. Loading Comments Email Name Website. Design a site like this with WordPress.

Serre Chevalier buying weed