When the police pull us over, we’re struggling. The car is weaving all over the road, fishtailing like a trout being tickled as my friend Pete wrestles with the wheel. “Pull over there,” gestures the gendarme with his hand. We look back at him helplessly: “We’re fucking trying!”
Thankfully, Pete isn’t all over the place because he’s drunk, and the police don’t want to breathalyze us. There’s simply so much snow we can’t keep the rental car in a straight line, let alone drive it uphill.
“The car is fishtailing like a trout being tickled as Pete wrestles with the wheel.”
“It’s better that you put your snow chains on here,” says the copper when we finally do manage to make it to the side of the road. But we’re in the town of Annecy, only 447 metres above sea level, and a long way from our final destination. If we need to put the snow chains on here, what the hell is it going to be like 1,850 metres up the mountain in Val d’Isere?