Skiing the Pyrenees

The continuing adventures of a girl trying to achieve forty things before she hits the grand old age of forty...

January 20^th 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...