It was one of those typical ‘small world’ moments the other week when my work colleague mentioned her upcoming ski trip. Not only was she jetting off to the tiny Andorra she was also visiting the very same ski resort that I had back in 2009. Small world indeed.
I visited Arinsal with a friend and took a weeks worth of classes with a small group. Next to another small group, and another and another and… You get it. The mountain was swarming with hundreds of us clad in brightly coloured ski jackets and clashing trousers. The only time where the more the gaudy your outfit the cooler you are! I would have loved to have had an aerial view of us all trotting up and falling down the mountain. Especially the moment I forgot all knowledge of how to stop and toppled full speed into the orange ski barriers, having to be detangled by a couple of strangers. Thanks guys.
After just 2 days of training I remember our shock at being told we were going all the way up the mountain the next morning. ‘Say whaaaaaad?!’ ‘Nuh-uh’ ‘Holy crap’ etc etc. I like to believe I mastered that parallel turn (even though my instructor didn’t add it to my certificate. Whatevs. Not like I’m bitter about that…
But oh my the aches and pains sustained after those first 3 days!! I’ve never known anything like it – this was not a holiday!! Nothing a relaxing evening at the spa couldn’t fix, and hey presto, I felt like a new woman the next morning. Not a single ache or pain anywhere. Much to my groups annoyance as they were all now feeling it. I couldn’t help to feel a little smug.
At the time I remember thinking ‘yeah, I’d definitely do this again, maybe even try snowboarding’, but thinking back to the daily torture I put my body through and the sexy thermals we had to don each day (I had frog green long johns. Oh yes.) I made sure my next holiday was a hot and sunny weekend in Barcelona, lounging on the beach. But more on that trip another time…