To Ski, or Not To Ski? What A Daft Question.

How many times have you looked at a news item in the last few months that read ‘Three Foot of Snow and Artic Temperatures to hit the UK in Two Weeks’ or something like it, and then two weeks later you’re turning the heating down and talking about the Spring like weather? It’s almost as if the media are wishing it on us, and I for one can cheerfully live without it. I am not built for snow, never have been. I don’t like the cold and am happiest snuggled up in a warm spot, with a book and a nice hot drink, or sat in some sunny corner of a balcony in Sitges with a book and a cold drink.

When I was a child, one of my favourite treats was when we took a cottage in Rosedale for a week. It took us long enough to get there, as having no car it was two bus rides and a long walk, but there was always a warm welcome awaiting us from Mum’s relatives.

We would stay in Primrose Cottage which was next door to Mum’s elderly Aunt and Uncle. Auntie Lily would have been baking all day ready for our arrival and Uncle Fred would usually set a fire as it was often Easter time and, as you know it can be quite cold at that time of the year. The cottage was simply a two up, two down with no running water or electricity and a privy down the field. Our cooking facilities were an Aladdin burner and I have no idea how Mum managed to make any meals on it for the four of us, although I suspect Auntie Lily helped out a lot. We collected water in a bucket from a spring that gushed out of the hillside behind the next cottage and the job of getting a wash was, shall we say primitive to say the least.

We would walk across the muddy fields in our wellingtons, with our feet getting colder and colder and sadly that always did it for me. This little creature of comfort couldn’t wait for the end of the week; I wanted to go home. Away from these lovely people with the spring daffodils, the beautiful countryside and the barns where the lambs were being born, and the farmhouse teas. I just wanted to be warm.

After all of that, fast forward a couple of decades and you may be surprised to know that I decided to learn to ski. It all began when Penny, a friend I had made at work, asked if I would like to go with her to Harrogate where a new dry ski slope had just opened. And so it was that every Friday evening we would jump in her car after work and drive through to Harrogate for our lesson, even though Paul and I had made no plans for a skiing holiday. The fact that it was autumn, not too cold and the ski run was a plastic mat probably helped, because I wasn’t too bad at it.

Winter came, Penny went off on her holiday and the skiing lessons came to an end. But by that time Paul was getting quite keen on the idea of skiing. Then I found out that Olive, another friend had got involved in the making of a television programme about learning to ski, and after watching it the bug had bitten.

We discovered that there was another artificial ski run at Catterick camp that was open to the public on a Sunday morning, and it was indoors. Together with Colin, his sister Margaret and husband Gerry, we set off to enrol on a course. Booking was not so easy in those days without the internet, but we found the place and although it was smaller than the Harrogate run, there was only a handful of us and so we had better instruction. I was quite pleased with myself to begin with and after a couple of Sundays began to get quite competent, although never as good as the others who took to it like ducks to water. But I must have got over confident, and of course the inevitable happened and on one of the runs down I lost my balance and coasted to the bottom on my backside. If that had been snow it might have been ok, apart from being a bit wet, but it was tough plastic, and the matting was made up of a series of hard honeycomb shaped brushes that ripped the seat of my trousers to pieces. A friendly nudge made me realise what had happened and after the initial shock we all fell about laughing, it was too silly for words. Fortunately it was almost the end of the lesson, but I sat out the rest of the time with my jumper tied firmly round my waist to hide my embarrassment.

The next step was an actual ski holiday, and we found a firm in Leeds that did weekend trips up to the slopes at Aviemore in Scotland. The good news was that there was plenty of snow in Scotland and we certainly experienced sleet and snow most of the way up to Scotch Corner. But then the coach got slower as driving conditions worsened. By eleven o’clock we were still outside Perth with 71 miles to go. The snow was definitely deep, and the trees were spectacularly weighted down with it. Even a group of shy Deer had come down to the road and could be seen huddled in the headlights of the coach. We ploughed on and at a little after 1am we finally arrived at our hotel in Kingussie, grabbed the keys to our room and went to bed exhausted. The following morning was bright and clear, and we all had breakfast and got ready to go on up to the slopes at Aviemore only to be told that the road was blocked. Snow: there was too much of it. We did eventually get there, but with the threat of more snow and the short daylight hours there wasn’t much skiing done before we had to board the coach and return to Kingussie. It snowed heavily during the night, and we awoke on Sunday morning to the news that all the roads were blocked, and we were cut-off. Never mind, we thought, a leisurely morning reading the Sunday papers in the lounge was ok, except there were no Sunday papers – the roads were blocked, remember? Some of us went for a walk, some of the others donned their skis and whizzed up and down the village main street, but other than that there was little else to do. We ate, we read books and prepared to go back home. Only we couldn’t go – the roads were blocked, remember?

Monday dawned and the news was still the same, we were stranded, and so began a queue of people lined up to use the phone and inform work what had happened. The hotel got colder, and we discovered that the proprietors were running short of heating oil and trying to preserve what little they had to heat the building during the night when the temperature was due to be minus something. Whilst the others donned their warm ski gear, walked and read books I found a hairdresser open, had a hairdo and enjoyed the warmth for an hour or so. Monday turned into Tuesday, and we were told that there had been a slight thaw, but we were still stranded. There were five of us in our little party and we sat in a huddle in the lounge telling stories and waiting for news which eventually came at about 3pm. We heard from somewhere that the train from Inverness had managed to get so far and there was a possibility that we could catch it. We rushed to the station, but of course so did about 100 other stranded skiers and the ticket office closed before we could get near it. What to do? We had the option of waiting until the roads were clear and we could leave on the coach which we had paid for or cut our losses and try and catch the train.

With our bags packed and ready, we set off for the station at 5pm and joined the throng on the platform. A cheer went up as the train came into sight and we all began to jockey for position, but then dismay registered as we realised that it wasn’t going to stop but carried on for another quarter of a mile. Was it the sight of so many of us that put the driver off? Confusion reigned for a good fifteen minutes until we saw that the train was reversing and this time we were all ready. The doors opened and we all piled in, ticket or no ticket. Colin managed to snag a compartment and we crammed in before anybody else got the seats. The whistle blew, the train shuddered and to everybody’s relief we were off. The journey wasn’t without incident though. We stopped more than once and at one point all of the lights flickered and then went out. It was pitch black and the train was so full that there wasn’t even standing room left, so if you wanted the toilet you could forget it, unless you used the window like a youth in the next compartment to ours! But we were on our way home, and we were happy. We cracked jokes, laughed, told stories and teased Colin about his white teeth being brighter than any lamp and could he keep his mouth open for the rest of the journey.

The train chugged on to Edinburgh, not even stopping at Aviemore where a platform full of expectant passengers were left sorely disappointed. We eventually arrived at Waverley station, paid for our journey and got tickets for the next leg down to York. Oh, it was good to be sat in a warm compartment, with lights and the ability to use the facilities as desired. We got home about midnight and learnt that the Coach that we had travelled up to Scotland in had eventually managed to make it back to Leeds the following evening. But we really didn’t care. We were home and the good news was, there was no snow.

Incidentally, that was the deepest snowfall that Scotland had seen for years with drifts up to 20 feet. I remember reports of a hosiery salesman, trapped in his car for days and when he was finally rescued, he was found to have donned several layers of his stock to help keep him from freezing to death.

Skiing as a winter holiday was just taking off for the Brits in the 70s and we happily joined the queue. Thompsons were doing a deal with a rather smart hotel in Formigal in the Spanish Pyrenees for New Year, and we decided to book. Seven of us set of on a flight to Zaragoza followed by a long coach journey which started on a dry flat plain and ended by climbing high into the snow clad mountains. The skiing arrangements were well organised and the following day we got kitted up with our hire boots and skis and joined our respective classes. It was fun to start with, but with so many in a class there was a lot of waiting around and my feet got colder and colder. I think I survived three days and then I gave up. It was my old nemesis the cold, cold snow that had me beaten and I couldn’t bear it any longer. I headed back to the hotel, handed in my boots and skis and went to relax in a nice hot bath. I wasn’t the only one either and Margaret was happy to join me each day for a walk or have coffee in the lounge. One night it snowed heavily, and we woke to see little hillocks where previously a line of parked cars had been. The men went off for their ski as usual whilst Margaret and I set about building a snowman. Dressing him up wasn’t quite so easy as we couldn’t find any stones for eyes etc, but we made a fair job. The pièce de résistance was his mouth which was some red toothpaste that I was using. We attracted quite a bit of attention, although I think people thought us rather mad, but hey, we enjoyed ourselves and the best bit was that we could go inside for coffee when we felt like it. The dining arrangements in the hotel were very good, but on New Year’s Eve the hotel staff excelled themselves creating a wonderful party atmosphere. The main feature of the meal was half a Lobster for each of us and later we were all given a dish of grapes. These had to be eaten quickly at midnight and, according to tradition the number of pips you collected before the clock had finished chiming twelve would be the number of lucky months you would have the following year. I can’t remember how many I achieved, but it was fun all the same.

I think Austria was my favourite winter holiday, and by that time I had given up all pretence of wanting to ski. I can swim like a fish, but skiing and me are not compatible, not when my feet get so cold that it almost hurts. Colin was with us again, but this time we were with a different group of friends including Liz, a Superintendent Physiotherapist who I had met at work and got on with extremely well. Liz was a very competent skier and could show the men a thing or two even though their skills had vastly improved. We stayed at the Grauer Baer hotel in Innsbruck, a nice comfortable place near the city centre. I don’t know why but I felt very self-conscious in the massive dining room. I remember that the food was rather unexciting, and it took a while to get used to the array of meats and cheeses laid out at breakfast. Apart from that it was a good hotel, comfortable and warm. I explored the town when everyone went to catch the coach for the ski slopes. I loved the buildings and the different look of the streets with far more cobbles than York, and trams clanking up and down. Turning down a side street I came across a foundry making bells and was amazed at the size of them. One stood out in the yard which was taller than me. On another occasion I walked out to the site of the ski jump that had been built for the Winter Olympic Games in 1964. It looked impressive from the ground, but when I climbed the steps and looked down from the starting gate it made me feel quite dizzy. You must have nerves of steel to leap off there with only a pair of skis to save you. Colin joined me one day and we had an enjoyable lunch al fresco at a cafe in Maria-Theresien-Strasse like the Europeans, something that we had not adopted at that time. It was also the first time that I had eaten shredded beetroot. I felt very cosmopolitan. I see that the hotel is still there and seems to have undergone an upgrade, but when we stayed it was a little old fashioned and there were no en-suite rooms. In fact we had to pay 3 Austrian schillings each time we took a bath. That really didn’t impress us, but one of our party worked out that the hotel staff listened for the water being emptied before coming to clean and lock the bathroom door. Our answer was to pay for two baths, have a quick splash and get the next person to hop in before letting the water out.

During my walks I came across a rather grand Opera House which I told everyone about at the evening meal. The men were not impressed, but Liz’s eyes lit up and so we planned to go one evening. The Opera House was grand in every way. People were arriving in furs that revealed full evening dress as they disrobed at the very well organised cloakroom. It all made us feel very self conscious as we made our way up the steps dressed as we were in ski wear. Once up in the gods we had a great view of the auditorium, and what a splendid sight. The huge stage was flanked by tiers of balconies with designated boxes either side, all full, gemstones glittering in the light and ladies with fans at the ready. It was like something out of a movie set from the 19th century. The evening’s entertainment was Cavalleria Rusticana followed by Pagliacci, and I was spellbound. I had only ever seen opera on the television up to that point, and never been in such a beautiful theatre before. The performances were so moving that I was in tears for Pagliacci. How could his wife treat him so badly? To say I enjoyed it all would be an understatement, I left with the music ringing in my ears and my head was buzzing.

Whilst Paul bought his own skis and enjoyed many trips to the slopes, I never took up the skis again, although I did participate in some of the holidays especially when the children were old enough to learn. We have holidayed in Scotland where we had to search to find any snow, and Andorra where getting there was hampered by there being too much of it.

The last trip was to Romania where I discovered a sports centre with an Olympic size swimming pool and an excellent masseur. Needless to say that I took full advantage. Poiana Brasov is a winter resort where all of the Communist Party big whigs used to hang out and was just opening out to foreign tourists following the collapse of the USSR in 1991. Phil followed his dad in that he took to skiing naturally, whereas Ian was not so impressed. However, we found an instructor who was there for the juniors, which turned out to be Phil, Ian and a young girl on her own. The nursery slope was not far from the hotel, the instructor was very good with each of them and it was easy to keep a watchful eye. All in all it worked out very well.

There were a couple of trips which we decided to take, the first being to Count Dracul’s castle in the province of Wallachia. It was a steep climb up to the castle and once there we were treated to grizzly tales of the Count hanging his enemies on spikes from the side of the building, and the blood dripping down the walls. It’s all nonsense of course, but it adds colour to the myth of Vlad the Impaler. The castle itself was a bit austere but really beautiful and the views are to die for (no pun intended). Then we took a kind of sleigh ride (well they were old carts really) through a lovely valley made even more beautiful by the snow, to a typical farmhouse where we all had tea.

We also had an evening of food, song and dance and I have to say that the musicians were very talented, but by that time I’d had enough of the cold and gypsies, and I was ready for home. Stark signs of poverty always upset me, and I can still see in my mind’s eye the ragged urchins in the streets of Brasov with little clothing and no shoes. The incredulity I felt when we walked into a big department store and there was hardly anything there to buy. It made me think of a TV programme I once saw about Russia under the Communists. Their shopping experience must have been very similar.

I’m pleased to say that Phil did take to skiing and is quite proficient, however I don’t think Ian is so enamoured. But we all have our strengths. It’s snowing now and whilst I love looking at the pure white stuff, and admire the ability of some people to glide effortlessly along on two planks of wood, it’s definitely not for me.