A man is standing under "J" at Gatwick South, he is holding a 'phone to his pepper-and-salt surrounded ear, "If you turn around you'll see me.". Nick looms on the event horizon of my vision like the simoon bearing down on a tribe of hapless Bedouin. This is Nick Janke, a Ukrainian Scot who I haven't seen for many years, he is bigger. We queue, go for a paper, go for a pint, go for a pee, and are finally called for boarding. "Boarding": sitting around in Gatwick's most acoustically inefficient lounge, before being assailed with a variety of incomprehensibilia and finally let onto the aircraft.
Result! We settle into our "by-the-emergency-exit-most-amount-of-legroom-seats" and wait 45 minutes for the aircraft to taxi up the runway and go. We fly into the north and into the night.
On arrival we are met by Lorna - our rep., from Nottingham, she says to the people in front of us, "Who are you? OK. Head for the green coach, the driver's ... quite large." and with barely a flicker of her eyelid says to us, "Who are you? OK. Head for the green coach it's got a Christmas tree in the front." We head for the blue coach. Poor girl, several months of twilight are clearly getting to her.
"But wait!" you say, "What are you doing? Where are you? Why?", and with good reason, in fact these very questions would be asked of ourselves by both Nick and I over the coming week. I shall explain; it was Paul (he of Devon)'s Fiftieth Birthday, and his wife, Carole, had decided that he would like to celebrate it, with his friends, in Finland, skiing. Please! No questions at this point. So it was that the two friends with less sense than money, found themselves sitting in a blue/green coach surrounded by fractious children, setting off through the Finnish night (at this time of year lasting twenty hours), for a journey to Saariselkaand its eleven (count them eleven, no sorry make that seven!) ski runs.
Lorna, "We're going to play a game, if you see a reindeer, you have to shout out "Reindeer!"." I doze fantasizing about a thud, the wheels of the coach jouncing twice, and the screams of small children cut short by my cry of "Reindeer!".
We arrive at the "Spa Hotel" at midnight, and are given room keys and a packed lunch, which is horrendous. In the room, we unpack, endeavouring not to mix up our blood pressure tablets and cough medicine (both of us are ill) and go to bed. Nick J ushers himself into a quick and dreamless sleep while I lie awake listening to him enjoy it.
Through the curtains things seem to brighten, small children can be heard ricocheting down the corridor. We dig out a timepiece, it is twenty-to-end-of-breakfast! Small children scatter like australopithecines on the receiving end of a mastodon, we manage cereal and what's left of the hot bits, but miss out on the cold collation.
We get on the skibus to the bottom of the runs and suffer all the joys of fitting boots and skis, then on, to the one and only chairlift to the top, to pick up the easy green run that should drop us in contact with Paul and the Boys. We consult the piste map, it's somewhere off to the right. At this point we must have lost our collective presence of mind, as we vastly overestimate the size of the resort as we set off down the link road to the run. Several kilometers later we hit the bottom of the cross-country track that we had set off on, and look glumly at the hill rising in front of us. We look soulfully up at the woman in front of us and sympathise with her internal debate. Kindness wins and she returns to advise us that she thinks the best course of action is for us to shoulder our skis and tramp up the mountain whence we had just cruised down, had she been able to monitor our combined hypertensive status, she may have recommended another course.
We start back, shouldering our skis, undoing our boots. After a couple of K's (including several pauses to steam), and through the tinnitus of our blood we hear an approaching snowmobile. The very nice man draws up alongside, "Very big problem, 3 K's, all up. We will try." He turns the snowmobile, leaps spryly off his mechanical steed, inserts our skis into his parcel rack, and equally spryly remounts. "So?" Nick lumbers aboard, the suspension bottoms out. "OK. You..." pointing ".. start to walk up. I come back." I did, and he did, and he didn't give me the bollocking that he should have done! I dismount (semi-spryly), shake his hand and walk into the cafe, where I find Nick guarding two beers, fortunately one of them is for me. Afterwards we tackle our one and only (proper) run of the day; it was narrow, short and a bit steep, like a Rioja in a wine bar. At the bottom we declared it too dark to continue (13.45), as skiing into a patch of shadow with no idea whether it is concave or convex can be a bit wearing on the knees, and occasionally, on the nose. We entered the shop to pick up our shoes, bumping into Paul and the Boys, who stared in some amazement at the demented chap who keeps bobbing up and down in front of them saying, "Hello!", until another larger one comes in behind and assaults them. Paul would later insist that they were speechless, personally, I thought they were non-plussed.
We return, a beer later, for the ennui that constitutes "the Reps' orientation", for those of you that don't know, this is where the people running your holiday sell you trips that they get a rake off from, we part with huge wedges of cash for a "Skidoo Safari, and for me "a Taste of Cross-Country Skiing" which if I remember correctly is a taste of snow and blood, unless you've been particularly unfortunate. We then round off our first evening with several more beers, followed by the evening meal: - Game Balls (don't ask) or Baltic Herring, salad, soup and fruit salad (tinned pineapple, papaya, banana [!]) and biscuits. Paul retires, and Nick and I play pontoon like troopers with the Boys (actually NOT like troopers, but I'm sure you get the reference). A final beer followed by a wee voddie in the room, and a perusal of our reading material. After overdosing on cough medicine, a failed attempt to induce a drug-derived unconsciousness before Nick starts foghorning, I screw the earplugs so far into my head that my eyes bulge, and sleep(ish).
The next day dawned - well, nearly dawned. On the top of the mountain there was a strip of cloud illuminated at its bottom by a red glow. The sun itself, would refuse to clear the horizon until January the Eighth, it was December the Sixteenth. We stormed down the first run, the first few hundred metres being done at speed, then, fortunately, we hit the treeline and the freezing wind we'd been trying to get out of was broken up by the trees. We assumed they were trees, it looked as if someone had gone completely nuts with a frosting gun, there was no bark and no greenery to be seen, just a tree-shaped pile of snow. In the gloaming (of which there was a lot), my mind turned to the pictures of the ash fall from Mount Pinatubo in 1991 (well it would, wouldn't it?).
We then tackled the T bar on the other side. An aside for non-skiers; the T bar is an infernal device, it is a piece of fibreglass that looks like a"T", only upside down, it is attached by an extendable cable to an overhead tow line, one is supposed to rest one's buttocks on one side of the bar, ideally with a friend on the opposite side for balance and chat, the cable then extends and gently whisks you up the mountain as your friends skis plough into yours, and try to force you either off the T bar, or into crossing your skis, resulting in a swift exit, usually into steep and hostile territory. Ascending by oneself, the bar is constantly trying to slide away from you, causing you to grip the shaft with the with the sort of rigour that is usually accompanied by mortis, thereby losing concentration, which means the crossing of your skis, resulting in a swift exit, usually into steep and hostile territory. On no account should the T bar be placed between the legs as the dismount at the top of the mountain (should you indeed, get there) can be really tricky, how shall I put it? What it lacks in grace it makes up for in danger. Apparently Finns can pluck a T Bar out of the air as it hurtles past them at eye level at thirty miles per hour, we couldn't, and so had to suffer the ignominy of the lift being slowed down for us.
The top was cold, we had two runs left to do to complete the resort, we couldn't find one of them, so did the other and met up with the learning party for a chat (and to show off, if truth were told) before heading back to the bus stop, pausing in the cafe for a hot chocolate. The man with the skidoo went past, looked through the window and waved, we were marked men.
In the afternoon we set off for Top Safari and the Skidoo afternoon. First we had to put on our thermal suits, hats, gauntlets, boots and helmets, then we had to troop to a line of skidoos where the drivers (not me, sadly you need a licence in Finland, why can they not be like the Bulgars, who don't give a monkey's providing you have cash?) got a lesson (5 minutes) and the passengers, of which I was the eldest, either got slotted into sleighs or stood round like Piffy.
Fresh from their exhaustive learning experience, the drivers arrive and mount up, the passengers mount behind, and then we're off, blasting into the nigh.....the mid-afternoon and bellowing through the Finnish countryside. Well, we might have been bellowing through the Finnish countryside or we might have been on a sort of Ghost Train just doubling and redoubling our tracks, with the twenty metres visibility, and with the Finnish countryside consisting of snow-covered trees it was difficult to tell. My guess of "Universal Thought for the Day" would have been, "Cor I'll bet this is really good in the daytime/March." At each bump I spur Nick on, at forty KPH, even we gain air. Immediately in front is the sleigh full of what used to be called, "Kiddywinks" and which Nick and I now think of as "Breakfast Alarm Call". We consider the state of their poor wee spines as we watch the unsprung sleigh bounce over the bumps that we shall soar over shortly.
At the halfway point we stop for a rest, or "Fagbreak" as it's known in Finland. By this time I am in touch with my feminine side, particularly the old-fashioned parturition side, my legs have now been held firmly apart for an hour by Nick's generous flanks, I ache. Carole appears on the scene, somewhat blanched, she has been put off by the threat of imminent death for her and her youngest. Upon being asked how things are she utters a small reprise of the end of Heart of Darkness, "Horrible. Horrible." Sadly, for Carole and my thighs, the halfway point was a third of the way round the track. We motor on, only stopping to put our visors down and tuck the rugs round the foreshortened Kiddywink/Breakfast Belles, before heading over the top of the mountain into the eye of the wind that comes screaming across the fell, heavily burdened with the snow it picked up on the way, it is at this point that I realise my boots are inadequate to the task of keeping my feet warm.
Such was the Carole-ine trauma of this afternoon that Nick and I are dispatched to the supermarket for gin-eking items, we return within the half hour with £8.00 worth : a large bottle of tonic, a litre of orange juice and a lemon (and some liquorice). £8.00! As the gin works its magic Carole moves from Conrad to P.L. Travers to dinner.
After which, Nick and I travel across the road to the Parmino pub, which, we discover, has home brew, which, I discover, hurts quite a lot the next day, especially the dark one. Our relaxed attitude to the Arctic Circle draws some comment from the drunk at the door but we have figured that our arms probably won't drop off over sixty metres, and have ventured forth in shirtsleeves. The Parmino, a rusticated wooden shed featuring a bar with three beers and Lonkerot (of which more later), several drunk gold panners, several drunk tourists (Swedish)from the Hotel 5K away, some young Finnish people (drunk) and a barman (sober).
The next morning I discovered that the brown ale was quite painful, and that the slopes were shut due to high winds, that's high as in fast, rather than altitude, there was no altitude. This was OK for me, as it was "Taste of Cross Country" day. I joined the others back at Top Safari and got kitted out.
Cross-County Skiing: imagine standing on a match box, now imagine that the matchbox is two metres thirty (seven foot) long, in front of you there is 1m 30cm (4 feet), behind 60cm (2feet) in between the front and back is your foot (about 30cm). Your toes are held to the ski by a clip that the elongated toe on your boot (think elves [pre-LOTR], mediaeval or Ali Baba) slots into, your heel is not held at all but is supposed to slot onto a ridge on the ski, you are then issued two poles at about armpit length (very handy for use as crutches later). You ski in two narrow tracks dug into a piste, by walking and sliding your feet, vigorous walking will enable you to glide, causing extensive damage to your inner thigh, and straining ligaments and tendons that you didn't know you had. The tracks act as tram lines, on slopes you try and stay upright as you are zipping down, jinking as the track jinks, praying that it hasn't been snowed up, causing a more "freestyle" event as you leave their comparative safety. You slow down by either pressing hard on the outside of the track, or with your perfect balance, attempting some form of snow plough (turn the front of the skis together, do not cross them, DO NOT CROSS THEM! Push forward with your hips thus pushing the inside edge of the skis into the snow and slowing you down), failing that you fall, surprisingly, in any direction, landing on anything, well, mainly the ground. In fact one of our party managed the classic banana skin; feet over the head, impact zone - the flat of the back, very impressive as he was wearing skis, how do you do that wearing skis?
Off we went, people fell over for ninety minutes, the instructress (local team champion) congratulated me on my style and my cool head in times of adversity (ADVERSITY: a corner at the bottom of a small slope). We manage about a kilometre, and then manage it again, in the opposite direction.
Back to the hotel for a swim, (leisure pool with flume, wave machine, waterfall and children), a sauna (naked men discovering that pine gets quite hot and consequently ruing the day, probably for the first time, that their testicles dropped), and a steam (an oval room with the added frisson of a ladies entrance at the far end, with naked men staring dimly at the far end in the vague hope that some nubile will come in and try and seduce them - or at least come in. From my experience of the week:Naked Men 3, Nubiles or females of any persuasion 0.). The sauna and steam room both wore proscriptions against costumes, roundly ignored by most of the Brits. In fact, there was a mural in the dining room of Nordic Folk, innocently disporting themselves around a pool in a sylvan glade, close inspection reveals that once these were naked innocent Nordic Folk, that have now been covered with emulsion swimming cossies, so as not to upset the tourists, poor dears.
After my blood pressure drops back down into my chest, where it should be, I re-don my matchboxes and head out to the track with Carole and the Boys. We have decided to Ski to Laanila, the next village along, about 3 kilometres, it's dark, the wind is hard and cold and in our faces, the Boys fall (as they're not overweight, and have to employ less energy to get up falling is fun, and a necessary adjunct to skiing) and snipe at each other with monotonous regularity.
Eventually after a long haul up (and the frightening prospect of going down again) we arrive at Laanila, well, we think we do, we actually arrive at a large wooden structure that provides some shelter. Leaving Carole and the Boys in its lee I head off to look for the coffee shop, amazingly I find it, shut. I return, impart tidings, and head of to look for the Laanila Hotel, amazingly I find it, it has lights on, I wave the others up. As we approach we can see tidying going on, what's up? Surely at this time they'll be settling in for the evening, then it strikes, it's 4.00 p.m. As I get to the door, mein hostess waves me in, she is a tall plump lady with red curly hair, strikingly red, unnaturally red, I think of the nuclear fleet mothballed at Murmansk not very far away but then realise that would mean no hair at all. I have seen this lady before, now where? Oh yes pouring some drunken Swedes into a taxi at the Parmino.
We order two hot chocolates and two hot juices, I fail to not wince and hand over a large percentage of my Euros, but the break from the wind and cold is nearly worth it. Then back for the return, the wind is now behind us, the hot drink has added new vigour to our stride, it's downhill but not too downhill, the return journey takes half-an-hour less.
The evening meal consists of sauteed game, we have come to realise that game is on the menu a lot, and is only called "game" to prevent the hordes of children baulking at eating Rudolph*, he is quite toothsome, very low in fat, and very thinly sliced to give his muscle fibres a chance to relax. Nick and I return to the Parmino to let our muscle fibres relax, though not as far as the previous night.
*Though the Tourist Newspaper (English, Finnish, Russian. and Japanese versions) features a two page spread on "Santa's Livestock".
Result! We settle into our "by-the-emergency-exit-most-amount-of-legroom-seats" and wait 45 minutes for the aircraft to taxi up the runway and go. We fly into the north and into the night.
On arrival we are met by Lorna - our rep., from Nottingham, she says to the people in front of us, "Who are you? OK. Head for the green coach, the driver's ... quite large." and with barely a flicker of her eyelid says to us, "Who are you? OK. Head for the green coach it's got a Christmas tree in the front." We head for the blue coach. Poor girl, several months of twilight are clearly getting to her.
"But wait!" you say, "What are you doing? Where are you? Why?", and with good reason, in fact these very questions would be asked of ourselves by both Nick and I over the coming week. I shall explain; it was Paul (he of Devon)'s Fiftieth Birthday, and his wife, Carole, had decided that he would like to celebrate it, with his friends, in Finland, skiing. Please! No questions at this point. So it was that the two friends with less sense than money, found themselves sitting in a blue/green coach surrounded by fractious children, setting off through the Finnish night (at this time of year lasting twenty hours), for a journey to Saariselkaand its eleven (count them eleven, no sorry make that seven!) ski runs.
Lorna, "We're going to play a game, if you see a reindeer, you have to shout out "Reindeer!"." I doze fantasizing about a thud, the wheels of the coach jouncing twice, and the screams of small children cut short by my cry of "Reindeer!".
We arrive at the "Spa Hotel" at midnight, and are given room keys and a packed lunch, which is horrendous. In the room, we unpack, endeavouring not to mix up our blood pressure tablets and cough medicine (both of us are ill) and go to bed. Nick J ushers himself into a quick and dreamless sleep while I lie awake listening to him enjoy it.
Through the curtains things seem to brighten, small children can be heard ricocheting down the corridor. We dig out a timepiece, it is twenty-to-end-of-breakfast! Small children scatter like australopithecines on the receiving end of a mastodon, we manage cereal and what's left of the hot bits, but miss out on the cold collation.
We get on the skibus to the bottom of the runs and suffer all the joys of fitting boots and skis, then on, to the one and only chairlift to the top, to pick up the easy green run that should drop us in contact with Paul and the Boys. We consult the piste map, it's somewhere off to the right. At this point we must have lost our collective presence of mind, as we vastly overestimate the size of the resort as we set off down the link road to the run. Several kilometers later we hit the bottom of the cross-country track that we had set off on, and look glumly at the hill rising in front of us. We look soulfully up at the woman in front of us and sympathise with her internal debate. Kindness wins and she returns to advise us that she thinks the best course of action is for us to shoulder our skis and tramp up the mountain whence we had just cruised down, had she been able to monitor our combined hypertensive status, she may have recommended another course.
We start back, shouldering our skis, undoing our boots. After a couple of K's (including several pauses to steam), and through the tinnitus of our blood we hear an approaching snowmobile. The very nice man draws up alongside, "Very big problem, 3 K's, all up. We will try." He turns the snowmobile, leaps spryly off his mechanical steed, inserts our skis into his parcel rack, and equally spryly remounts. "So?" Nick lumbers aboard, the suspension bottoms out. "OK. You..." pointing ".. start to walk up. I come back." I did, and he did, and he didn't give me the bollocking that he should have done! I dismount (semi-spryly), shake his hand and walk into the cafe, where I find Nick guarding two beers, fortunately one of them is for me. Afterwards we tackle our one and only (proper) run of the day; it was narrow, short and a bit steep, like a Rioja in a wine bar. At the bottom we declared it too dark to continue (13.45), as skiing into a patch of shadow with no idea whether it is concave or convex can be a bit wearing on the knees, and occasionally, on the nose. We entered the shop to pick up our shoes, bumping into Paul and the Boys, who stared in some amazement at the demented chap who keeps bobbing up and down in front of them saying, "Hello!", until another larger one comes in behind and assaults them. Paul would later insist that they were speechless, personally, I thought they were non-plussed.
We return, a beer later, for the ennui that constitutes "the Reps' orientation", for those of you that don't know, this is where the people running your holiday sell you trips that they get a rake off from, we part with huge wedges of cash for a "Skidoo Safari, and for me "a Taste of Cross-Country Skiing" which if I remember correctly is a taste of snow and blood, unless you've been particularly unfortunate. We then round off our first evening with several more beers, followed by the evening meal: - Game Balls (don't ask) or Baltic Herring, salad, soup and fruit salad (tinned pineapple, papaya, banana [!]) and biscuits. Paul retires, and Nick and I play pontoon like troopers with the Boys (actually NOT like troopers, but I'm sure you get the reference). A final beer followed by a wee voddie in the room, and a perusal of our reading material. After overdosing on cough medicine, a failed attempt to induce a drug-derived unconsciousness before Nick starts foghorning, I screw the earplugs so far into my head that my eyes bulge, and sleep(ish).
The next day dawned - well, nearly dawned. On the top of the mountain there was a strip of cloud illuminated at its bottom by a red glow. The sun itself, would refuse to clear the horizon until January the Eighth, it was December the Sixteenth. We stormed down the first run, the first few hundred metres being done at speed, then, fortunately, we hit the treeline and the freezing wind we'd been trying to get out of was broken up by the trees. We assumed they were trees, it looked as if someone had gone completely nuts with a frosting gun, there was no bark and no greenery to be seen, just a tree-shaped pile of snow. In the gloaming (of which there was a lot), my mind turned to the pictures of the ash fall from Mount Pinatubo in 1991 (well it would, wouldn't it?).
We then tackled the T bar on the other side. An aside for non-skiers; the T bar is an infernal device, it is a piece of fibreglass that looks like a"T", only upside down, it is attached by an extendable cable to an overhead tow line, one is supposed to rest one's buttocks on one side of the bar, ideally with a friend on the opposite side for balance and chat, the cable then extends and gently whisks you up the mountain as your friends skis plough into yours, and try to force you either off the T bar, or into crossing your skis, resulting in a swift exit, usually into steep and hostile territory. Ascending by oneself, the bar is constantly trying to slide away from you, causing you to grip the shaft with the with the sort of rigour that is usually accompanied by mortis, thereby losing concentration, which means the crossing of your skis, resulting in a swift exit, usually into steep and hostile territory. On no account should the T bar be placed between the legs as the dismount at the top of the mountain (should you indeed, get there) can be really tricky, how shall I put it? What it lacks in grace it makes up for in danger. Apparently Finns can pluck a T Bar out of the air as it hurtles past them at eye level at thirty miles per hour, we couldn't, and so had to suffer the ignominy of the lift being slowed down for us.
The top was cold, we had two runs left to do to complete the resort, we couldn't find one of them, so did the other and met up with the learning party for a chat (and to show off, if truth were told) before heading back to the bus stop, pausing in the cafe for a hot chocolate. The man with the skidoo went past, looked through the window and waved, we were marked men.
In the afternoon we set off for Top Safari and the Skidoo afternoon. First we had to put on our thermal suits, hats, gauntlets, boots and helmets, then we had to troop to a line of skidoos where the drivers (not me, sadly you need a licence in Finland, why can they not be like the Bulgars, who don't give a monkey's providing you have cash?) got a lesson (5 minutes) and the passengers, of which I was the eldest, either got slotted into sleighs or stood round like Piffy.
Fresh from their exhaustive learning experience, the drivers arrive and mount up, the passengers mount behind, and then we're off, blasting into the nigh.....the mid-afternoon and bellowing through the Finnish countryside. Well, we might have been bellowing through the Finnish countryside or we might have been on a sort of Ghost Train just doubling and redoubling our tracks, with the twenty metres visibility, and with the Finnish countryside consisting of snow-covered trees it was difficult to tell. My guess of "Universal Thought for the Day" would have been, "Cor I'll bet this is really good in the daytime/March." At each bump I spur Nick on, at forty KPH, even we gain air. Immediately in front is the sleigh full of what used to be called, "Kiddywinks" and which Nick and I now think of as "Breakfast Alarm Call". We consider the state of their poor wee spines as we watch the unsprung sleigh bounce over the bumps that we shall soar over shortly.
At the halfway point we stop for a rest, or "Fagbreak" as it's known in Finland. By this time I am in touch with my feminine side, particularly the old-fashioned parturition side, my legs have now been held firmly apart for an hour by Nick's generous flanks, I ache. Carole appears on the scene, somewhat blanched, she has been put off by the threat of imminent death for her and her youngest. Upon being asked how things are she utters a small reprise of the end of Heart of Darkness, "Horrible. Horrible." Sadly, for Carole and my thighs, the halfway point was a third of the way round the track. We motor on, only stopping to put our visors down and tuck the rugs round the foreshortened Kiddywink/Breakfast Belles, before heading over the top of the mountain into the eye of the wind that comes screaming across the fell, heavily burdened with the snow it picked up on the way, it is at this point that I realise my boots are inadequate to the task of keeping my feet warm.
Such was the Carole-ine trauma of this afternoon that Nick and I are dispatched to the supermarket for gin-eking items, we return within the half hour with £8.00 worth : a large bottle of tonic, a litre of orange juice and a lemon (and some liquorice). £8.00! As the gin works its magic Carole moves from Conrad to P.L. Travers to dinner.
After which, Nick and I travel across the road to the Parmino pub, which, we discover, has home brew, which, I discover, hurts quite a lot the next day, especially the dark one. Our relaxed attitude to the Arctic Circle draws some comment from the drunk at the door but we have figured that our arms probably won't drop off over sixty metres, and have ventured forth in shirtsleeves. The Parmino, a rusticated wooden shed featuring a bar with three beers and Lonkerot (of which more later), several drunk gold panners, several drunk tourists (Swedish)from the Hotel 5K away, some young Finnish people (drunk) and a barman (sober).
The next morning I discovered that the brown ale was quite painful, and that the slopes were shut due to high winds, that's high as in fast, rather than altitude, there was no altitude. This was OK for me, as it was "Taste of Cross Country" day. I joined the others back at Top Safari and got kitted out.
Cross-County Skiing: imagine standing on a match box, now imagine that the matchbox is two metres thirty (seven foot) long, in front of you there is 1m 30cm (4 feet), behind 60cm (2feet) in between the front and back is your foot (about 30cm). Your toes are held to the ski by a clip that the elongated toe on your boot (think elves [pre-LOTR], mediaeval or Ali Baba) slots into, your heel is not held at all but is supposed to slot onto a ridge on the ski, you are then issued two poles at about armpit length (very handy for use as crutches later). You ski in two narrow tracks dug into a piste, by walking and sliding your feet, vigorous walking will enable you to glide, causing extensive damage to your inner thigh, and straining ligaments and tendons that you didn't know you had. The tracks act as tram lines, on slopes you try and stay upright as you are zipping down, jinking as the track jinks, praying that it hasn't been snowed up, causing a more "freestyle" event as you leave their comparative safety. You slow down by either pressing hard on the outside of the track, or with your perfect balance, attempting some form of snow plough (turn the front of the skis together, do not cross them, DO NOT CROSS THEM! Push forward with your hips thus pushing the inside edge of the skis into the snow and slowing you down), failing that you fall, surprisingly, in any direction, landing on anything, well, mainly the ground. In fact one of our party managed the classic banana skin; feet over the head, impact zone - the flat of the back, very impressive as he was wearing skis, how do you do that wearing skis?
Off we went, people fell over for ninety minutes, the instructress (local team champion) congratulated me on my style and my cool head in times of adversity (ADVERSITY: a corner at the bottom of a small slope). We manage about a kilometre, and then manage it again, in the opposite direction.
Back to the hotel for a swim, (leisure pool with flume, wave machine, waterfall and children), a sauna (naked men discovering that pine gets quite hot and consequently ruing the day, probably for the first time, that their testicles dropped), and a steam (an oval room with the added frisson of a ladies entrance at the far end, with naked men staring dimly at the far end in the vague hope that some nubile will come in and try and seduce them - or at least come in. From my experience of the week:Naked Men 3, Nubiles or females of any persuasion 0.). The sauna and steam room both wore proscriptions against costumes, roundly ignored by most of the Brits. In fact, there was a mural in the dining room of Nordic Folk, innocently disporting themselves around a pool in a sylvan glade, close inspection reveals that once these were naked innocent Nordic Folk, that have now been covered with emulsion swimming cossies, so as not to upset the tourists, poor dears.
After my blood pressure drops back down into my chest, where it should be, I re-don my matchboxes and head out to the track with Carole and the Boys. We have decided to Ski to Laanila, the next village along, about 3 kilometres, it's dark, the wind is hard and cold and in our faces, the Boys fall (as they're not overweight, and have to employ less energy to get up falling is fun, and a necessary adjunct to skiing) and snipe at each other with monotonous regularity.
Eventually after a long haul up (and the frightening prospect of going down again) we arrive at Laanila, well, we think we do, we actually arrive at a large wooden structure that provides some shelter. Leaving Carole and the Boys in its lee I head off to look for the coffee shop, amazingly I find it, shut. I return, impart tidings, and head of to look for the Laanila Hotel, amazingly I find it, it has lights on, I wave the others up. As we approach we can see tidying going on, what's up? Surely at this time they'll be settling in for the evening, then it strikes, it's 4.00 p.m. As I get to the door, mein hostess waves me in, she is a tall plump lady with red curly hair, strikingly red, unnaturally red, I think of the nuclear fleet mothballed at Murmansk not very far away but then realise that would mean no hair at all. I have seen this lady before, now where? Oh yes pouring some drunken Swedes into a taxi at the Parmino.
We order two hot chocolates and two hot juices, I fail to not wince and hand over a large percentage of my Euros, but the break from the wind and cold is nearly worth it. Then back for the return, the wind is now behind us, the hot drink has added new vigour to our stride, it's downhill but not too downhill, the return journey takes half-an-hour less.
The evening meal consists of sauteed game, we have come to realise that game is on the menu a lot, and is only called "game" to prevent the hordes of children baulking at eating Rudolph*, he is quite toothsome, very low in fat, and very thinly sliced to give his muscle fibres a chance to relax. Nick and I return to the Parmino to let our muscle fibres relax, though not as far as the previous night.
*Though the Tourist Newspaper (English, Finnish, Russian. and Japanese versions) features a two page spread on "Santa's Livestock".
