Anyone who says that sliding down a mountain head first on your back, trying to keep your skis in the air, is enjoyable must need their head examined. That was me earlier this year - a convert to that ridiculous art of strapping two lengths of something to your feet and venturing out in minus whatever degrees of weather and calling it enjoyment.
But I have to admit, I did enjoy it. Not only that, I loved it. I adored it. I am truly hooked. For years people have told me how much they loved skiing and would prefer it to a beach holiday anytime. I always thought they were mad, until the fateful day that someone suggested, why not try it for a weekend in Austria. Having avidly followed the Winter Olympics in Nagano, it seemed just the right time.
Being the type of person that I am, one does not do things by half measures. Having decided to take the plunge there was nothing for it but to learn as much as possible about this ridiculous art. Late January saw me queuing up with other hopefuls at Kilternan Ski Club in Co Dublin, clunking around in ski boots trying to look like I knew how to put them on.
Imagine a ski club in Ireland. Well there is one. I booked myself in for a course of four beginners lessons and on the darkest nights of the year, after long days slaving in the office, dragged myself up the mountains to be instructed. The very first thing I learned is to laugh: who can look stylish and elegant with their legs in a tangle around their neck, or landing with a bang as big as Hiroshima on your bum. That was one of the hardest things when you fell, trying to figure out how to disentangle your limbs.
Glad to say I was not the only hopeful taking to the slopes in the depths of winter. Apparently, if you take lessons before your skiing holiday, it increases your chances of actually doing some skiing when you get to those snowy mountains.
Kilternan was punctuated by the bruise count. I got the most incredible black and blue ones ever in my life. I even got the Kilternan Thumb, fortunately it was only sprained, not broken. That's the other important thing to learn immediately, wear gloves and keep your hands up, when you fall, hence the plate-sized bruise on my you know what. But, joking aside, by the last lesson I could go down the highest slope, shuussing in and out like a real pro. Bring on the Winter Olympics.
Finally, departure day arrived and I turned up at the airport to meet my fellow skiiers. A mixed bunch of pros and amateurs and even a snowboarder. We headed on our way to Zell am See in Austria, flying to Salzburg, and then by bus to the resort. I have since read that Salzburg is a difficult airport for pilots to fly in to and I am not surprised. Nobody told me the mountains would be that high. The airport looked like a saucer in the middle of a field of giants. Zell am See is just beautiful, it's so beautiful it looks like a picture, you know the ones on chocolate boxes, when we were young, that's it. All towering mountains, quaint houses, a lake (which, disappointingly was not frozen) and green valleys. Having arrived at a reasonable time, we headed to the store to collect our skis and boots. All very jolly and jokey. What else can you do when your feet feel like lead and you can only walk stiff legged. Eventually someone told me you don't have to clip your boots until you start skiing.
Next morning, bright and early, up with the daisies, if there were any daisies, anticipation dulling my appetite. I'd soon learn about appetite and mountains and fresh air, what a combination.
Off we set to meet our instructor and take the gondola cable car up the Schmittenhohe, all 6,000 feet of it. He was just divine, a pocket-size Mars in shocking pink. We girls giggled, we had all heard about ski instructors. When we took our eyes off Anthony the view was incredible, I never knew pine trees could grow so tall. The town below was Lego-sized, with the silvery lake spreading out.
At the top of the mountain, there was a hotel and bar and the prettiest wooden church you have ever seen. The pros quickly disappeared leaving us amateurs to negotiate the baby slope. First thing I discovered was that snow is much faster than the dry slopes at Kilternan. The instructors had warned me but there's nothing like reality to give you a shock. It also gave Anthony a shock when this man-sized Venus crashed into him on her first go.
Worst thing on the first day was the side-stepping back up the slope each time we managed to negotiate it vertically. The horizontal times were worse. No one prepared me for the level of entanglement when you're doing it for real. All the ice and snow is so slippery and yielding. I remember at one stage trying to identify which leg was left and which right, unsuccessfully. Trying to take off skis when horizontal is even worse.
Lunchtime arrived, and I knew what hunger was. So much for the wonderful views, you can't eat them. We had arranged to meet the pros at the Panorama restaurant, where they served great sustaining food. Just what was needed after a morning of activity in minus whatever. The afternoon saw me being brave and insisting I was now proficient enough to tackle the blue run. The pros agreed and off I went to join them. Lose them is more like. They disappeared over the edge of a mountain and that was the last I saw of them for hours. I attempted to negotiate the slope but after one failed attempt tried to go down about 3,000 feet on my rear end. Anthony, God bless him, noticed my predicament and dragged me to the bottom on his ski poles and dragged me back up on the t-bar lift. Hope of the Winter Olympics fading fast. Back to amateur status for the afternoon, but tomorrow comes, and with it a new found enthusiasm and vigour, brought on by lots of apres-ski, in Crazy Daisy's night club and bar.
Next morning, it has snowed overnight and the slopes are nice and powdery. I blame the ice for my previous blue run experience and attempt it again. Success. I manage to ski, slide and tumble down to the bottom on my own, without bowling over anyone else and negotiate the t-bar lift back up. There's no stopping me now. I'm back on track for the next Winter Olympics. I even manage to keep up with some of the pros, up and down the blue run all day. The finale is the red run and by dint of using my rear end as a brake, negotiate that too. Finally, I can call myself a skier. I can now be a ski bore. In the words of a famous Austrian: "I'll be back."