A man is sitting beside a large G, his Salt ‘n’ Pepper “do” is motionless in the non-breeze, he stares blankly across the concourse at the continually enlarging queue to the bagdrop. His reverie is interrupted by the arrival of Carole and Paul. Yes, it is Nick and he has characteristically stupidly allowed himself to be inveigled into a cross country skiing holiday in Norway. As it turns out they are queue-jumped by the staff who then told them how to use the self-service baggage drop thus saving - no time.
After two hours, with a cereal bar and the world's smallest bottle of water, they arrive in Oslo airport where they are due to sit for two and a half hours waiting for a coach to their holiday destination, actually they are waiting for a flight from Toulouse so that the French holidaymakers can travel on the same coach.
Two and a half hours in the coach brings them to the hotel sited on a plateau overlooking Ringabu, the Venabu Fjellhotell. Nick is pleasantly surprised, the journey up until that point has been characterised by a distinct lack of snow, something he is familiar with from numerous other skiing holidays, the apotheosis of which was the San Siciaro trip where, after being bussed to the only two slopes open in the region, one could ascend on the drag lift through green fields on a hastily built causeway of snow, the bend on the lift was a transition to ski mats, causing wild decelleration and a pasture littered with people in various stages of lying down.
Nick is given the key to his single room, number 46, It is rustic with rustic charm, the bathroom, an afterthought is also rustic, if he puts his mind to it he could have a shower while seated on the toilet, possibly the world's most comprehensive bidet.
Then downstairs to the ski room to try boots and pick skis. After that, there is mooching about until dinner, on this occasion lamb shank. Dinner engenders a new set of problems, there are two tables, neither of which cater for the percieved menage-a-trois that their party compromises, fortunately there is a volunteer, Jean, leaving them with John and Maryanne, and Belinda and Matthew, during the week there will be other visitors to the table but the menage will be unable to work out whether this was choice or duty. The wine list is scanned and dismissed as even, the usually profligate, Carole decides that £40 is too much for a bottle of wine. The dinner conversation centres around, "Have you done this before?" and avoids, "Umm, who's going out with whom?" Later in the week, as Nick and Paul emerge from the sauna both dressed in floral shorts, people will look at Carole with a modicum of sympathy. Later in the week, after viewing Nick's flamboyant skiing attire, Jean will archly suggest that, "You do like your colours Nick..." After dinner there is a small amount more chat, and then the 5 o’clock in the morning start that day kicks in.
Sunday (the first skiing day).
Breakfast is large, varied, comprehensive. Faced with a large choice of fish products early on a Sunday morning, most people opt for a variety of breads with more adventurous looking at the cheese selection, including Prym a combination of Norwegian brown cheese (a vaguely lactic fudge) and cream, in fact cream features extensively in the Norwegian comestible canon it would seem, vis, Dill Sauce - chopped dill and whipped cream, Mustard Sauce - a desultory amount of mustard and whipped cream etc, etc. Then to the ski room for for a quick lesson on waxing, skis that is, and an explanation of how difficult is it is to get the waxing right in this sort of weather (AKA Not our fault governor). At this point it becomes clear that all beginners, including the Nick's group have no need for this lesson as they are all on the more-forgiving fish-scale (which quicly degenerates into "fish-tail", something cars do on slippery surfaces, yes I know it seems to make sense but it doesn't) skis, all apart from - Nick (and Jean). This will mean that most of the morning is spent watching the group disappear up hills, whilst Nick (and Jean) moonwalk in place.
After this it is outside for a quick warmup, during which Nick manages to pop both his back and also to pull a muscle on his inner thigh. That then follows the sorting, unlike Hogwarts there is no hat, instead there is, "Who has never been on cross-country skis in their entire life so far?" Nick watches in amazement as the majority of the party decamp towards Stephan the hapless instructor, including two people that he knows for a fact have definitely been on cross-country skis before, in fact at the same time that he was on them! Magnanimously he opts for Ursula in order to keep Stefan's numbers down, as we shall see, this was a MISTAKE. The morning continues, there is jogging (!), then there is hesitant jogging (standing on the landing foot to simulate "the glide") (as far as Nick is concerned this is still jogging - and unecessary), then there is the same with skis on. It is at this point that memory comes flooding back, just like a dribble of adrenalin, the memory that cross-country skiing is such, that large amounts of fear, aka terror, can be engendered by encountering the crest of a one meter downhill slope, the sort of slope that will propel you at at least 3km per hour, and deposit you in a contradictory (given the air temperature) funk, or perhaps just a heap, at its base. However, at this moment, that's not a problem, as Nick (and Jean) are unable to ascend the giddy heights in the first place.
A short loop ... a digression - here we are in the land of cross-country skiing, the most efficient way of moving across snow, the short 1.5 km loop takes two hours, and burns off a teaspoonful of Prym (about 800 calories), efficient my bruised bottom!
A short loop later, and it's time for lunch, this is sort of like breakfast, but with soup, a greater variety of dried meats, plus various hot choices and, pudding. This extra 2000 calories Nick will fail to burn off in the 30 minutes he spends attempting to reattain the vertical, aka practice, that afternoon. In truth this is one of his problems, for the vertical is not where he should be... imagine sitting in a crowded room at coffee time, a comely lass both catches, and gives you the eye, this is such an unusual occurence that the spasm it causes debauches your cup of hot coffee down your trousers! Obviously you can't whip them off, so you adopt a standing position so that the hot material has the least contact with your legs (ahh my friend, the days of skin-tight jeans are long gone, the only skinny that will be in contact with your body is that latte, currently cooling on your relaxed-fit, hidden-elasticated waist, jumbo cords), in other words, knees slightly bent, leaning marginally forwards, so as not to tempt both fate and gravity. This is how you should ski, Nick however, adopts the ramrod straight, bolt upright posture of the true Brit, upon being advised to lean forward he will, counterbalancing any disturbance of his centre of gravity by a rearward thrust of his arse, any "bending of the knees" is for Continental types".
The evening meal is halibut, redoubtedly cooked in butter with some sort of cream sauce, to assuage the pangs of the days "skiing" an £8.00 can of beer is bought, it doesn't work. Nick will later ask
"Why do Norwegian fishermen fish?"
"Just for the halibut!" Nearly worth it.
Monday (the second "skiing" day).
After a breakfast (once more sans fish, there's only so far a Brit will give the nod to Scandinavia, though, to be fair, even if there were kippers Nick would eschew them - nice for breakfast but during the day there are more repeats than ITV2) a new blend of waxes are tried on Nick's (and Jean's) skis, this will include clister, fiendishly sticky stuff to stick wax to the skis, I'm hoping it's spelled this way, as clyster is an enema, though the effect of both varieties is a loosening of the bowels.
The morning continues well, they ski round to the other hotel, from which there is a long descent, Nick is at the back only followed by Trish (who has been here 14 times but has yet to decide where her favourite place to fall is, consequently she tries a few new spots every day). As he approaches the pack, he sees Ursula frantically telling him to go left, "Ho Hum this'll hurt." springs unbidden into his noggin. There is one moment of triumph - he falls forward, this is sadly short-lived as he also falls onto his right pole which ends up across his skinniest bit, his ribs, this hurts - a lot. Ursula spends the rest of the day enquiring after his health, and giving him sharp glances every time he coughs, little does she know that he has already deliberately coughed into a patch of snow to see if it goes pink, it doesn't.
As the morning wears painfully on, Nick becomes aware of another phenomenon; Jean, who is immediately in front of him, keeps receding into the distance. He monitors her style, from the back all he can see is a slight fluttering of feet, like ducks paddling, or ballerinas advancing across the stage en point, whatever she is doing, it is wrong but maddeningly better than his segue of long gliding strides followed by twenty seconds of panting ("not really tired just letting my torn abductors rest for a mo"). The morning continues with Nick spying the rest of the group waiting at the next turn off, and the next, and the next. If this wasn't dispiriting enough, Trish overtakes him.
Lunch.
The afternoon is spent doing a downhill lesson. This is actually all about control, and stopping, it is a debacle. At one point, tired of only suffering minor injury, Nick lands flat on his back and the impact reportedly detaches his sternum from the rest of his ribs (the pre-seatbelt flail chest), just to check, he does it again, he was right - it does hurt like f+* - Billyo. In fact, along with this mornings rib injury, this will mean he can no longer sleep on his side, as gravity, his nemesis of the week, will compress his ribs into the bruised cartilage of his sternum. Rooms 45 and 47 will therefore be treated to some sort of pharyngeal concert every night, probably more Stravinsky than Chopin. He retires hurt.
In the hotel he discovers the Gutsy Girls, a women's only adventure holiday group, in the middle of the group there sits Jo, who has broken her wrist that very day, he offers sympathy and shares his cocodamol.
The evening meal is Moose - Moose! What is moose like? Well imagine you're eating slices of an animal that dwells in the Taiga, the semi-tundra forest of Northern Europe, that ekes out its winter existence by eating roots and twigs for 5 months of sub-zero temperatures, and its summer standing up to its shoulders in bog trying to put on enough fat to withstand the gathering darkness. That's what Nick's was like anyway.
Following the meal, we have a talk by Lars, the now-retired hotel manager, it is about the area, the hotel, the stave church in Ringebu, photography, the genetics of the local reindeer herd, glaciation and, finally, art. In his retired state Lars has been spending the hotel's money on a collection of local artists, these paintings are dotted around the hotel, particularly exciting is the picture of a lady with a black-eye and bruised wrist, and one of her sister, who may be angry with her somewhat louche husband, or may be demonstrating the size of the fish she needs for Sunday. Lars is in his 80's, the talk goes on way past bedtime.
Tuesday (a dark depression sets in at Venabu).
After several attempts to get out of bed in a manner that doesn't cause panting and the, so loved by action novels of the 70's, "rictus of pain" Nick decides he will bunk off for the day, at 20p per minute those who know Nick well, will realise the moment of this decision! He therefore spends the morning, ruminating on an unused breakfast, and a Norwegian Scandi-noir, both have the potential for indigestion.
The morning party returns, so it only seems natural to join them for lunch, there's quite a lot of moose on the menu, but then, there's quite a lot of moose, the thing about moose is that you get an awful lot of buck for your bang. It is at this point that Nick seems to have lost his presence of mind, for he is persuaded to go out for a small ski with Carole and Paul in the afternoon, it is only mildly excruciating. How excruciating it actually is he discusses with Paul in the sauna that afternoon, as he thought there is some discomfort, mainly caused by the fact that Carole can ski better than the both of them!
For light relief in the evening, Nick and Carole scroll through the latest offering from the dating site, he is sent a dozen possibles a day. It is as he thought: big-breasted blonde wanting to explore the arcane regions of the Kama Sutra, with own French Maids outfit and chalet in the Alps - unsuitable. Retiring mouse into cats and needlepoint - perfect! He goes to bed - another concert ensues.
Wednesday - the free day.
For a mere small fortune Nick has opted to spend the morning on a snowshoe trip led by a redoubtable Nord called Bengte. She will take the group off to a waterfall via one of the Summer farms in the area. Like other high regions there are Winter farms where the cattle are interned for the Winter, usually under the main house to provide free central heating, and Summer farms where the cattle are on high pasture and (in this case) looked after by the farmer's wife, who births calves and makes cheese and butter (which used to be dumped in a special tub in the nearest river as a refridgerator) and, presumably cuts the tails off retinally-challenged mice.
The party wades through snow to the top of the fall and then descends to the foot, past some stonebound troll children who have been out playing too long and have been surprised by dawn, to the foot of the frozen 10 metre fall, it is deemed spectacular. They then ascend, in some cases rather more slowly, and head back for lunch. Due to late running, some of the way back is on piste, Nick becomes aware of two things; every footfall he does picks up a ball of snow, which gets ever larger (memories of life's footwear journey through the 70's pings, as every step takes him further from the ground and renders him less stable), the other thing, and possibly a somewhat gratifying thing, is that Peter has a stress-related cough, which has now come to the fore, this means that Nick isn't the only one struggling, and also provides a useful reference for how far away everyone else has got.
The afternoon is listless, but the evening is a Taste of Norway Night, and there you were thinking every night was a Taste of Norway night. They are led through a selection of canapes, one of which is, unsurprisingly, smoked moose, to a main of trout (in butter), and a pudding with cloudberries.
Thursday - a change of scene.
After a somewhat humiliating chat with Ursula, Nick has opted to downgrade his optimism to Beginners Group standard, fortunately a lot of the Beginners Group have upgraded to Intermediate. This means that he is now with Carole and Paul, under the auspices of redoubtable Scot, Stephan.
Stephan has found favour in Nick's eyes following his lucid and lengthy condemnation of Yoga, favouring a history of about 50 years compared to the several thousand espoused by advocates and charlatans.
He spends the morning following Joe (a 75 year old in cancer remission) and Ann (just a 75 year old, in fact 75 that week, as attested to by cake and cocktails). At the start, there is so much wax on his skis that nothing happens, and he is sent back to try again. As the day continues so does his speed compared to the rest of the group, on one downhill he has to bail out to avoid rear-ending Ann, who can sucessfully brake (he can't). Lesson learnt, on the next downhill he gives Joe a hundred metre start, and manages to come to a halt two metres away. They return to the Hotel passing the supermarket (Kiwi - don't ask me!) for lunch.
After lunch they return to the supermarket for a mooch, and a fit of depression over the price of things, though reindeer skins appear to be a bargain. The uphill return from the supermarket is slow, painfully slow, as in slow and painful. After something cooked in butter an early bed is declared.
Friday - Expedition Day
"So if I've got this right this should be a nice gentle glide down to the crossroads, if I've got it wrong it'll be an icy, scary express ride!"
The crossroads features five adrenalin-soaked bodies in various states of sprawl.
The expedition is a seven kilometre loop taking about three hours, as you can see the standard of skiing is much improved. At one point Paul runs at low speed into the back of a stationary Nick, after a pause for re-attaining the vertical, Carole is soundly blamed for the incident, having drifted to a halt and then remained in the same place, oblivious to the laws of cross-country physics, that state that " the geographical position at the end of your schuss may be superceded by the heavier skier behind you, hence, an extra couple of metres at the end of the inertial glissade should be added to prevent: 1. Marital Discord. 2. Ally-based Grumbling."
Later, after a hot-juice break on the verandah of someone's hut, which some of them end up swimming to, Stephan points to a slope and announces the "perfect place to practice snow-ploughing", Nick's adrenaline levels reach a new high, along with his heart rate. Snowploughing is duly practiced. At the start of every run Nick remembers that, contrary to his normal concentration practise, the tongue should remain in the mouth if he wishes to keep sibilants as part of his diction. They continue, a party of six year olds come past mainly on the clockwise track, as they watch the mites barrel down the recently-ascended slope with impunity, a mild depression sets in on some of the party.
Eventually the hotel is espied and lunch is consumed, not many go out in the afternoon. Ski's and boots are handed in, it is over (although six weeks later Nick will still only be able to sleep on one side).
Saturday - going home
The sun has barely crested the horizon before, breakfast-sated, they are loaded onto the coach for a three and a half hour sit in Oslo airport. The duty-free is perused and left, Nick being tempted by a kilo of Fazer liquorice, but being aware that his blood pressure pills are probably not that heavyweight.
For variety, on the way back they get the world's smallest bottle of water and a packet of crisps! There is some doubt at Border Control as to whether Paul will be allowed back into the country as the autopilot won't read his passport, and the single Border Control Officer is being chatted up by someone blagging his way in (or something). But he arrives to see Nick meeting a very nice man with his name scrawled on a piece of paper. They part. The lift doesn't work, but the motorway is clear! That night the neighbours are treated to Nick's Scandinavian slant on snoring.
