The continuing adventures of a girl trying
to achieve forty things before she hits the grand old age of forty...
January
20th 2013
Skiing
the Pyrenees
This blog starts with a huge thank you to
Vicki Gemmell for nominating me for the ‘very inspiring blog’ award. With the
fame comes the slight guilt that I haven’t written anything in it for yonks.
Woops!
Number
27: Ski in at least three different countries (progressing)
This is one of the ‘things to do’ that
might need some moderation if I am to achieve it before forty. Originally it
was to ski in three new countries. I’ve already enjoyed skiing in Scotland,
France, Austria and Italy with a brief cross-over into Switzerland. I really do
fancy the thought of some big country skiing; the wide slopes of Canada or
America perhaps. Japan is also supposed to be amazing. However, I recognise
that big countries come at a big price. So the modification is that I’ll
attempt three different regions in the next five years. Not just three new resorts;
that’s cheating.
This year, thanks to my brother’s lovely
fiancée, I had the opportunity to spend Christmas in the French Pyrenees.
Yamina’s family are based at Font Romeu. It’s a pretty place up the mountains
where Paula Radcliffe apparently did some of her high altitude training. Unlike
Scotland it achieves pretty much year ‘round sunshine and very little rain.
It’s also right on the border with Spain and Andorra which makes for an
interesting mix of cultures and personalities at times. Although skiing is one
of the few sports I’m actually any good at (it doesn’t involve throwing,
catching, good eye coordination or team work) I’m also quite a fair weather
skier. I like it when it’s warm and sunny. So I was especially looking forward
to relaxing under the blue skies, eating lots of cheese, drinking coffee and
enjoying some new slopes to play on. I just had to get there first.
It was a journey that would have impressed
Phileas Fogg. Starting at 3.50 AM (ouch) with a taxi ride to the airport it
later progressed through an airport coach transfer, bus, train and car ride.
The first bit went smoothly with the taxi arriving promptly and getting through
to Edinburgh airport just before 5AM. Stage One- tick.
My rucksack had also involved a certain
amount of planning to pack. People may mock my spreadsheet planning system but
fitting clothes, ski gear and Christmas presents into an easily transportable
package involves good project management. I didn’t fancy carting it around too
much so, noticing I had a long time between flight into Paris and flight out of
Paris to Toulouse I asked the man to check my bag straight through. He
helpfully stuck a yellow sticker on my ticket. Done.
Once through security I was alarmed to see
that my flight was actually going into Paris Charles de Gaulle and out of Paris
Orly. I had assumed I was staying in one airport for the four hour wait. Orly meant
a trip across Paris. Time to practice my French on the plane. The Air France
lady was very helpful and said yes there was a handy coach to transfer me from
CDG to Orly and no it wasn’t possible for my bag to be booked straight through,
despite the yellow sticker on my ticket. The bag would stay at CDG where I
would pick it up from the carousel. Simples. So I waited by the carousel. I
then waited by the oversized baggage carousel (Baggage Ors Format in French if
you’re interested). Then back to the normal one. Then to the helpful Frenchman
at Baggage information. He was very handsome. I tried my friend again. ‘Ou est
mon sac a dos?’ He explained that no it wasn’t ‘Hors Format’ and should appear
on the normal carousel. He then caught sight of the yellow sticker on my
ticket. ‘Ah. Il y a une error’. Oh bother.
Credit where credit’s due the handsome
Frenchman was very helpful and managed to somehow locate my rucksack in the
airport and promised it would arrive on the carousel in twenty minutes or so. I
checked my watch. An hour to get across Paris on the coach. An hour to check
into the flight. I still had a bit of time so relaxed and waited by the
carousel. And waited.
I decided the old trick of going to the
loo; things always arrive when you’re in the bathroom. My route was promptly
blocked by a soldier. ‘La Toilet est interdit.’ What? The toilet is forbidden?
It turned out it was not only forbidden, it was being evacuated. Then came the
line of soldiers. We were all being evacuated. What about ‘mon sac a dos?’
Sorry madam. Behind the line.
We all waited behind the line. I’m not sure
what benefit the line would have been in an explosion. Perhaps it had a force
field above it. Everyone chatted nicely, a lady requested a chair, the man next
to me asked politely whether I’d been to Paris before. Everyone was very calm.
I was less calm.
I was just wondering whether to leave the
bag and go when the handsome baggage man appeared. ‘Madam! I have your
rucksack.’ I considering leaving the bag and taking him with me on holiday instead.
Bomb scare over Stage Three (coach transfer)
and Stage Four (second flight) went without incident. I met mum and dad at
Toulouse and Stage Five (the bus) also went without a hitch. The train was busy
and we ended up sitting apart. Then some people got off and we moved to sit
together. Then more people got off. Then the rest of the train got off. They
had moved the platform. Everybody off!
Finally seated (on the floor of the journey)
we enjoyed the last three hour journey through the mountains which were sadly
too dark to see out of the window. One last car journey and we were at Font
Romeu. Sixteen hours. I could fly to Africa in that time. Arriving at the
apartment my brother immediately handed me a beer and packet of crisps. He
knows me well.
Font Romeu was well worth the journey in the
end. If you ever do go the train journey is actually lovely as we discovered
doing it on the way back in daylight. The village is peaceful and friendly.
Perhaps it is the complicated journey that puts people off but as a result we
were pretty much the only Brits there. This meant everyone was very friendly
and the resort much less touristy and more genuine than some others I have enjoyed.
I ate lots of yummy cheese, drank some lovely wine and coffee and enjoyed the
first sight of blue sky I’ve had in months. Blue sky, hot sunshine, snow.
Magical. Sitting on the balcony gazing out over the mountain sunset was quite
something else.
For good skiers there are just enough hefty
slopes for a challenge and plenty of smooth runs to enjoy just being on the
mountains. At one point Dad and I had a slope all to ourselves. It was like
being royalty. My only complaint was that I couldn’t have stayed for longer.
Perhaps an apartment? Tempting.
Anyway; sixteen hours and one bomb scare
later but well worth the trip. One resort down, three to go...
