I dug into the basket and pulled out the bottle of wine. Not much left I thought, which was hardly surprising considering the success of the previous evening’s Beaujolais Nouveau party. Still it might just be enough to warm us up. I shivered and wished I’d put the blanket over my shoulders instead of sitting on it.
The kids were racing along the slope, bread and sausage in hand, finding pockets of snow and kicking it at each other. My husband had finished his slices of cured ham and was hacking at a piece of cheese. Then he laid back for a quick siesta, face towards the sun, looking for the warmth which was notably absent at this altitude.
The impromptu picnic had been decided upon at lunchtime. I had thrown a couple of baguettes and the leftovers from the party into the basket and we had set off up the mountain. Half an hour later we were here, with views to Italy and the whole world to ourselves.