KA -CHING! The nine millimetre nickel-clad bullet ricocheted off the bar in front of me and vanished into the cow-bells hanging off the roof. I was getting used to them by now, this was day three of being under heavy sniper fire, I blame myself, I had committed an unpardonable sin (mea culpa), and bought myself a drink.
Several days previously I had been sitting on the toilet checking my texts (as you do) prior to advising Steve Clunes of my ETA at Gatwick to catch the 11.30 check-in. A text surfaced through my slightly foggy early a.m. consciousness, "Check-in 13.25" it said, "Bugger!" I said, tossing up between a re-pack or a trip back to the Land of Nod.
Later I met Steve at Gatwick, and marveled at his sang froid as his suitcase came in at exactly 20kg.
"What a shame you paid for that extra baggage allowance."
"*$£+!"
"You'll just have to buy something while you're there."
"*%@^!"
The flight was uneventful, so much so that I rather carelessly finished my first book, they let us into Austria, and we sought out the rep;
"Gatwick?"
"Yeah."
"OK, your luggage will be delivered outside the arrivals in the coach park."
"?"
"OK, your luggage will be delivered outside the arrivals in the coach park."
Pointing of fingers
"Yes, your luggage will be delivered outside the arrivals in the coach park."
It was, a big train of trucks full of luggage, there was a free-for-all, and we were finally reunited with our luggage..... outside the arrivals in the coach park.We felt the rep's greeting to Crystal Finest customer's should have been met with hoots of derision, but it wasn't, they were probably too exhausted after manhandling their own cases.
An hour later we arrived at Soll, and ten minutes after that at the Hotel Austria, we watched the party in front check-in and then struggle up the stairs with their cases, accompanied by much "Fecking", Steve and I, we took the lift.
In the restaurant we met with Caroline and John and a plate of beef, the beef we dispatched, and then descended to the bar, or the third circle of Hell, the one reserved for non-smokers. The stench coming off my clothes the next day taking me back to the heady fug of the upper deck of the bus on a wet December night. Caroline and I decamped for fresh air, and a look for Hettie, she of Hetty's Darkroom, according to the official map her lodgings were across the road, according to her lodgings they were next door to the hotel, she wasn't there yet, so after a few quick breaths we returned to the bar and found it full (by volume) of Scots. Nick we have already met in Finland, he was accompanied by Dave and Colin. Hettie arrives diverting Steve away from a pounding by the Scots, and moving him towards excommunication by the Pope.
Day 1. Caroline, despairing of "serious skiers" has gone to join the Rep's Tour, Steve and I (not "serious skiers") take Hettie and John off up the mountain, after only a few hours of ski-fitting. I have found a suitable blue for John to practice, sadly getting there involves a completely unsuitable red, but we co.... I was going to put cope, but we get down it; to lunch.
After lunch we go the other way and find a nice blue, I get in the chair with Steve, and head off up, as we get off, I look at the rutted track for the right hand skier, and think, "Hmm, there goes John." Sadly John thinks that too, scrabbles off the chair and moves to the left, pinning Hettie's skis, then, and only then, does he fall. The chair carries on, the pisteur being more involved in the football on the tv than his job, and Hettie's ligaments ping like perished bungees before she is levered on top of John's now couchant corpus, there is much shouting, anger and pain in equal measure, with perhaps an hint of invective. Steve and I watch,
"Oh dear."
We ski back slowly and painfully, the descent in the cable car is relieved by giving a French PhD student an unsolicited education in the finer points of English etymology, and that is the end of Day 1. Well the end apart from listening to Caroline wax lyrical about where she's been, aka places only "good skiers" go to. Interrogating the reps about "Doctors" and "Insurance", meeting up with the Scots, and drinking beer and schnapps, and wine.
Day 2,3.. Hettie wasn't with us. We did skiing, we were going to do a tour with one of the reps., but the first descent took place in a whiteout so that those of us who didn't get lost immediately were allowed to get lost by ourselves - for insurance purposes. Then we did meeting the Scots in a bar (we did that quite a lot, sometimes by accident. In one bar there were people dancing (it's called continental Apres Ski), one of the people dancing was a girl in bright turquoise ski trousers, much was made of her terpsichory and callipygiosity, so much so, that we were forced to leave, by Caroline, who had deigned to accompany us.
On one of the nights we met Australians (Tosca and Pam, one of each sex, I'll leave you to decide which was which), they were nice too, but not in a callipygian way. They seemed very taken with Steve, deeming him a "character", the Scots deemed him a "headcase"
By this time my lack of fitness, and lack of ability were beginning to tell, I spent long periods of time on the toilet, not for any drastic gastric or prostatic reasons, but simply the fact that I'd run out of viable muscle fibres in my legs and therefore couldn't get back up again. In order to alleviate further damage, we booked a private lesson with Gerhardt, he would give advice to Steve and Caroline, but would give me a look of reproach and disappointment, then tell me to pull my socks up. Eventually I realised that he was actually telling me to mime pulling up my downhill sock and from that point on things went a lot better. Liz, on previous trips had told me to emulate a gorilla, meaning that the gorilla-like stance favoured the balance for skiing, now I didn't only stand like one, but my progression down the mountain looked like one bearing down on a hapless band of tourists, whose "Meet the Gentle Giants Experience" was about to have both "Meet" and "Gentle" redefined.
My last descent of the day was horrendous, I returned to the hotel and attempted to test the energizing effects of my Energizing Shampoo and Shower gel (available as part of the Nixco Acquired Hotel Products range), it didn't work. In the evening we ended up in a hotel full of Geordies where the presence of some pink shirts pinged loudly on Steve's Gaydar. I should point out that Steve's Gaydar works oppositely to normal Gaydar, think magnets, normal :- N to S, Steve's N to N. Hetty meanwhile had had a day of meditation, and was now picking up auras, we resolved to check her painkillers.
Day 4, I commit a Cardinal Sin, see Para 1
We skied over to the next valley, Scheffau, it takes so long that we have lunch and ski back.
Day 5, I am reminded that on Day 4 I committed a Cardinal Sin, I am not forgiven, sniping continues. We meet Dave and Nick in the bar, every time we return to the bar we will meet Dave and Nick. Dave and Nick stay in the bar all day. Sometimes Colin comes to see if they are still in the bar - they are. At one point Steve unwisely starts to imitate Colin, Nick's rejoinder of, "He's behind you" causes the best reaction most people can remember. Aye, you dinna mess with Colin.
Day 6, I am reminded that on Day 4 I committed a Cardinal Sin.We tour, I nearly die of exhaustion but decide not to. The sniper seems to have taken an evening off.
The next day we go home, Steve's luggage still weighs a perfect 20 kilos.
Tuesday, May 07, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
A hazy account of a week in the Lakes.
A man is standing on the top of a mountain, the wind is blowing through his tight blonde crop and running across the Gallic pout produced by his quizzical stare back down the path. It is Ben Louvet, he has just summited Wetherlam and is now looking for the rest of the party somewhere in the middle distance. The party that is being led by the Captain from the rear. The Captain will summit in about five minutes by which time everyone will have had their fill of the view and be planning their accidental visit to the pub on the way back.
"Where's the way down?"
I fumble in my pack for the map, cover for the puce face to descend to scarlet, and gesture at the only obvious path I can see.
"Ack!"
They start and begin their descent, I, Nick, the Captain, watch them disappear out of sight, and then reconsult the map, just to check, then consults the compass, amazingly he has guessed right and sent them in the correct direction. Tightening girths and lengthening sticks they set off behind.
It is the annual trip to the Lakes, the time when they bring blessed rain to the drought-riddled farms of the North-West, at the time of writing they are being particularly successful. They had arrived on Friday to coincide with the Tesco delivery (a melange of too many crisps, too many yoghurts and too much lettuce according to his detractors. In reality - it is Tuesday today- there is a dearth of wine), and to juxtapose some scones, jam and cream between their upper and lower mandibles. The evening is spent in the Black Bull, boosting the local economy.
Saturday sees the tops visible, a walk is declared and the majority ascend Wetherlam, and come back to Cottage Pie with a selection of wine, and Summer Pudding with a selection of wine. Various games are played (with a selection of wine) and the to bed, with snoring, due to a selection of wine.
Sunday is a rather glum day meteorologically, the morning is spent eating (brunch extends from 7.30 until 13.30), and the afternoon is spent at the Coniston Country Show for the Countryside Alliance Party Political Broadcast* followed by Cumberland and Westmorland Wrestling where men in their underwear try and throw each other to the ground, something that seems to fascinate Helen, leading to unkind remarks about how much she likes Cumberland sausage.
*As the announcer rambles on about the foxhunting ban (though at one point admits that the population of rural foxes has dropped since the ban - apparently this is a reason to re-instigate hunting with dogs) I become aware of one of the hazards of the countryside, namely Sheila, who begins to fulminate as the announcer drones on:
"Blah blah blah ridiculous curtailment of traditional pursuits....."
"BOLLOCKS!"
My gaze travels to the tweed-clad man next door, and comes to rest, with a sigh of relief, on the deaf-aid lodged in his ear.
In the evening Andy and I cook risotto, such is the complexity of the culinary science that we end up with the usual bevy of sous chefs, and a wine selection. Here endeth the live portion of the blog.
Here beginneth the stretched memory portion of the blog.
Monday, the weather is execrable, after several hours some of us break and say that we will sail with Sheila. I squeeze into my wetsuit ending up looking like a sausage about to burst, and follow Julian and Sheila to the boat, as I faff, I become aware that something is not right between the two, there has been some sort of rift during last night's games. Tight-lipped the boat is launched and floated round to the jetty, people climb aboard and the sails are raised. The boat streaks like a scalded cat across the lake, plunging and yawing, we turn round and plunge back, round up to the quay and get out. At this moment Julian decides to apologise, I point out that perhaps the apology could have come before his wife took him out to drown him, and by extension, his cousin.
The young people decamp into town to watch Batman, the Captain goes for a stroll up to Tarn Hows through the woods I go with him to keep him company. A first; Tarn Hows is (nearly) deserted, so we came back. Later, my cousin Simon will arrive, fresh from driving various steam trains around short, narrow Welsh tracks, he will bring his treasured possessions of guitar and wife Nia, however it is anyone's guess as to what order they come in. The Captain is always nervous around Simon, their growing up being slightly one-sided (see comment about the lake on Tuesday, and extrapolate). Lasagne is eaten (with a selection of wine), followed by a vanilla cheesecake with profligate raspberries and more wine. Day three and no more red!
Tuesday, the weather is vaguely less execrable than the day before, so much so that a further attempt at sailing takes place, it is so successful that Tom nearly misses his student account appointment
with the bank, however the bank (Barclays BTW) assure the assembled Louvet family that they can come later, sadly they fail to inform the student account lady that the Louvet family will be coming later, so she's buggered off by the time they get there, my Barclays shares suffer a small dip. Gallic temperament flares, so we shelter in a game of crib.
In the evening we dive into chicken and leek pie (with a new selection of wine), we also dive into the lake, Ben, testosterone aroused by Catherine's nubility, shows off in the only way a large teenage boy knows how; he bullies the weak and helpless. The view from under the lake is green, cool and tinged with bubbles - mine.
After the meal Peter and I decide that enough wine has been drunk, so we go to the honesty bar and drink beer.
Wednesday, people get up early, climb into cars and head off for Haystacks (burial, well, scattering place of Wainwright). It's a long drive but a pretty one. Andy makes it seven eighths of the way up, and is suitably thrilled. People are declared satisfied, apart from Catherine whose sense of danger has not been piqued sufficiently, she ought to have been in the boat on Monday!
It is the Louvets turn to cook, they have squandered Tom's tuition fees and a large portion of his inheritance on a leg of local lamb.
Thursday - sunny! Some boating is done, young people hire kayaks, so that they can be tipped off. The Captain and I take Trenchfoot for a row, rescuing the odd bumblebee, whilst waiting for Julian and Sheila to turn up with petrol. When they arrive, the motor is shipped and a wave of pollution placed in the lake as they motor to Wildcat Island (aka Peel island). Trenchfoot is parked in the secret harbour and the island suitably explored. The lake is re-polluted, people (who should know better) who have been waiting on the quay for a lift back across the lake are picked up and returned to Bank Ground. The boat is packed away. Tomorrow we will leave.....
But before we do, the Captain has insisted that I share a couple of Andyisms with you:
Sheila is a good Christian woman, and as such thinks that one should not take the Lord's name in vain, Michael: "Oh for God's sake!"
Nick: "Umm Mike, try not to do that in front of Sheila, she's a bit twitchy about that sort of thing."
Michael: "Really?"
Nick: "Yeah. Andy your Mum's a Godfearing lady isn't she?"
Andy: "........................?"
Nick: " Your Mum loves Jesus doesn't she?"
Andy: "................. Ye-es? We brought some up with us out of the fridge."
Slight collapse of other parties.
On driving past Cockermouth, much was made of its potential rudity... followed by:
Andy: "It would be much funnier if it was just called Cock."
Andy: "Molly [the cat] loves Nick, before we came up she shoved her head right in his... ... .... .. hand!"
it was actually my groin but this would have been going too far.
"Where's the way down?"
I fumble in my pack for the map, cover for the puce face to descend to scarlet, and gesture at the only obvious path I can see.
"Ack!"
They start and begin their descent, I, Nick, the Captain, watch them disappear out of sight, and then reconsult the map, just to check, then consults the compass, amazingly he has guessed right and sent them in the correct direction. Tightening girths and lengthening sticks they set off behind.
It is the annual trip to the Lakes, the time when they bring blessed rain to the drought-riddled farms of the North-West, at the time of writing they are being particularly successful. They had arrived on Friday to coincide with the Tesco delivery (a melange of too many crisps, too many yoghurts and too much lettuce according to his detractors. In reality - it is Tuesday today- there is a dearth of wine), and to juxtapose some scones, jam and cream between their upper and lower mandibles. The evening is spent in the Black Bull, boosting the local economy.
Saturday sees the tops visible, a walk is declared and the majority ascend Wetherlam, and come back to Cottage Pie with a selection of wine, and Summer Pudding with a selection of wine. Various games are played (with a selection of wine) and the to bed, with snoring, due to a selection of wine.
Sunday is a rather glum day meteorologically, the morning is spent eating (brunch extends from 7.30 until 13.30), and the afternoon is spent at the Coniston Country Show for the Countryside Alliance Party Political Broadcast* followed by Cumberland and Westmorland Wrestling where men in their underwear try and throw each other to the ground, something that seems to fascinate Helen, leading to unkind remarks about how much she likes Cumberland sausage.
*As the announcer rambles on about the foxhunting ban (though at one point admits that the population of rural foxes has dropped since the ban - apparently this is a reason to re-instigate hunting with dogs) I become aware of one of the hazards of the countryside, namely Sheila, who begins to fulminate as the announcer drones on:
"Blah blah blah ridiculous curtailment of traditional pursuits....."
"BOLLOCKS!"
My gaze travels to the tweed-clad man next door, and comes to rest, with a sigh of relief, on the deaf-aid lodged in his ear.
In the evening Andy and I cook risotto, such is the complexity of the culinary science that we end up with the usual bevy of sous chefs, and a wine selection. Here endeth the live portion of the blog.
Here beginneth the stretched memory portion of the blog.
Monday, the weather is execrable, after several hours some of us break and say that we will sail with Sheila. I squeeze into my wetsuit ending up looking like a sausage about to burst, and follow Julian and Sheila to the boat, as I faff, I become aware that something is not right between the two, there has been some sort of rift during last night's games. Tight-lipped the boat is launched and floated round to the jetty, people climb aboard and the sails are raised. The boat streaks like a scalded cat across the lake, plunging and yawing, we turn round and plunge back, round up to the quay and get out. At this moment Julian decides to apologise, I point out that perhaps the apology could have come before his wife took him out to drown him, and by extension, his cousin.
The young people decamp into town to watch Batman, the Captain goes for a stroll up to Tarn Hows through the woods I go with him to keep him company. A first; Tarn Hows is (nearly) deserted, so we came back. Later, my cousin Simon will arrive, fresh from driving various steam trains around short, narrow Welsh tracks, he will bring his treasured possessions of guitar and wife Nia, however it is anyone's guess as to what order they come in. The Captain is always nervous around Simon, their growing up being slightly one-sided (see comment about the lake on Tuesday, and extrapolate). Lasagne is eaten (with a selection of wine), followed by a vanilla cheesecake with profligate raspberries and more wine. Day three and no more red!
Tuesday, the weather is vaguely less execrable than the day before, so much so that a further attempt at sailing takes place, it is so successful that Tom nearly misses his student account appointment
with the bank, however the bank (Barclays BTW) assure the assembled Louvet family that they can come later, sadly they fail to inform the student account lady that the Louvet family will be coming later, so she's buggered off by the time they get there, my Barclays shares suffer a small dip. Gallic temperament flares, so we shelter in a game of crib.
In the evening we dive into chicken and leek pie (with a new selection of wine), we also dive into the lake, Ben, testosterone aroused by Catherine's nubility, shows off in the only way a large teenage boy knows how; he bullies the weak and helpless. The view from under the lake is green, cool and tinged with bubbles - mine.
After the meal Peter and I decide that enough wine has been drunk, so we go to the honesty bar and drink beer.
Wednesday, people get up early, climb into cars and head off for Haystacks (burial, well, scattering place of Wainwright). It's a long drive but a pretty one. Andy makes it seven eighths of the way up, and is suitably thrilled. People are declared satisfied, apart from Catherine whose sense of danger has not been piqued sufficiently, she ought to have been in the boat on Monday!
It is the Louvets turn to cook, they have squandered Tom's tuition fees and a large portion of his inheritance on a leg of local lamb.
Thursday - sunny! Some boating is done, young people hire kayaks, so that they can be tipped off. The Captain and I take Trenchfoot for a row, rescuing the odd bumblebee, whilst waiting for Julian and Sheila to turn up with petrol. When they arrive, the motor is shipped and a wave of pollution placed in the lake as they motor to Wildcat Island (aka Peel island). Trenchfoot is parked in the secret harbour and the island suitably explored. The lake is re-polluted, people (who should know better) who have been waiting on the quay for a lift back across the lake are picked up and returned to Bank Ground. The boat is packed away. Tomorrow we will leave.....
But before we do, the Captain has insisted that I share a couple of Andyisms with you:
Sheila is a good Christian woman, and as such thinks that one should not take the Lord's name in vain, Michael: "Oh for God's sake!"
Nick: "Umm Mike, try not to do that in front of Sheila, she's a bit twitchy about that sort of thing."
Michael: "Really?"
Nick: "Yeah. Andy your Mum's a Godfearing lady isn't she?"
Andy: "........................?"
Nick: " Your Mum loves Jesus doesn't she?"
Andy: "................. Ye-es? We brought some up with us out of the fridge."
Slight collapse of other parties.
On driving past Cockermouth, much was made of its potential rudity... followed by:
Andy: "It would be much funnier if it was just called Cock."
Andy: "Molly [the cat] loves Nick, before we came up she shoved her head right in his... ... .... .. hand!"
it was actually my groin but this would have been going too far.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
