We’d been drifting through France in a hired car, Lyon behind us, the road unwinding like a loose thread. On a whim we turned east, chasing an old childhood dream I’d carried for years. Mont Blanc. As a kid I’d been spellbound by ski culture, the swagger of après life, the French way of making snow look like theatre. Mont Blanc had always been the hero image, the mountain that seemed to rise higher, look cooler, sparkle brighter.

By some miracle of timing we made it to Chamonix, the alpine cradle at its feet. We stood at the base of the Aiguille du Midi cable car, my ticket to the roof of Europe, only to realise we wouldn’t ride it. The lines were brutal, the day was slipping, and the tourists swarmed like ants on a bone. Chamonix became a compromise. We wandered its streets, ate pastries so perfect they dissolved before they were swallowed, and told ourselves it was enough.

But it wasn’t. I felt the sting of regret, the ache of not giving myself the hours to meet my hero up close. Mont Blanc stayed distant.

The sun caught the highest peak and bled tangerine gold down the ridges. I stood there, staring up, not knowing what I was looking at, but knowing it was as close as I’d get.

For now.

Check out the close-up!