Le Motte is the only place its a hassle with the bus.

Skis in the back, poles ride shotgun. Driver wants some kind of writ which none of us have since we haven't needed it all week.

He grinds something at us about how stupid we all are and then goes inside to get himself punched a writ that he then blesses us with before heading on our merry way.

Dennis is having a bad day and the snow is rapidly degrading into some sort of hydraulic sludge.

I have dreams of altitude, of crossing the pass and skiing into the next town. The name is very evil to Western ears: Isolaccia. The badly isolated place.

Can't get there from here. No snow between the two. Maybe this is where all the locals have gotten off to as they are certainly not on the slopes.

Out the back 40 its some family on a break, some telemarker that I pass twice and myself out in the middle of nowhere. I am literally the only person on the lift just before lunch.

They have this great thing, maybe I have told you about it already. See. When you day isn't going so good you can go down to the bottom and they have this restaurant there. Yes, because its a restaurant its rather expensive, but you are paying to sit with a wonderful view and not have to deal with the melee going on at the bar upstairs and that is worth a few euro to you.

Sure it is. Look, they even have bresaola. They serve it properly with some greens, cheese and, oddly -- marinated mushroom slivers.

That and some pizoccheri hit the spot.

God bless this country where one actually has to specify: HALF a liter, just half.

The ride into town isn't half bad.

Packing is fine also.

Dinnertime everybody and their uncle is there, we've been relocated from our previous table, all the waitresses and the matre'd are there and he says:

"No, the pizzocheri is really good."

And I say "yes, I've only just had some. Let me at some of that soup..."

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