A week on the slopes has become a favourite of Irish holiday makers. William Hederman went to the duty-free resort of Livigno to find out why.
There was a time when an Irish accent in a ski resort was like an oasis in a desert: hard to come by, and if you did notice one you'd head straight over in search of refreshment and reassurance. But, like an oasis, it sometimes turned out to be imaginary. Mostly, you kept your head down and your voice low. These days, sitting on a chairlift over the beginner slopes at a popular resort, close your eyes and you might be on Drumcondra Road after a game at Croker. Accents from Louth and Tipperary, Dublin and Wexford bounce backwards and forwards across the pistes.
Skiing used to be, at least in the popular imagination, a game for the rich. It was St Tropez in summer, St Moritz in winter. It was something the royal families of Europe did. Before the 1990s any Irish who skied in Europe found themselves outnumbered by brash public-school Brits and too-cool Continentals. "Ski resorts always had Irish bars, but they were full of English people," says Mark Murray, a Dubliner who first skied in 1980. "Now the Irish are here to take what's theirs. And they're a lot more down to earth and unpretentious than your traditional skiing nationalities."
It's an invasion all right. Last season 55,000 people flew from Ireland to resorts in the mountain ranges of continental Europe. The figure is likely to pass 60,000 this season, according to Aileen Eglinton of Topflight, Ireland's biggest ski operator. She remembers a time, not 10 years ago, when the number was less than 15,000, and by then it had already been growing for a few years.
The typical Irish skier, if the Italian resort of Livigno two weeks ago is any kind of indicator, is between 25 and 30, unmarried and skiing for the second time, having gone to Andorra the first time round ("boring compared to here," says Laura Hendrick, a 21-year-old from Rathfarnham in Dublin). They come with a group of friends, stay in a hotel, with dinner included, and go to the pub every night and to Livigno's only nightclub perhaps every second night. They rise at 9 a.m. or 10 a.m., have a hangover-purging breakfast and hurry out into the cold, crisp, head-clearing air. "We spend two hours at ski school, plus another two hours skiing," says Ellenita Winters, who is from Termonfeckin, in Co Louth. "Then we sit on deckchairs, drinking tea and taking the sun."
Most of the Irish we met made it along to at least half of their skiing lessons, no matter how late they'd been out. But for every typical example there's bound to be something extraordinary. A ski trip as a honeymoon is unusual, especially among Irish people; inviting friends to accompany you on your honeymoon is downright unorthodox. But this is precisely the combination that Nikki and Derek Lynch of Kells, in Co Meath, opted for. They married in Meath on New Year's Eve and then, following a week back at work, headed for Livigno with - wait for it - 34 of their friends.
The 36 Funnymooners, as they became known about town, moved in a pack, bringing festivity, fun and foolery wherever they went, not to mention a surge in revenue at each bar they visited. The gang had booked most of the Sporting Hotel, where the management reportedly behaved very sportingly when it came to keeping the bar open until the last of them went to bed. (Unorthodox or not, honeymoon - and wedding - packages are available at some resorts.)
SNOW-HOW
If boozing and clubbing are part of the ritual of skiing, another is ski school. "It's the best part of the day," says Laura Brett, a 20-year-old from Dublin. "Apart from the nightlife, of course." On day one the beginner classes are predominantly Irish. A tall, handsome Italian instructor is showing his class how to side-slip. "Edges in, then edges out, wiggle the hips. It's like the rock 'n' roll." He demonstrates, throwing in a few pelvic thrusts for good measure. "I think it's easier for the women," he adds with a flash of his teeth and a twinkle from beneath his designer shades.
The consensus is that, on your first ski holiday, you can't afford not to go to ski school. In fact the best advice seems to be to take a few lessons with the Ski Club of Ireland, at Kilternan in Co Dublin, before leaving. "It means you don't waste the first three days when you get here," says Conor Neeson. By the last day of school spirits are soaring. "Our instructor, Chiko, really pushed us," says Michelle Given, sister of Shay Given, the Republic of Ireland goalkeeper. "Today he brought us down a black run. I was so nervous at the start, but I got in behind Chiko for the first 50 metres and flew the rest of the way."
It was hard to find anyone unenthusiastic about skiing, but one man was only doing it for "two hours a day at the most. I find it a bit boring. You know, if I gave you a BMW you might go for a spin for a couple of hours, but you wouldn't want to drive it all day for a week, would you?" He asked not to be identified; presumably, the stigma of not liking skiing is too great to bear. Twenty years ago the opposite was true: if your parents took you skiing you might have kept quiet about it back home, for fear of being branded posh.
Another sceptic is Louise Fanning from Dublin. "I'm still to be convinced that it's better than a sun holiday. There's an awful rigmarole before you can get on the slopes: fitting the boots, getting the ski pass, the insurance, vouchers for this and that." At this point one of her friends blows her cover: "Well, some people buy all the clothes, and talk the talk, but don't actually ski." Louise's ski outfit is indeed stylish, but it is also suspiciously pristine. She concedes she hasn't skied since arriving, three days ago. "Er, I've been sick."
This conversation is taking place on the terrace of a mountain-top restaurant 3,000 metres above sea level, under a clear blue sky and a warm sun; perfectly arranged Alpine peaks surround us. The food is reasonably priced and the view truly awesome. If Fanning doesn't feel like skiing today or tomorrow she can go walking, sit in the sun and meet her friends for lunch. If she's more adventurous she can go ice skating or snowshoe walking or ride a Ski-doo. If she's not she can go to the sports centre and enjoy a swim, Jacuzzi, sauna or massage. In other words, skiing is not obligatory.
Everyone else we speak to is unanimous on the ski-versus-sun-holiday question. Orla Reid, a 10-year-old from Rathcoole in Co Dublin, says she much prefers skiing: "There's snow and sun." Her father, Gerard, says he wouldn't care if he never saw another beach.
Gareth Harper, a bar manager at Benedict's Niteclub in Enniscorthy - "the biggest nightclub in the south-east," his companions chant in chorus - says skiing is "10 times better value and crack than a sun holiday". His boss, Anton Treacy, owner of Benedict's ("the biggest nightclub," etc.) interjects with a description of the group's first evening in Livigno. "The 14 of us each put €30 into a kitty - that's €420 - and took it to Galli's Bar and drank ourselves to death. The owner phoned the rep and asked that we come back another night. It was his biggest earner ever." With all this hard playing, the remarkable thing about skiing is how you can party most of the night and ski most of the day.
Laura Hendrick outlines a technique for coping with this routine. "You've just got to keep going: it'll hit you when you get back to Dublin, and you can sleep it off then. If you get an early night midweek you're done for. I get a power hour at 5.30 p.m. every day, but you absolutely must get up and go out. If you get a long rest your body drops into a lower gear. Just stay in the cycle of adrenaline, the cycle of late nights and early mornings." Skiing is a great upper: it gives you the energy you need for the nightlife. Yet as soon as your head hits the pillow, sleep flows into you like a hot drink into a flask, and you float off into high-mountain dreams.
FULL BOARD
A dream that many young skiers have is to spend a season at a resort, with a job that allows a few hours' skiing each day. Thomas Fanning, a 22-year-old snowboarder from Terenure in Dublin, is doing just that. He took a break from playing professional rugby with De La Salle to come to Livigno for the season. We meet Thomas - "my friends call me the Fanj" - at Daphne's Pub, where he tends the bar. "It's the perfect job for boarding. I work from 8 p.m. to 2 a.m. and I'm on the slopes by 11 a.m. I couldn't have scripted it better." He readily agrees to take us out snowboarding the next day, to help the photographer get an action shot. Ascending in a gondola, his mobile rings. "I'm just out jibbing with a couple of guys from The Irish Times, trying to catch some air."
Noting our puzzlement, his boarding accomplice Neil Sissons offers a translation. "Jibbing means just riding around the mountain, looking for fun, hitting rollers and kickers, trying to get a little air." Glad you cleared that up. When Thomas gets off the phone a debate ensues on the best ways to "catch air", from indies and mutes to tail grabs and nose grabs to inverted 720s.
Snowboarding, which emerged as a teenage subculture about 20 years ago, is now in the mainstream. So what's the big attraction? The Fanj has his answer ready. "Put it this way: it's like the guy says in Fight Club: after doing it the volume seems turned down on everything else. Even when you've hurt yourself you spend the evening buzzing off it." For Sissons it's the freedom. "When you're in deep powder there's nothing else: just you and the board. And the backdrop."
The Fanj says you know you're a snowboarder "when you enjoy the hits" - injuries - "when you realise your trousers aren't baggy enough and when you look at every object you pass and think: I wonder if I could grind off that?" And by way of an afterthought: "There's something very sexy about snowboarding chicks. When a girl comes into the bar I always look at her boots, to see if she's a skier or boarder."
CHOOSING YOUR HOLIDAY
So how do the Irish choose a resort? It was hard to get an answer. "My friend booked it," was a typical response. "I didn't know where we were going until I got to the airport." Alastair McWilliams from Belfast just goes online every year and finds the cheapest deal. We did eventually find people who had chosen Livigno for a reason. Repeat visitors cite friendly locals as their reason for returning. Livigno is a big town by ski-resort standards, and most of the ski instructors and service staff are local. Ann and Gerard Reid from Rathcoole have a one-word answer to the Why Livigno question: "Diego".
The Reids, who come to Livigno every year with their three children, have private lessons with Diego Castellani, an instructor. They get on so well that, in the summer of 2000, Castellani lived with the family in Rathcoole, where he worked as an electrician. He even acted as sponsor at the confirmation of their son Conor.
Other reasons for Livigno's popularity with the Irish include its suitability for beginners and its low prices - the town is a duty-free zone. Italians from outside the zone are said to drive in to buy sugar. The Irish, on the other hand, were stocking up on vodka and whiskey at €7 a litre.
Technically, you can take only one bottle of spirits out of the town, but several Irish veterans were reassuring: "They never check." The partying reaches a peak on Thursday night. In Bivio's bar some of the male Funnymooners are pole dancing, fully clothed but with open shirts, on the tiny stage. Then they line up for a farmers-from-Meath version of Riverdance. The English folk in the corner seem rather outnumbered.
All too soon the whirlwind week had come to an end. So what was the damage? On the homeward journey, via Milan Orio al Serio International Airport (better known as Bergamo) a survey of the Funnymooners revealed that three were hospitalised - two skiing accidents, one knocked down by a car - two won medals in end-of-week ski-school competitions, five made it to all six days of ski school and only two gave up on the skiing after one attempt.
There were no rows and, most importantly, the newly-weds were happy with their brave decision to share their special holiday. Would they recommend bringing so many friends on a honeymoon? "Definitely," says Nikki, although she adds: "I need a holiday after it." A few people felt the same way. It hadn't snowed in Livigno for several weeks, and the hard snow had taken its toll. There were sore knees all round.
The trip back to Ireland was a 13-hour affair, starting with a 3 a.m. pick-up and a five-hour trip to the airport. It was a rough ride for those on the bus who had come straight from the pub.
But you arrive home with mountain air still in your lungs; your face is radiant if a little weather-worn; a healthy glow surrounds you, setting you up to contest the Irish winter with a skip in your step. But, as the Fanj says, the volume does seem turned down on everything else.