After last weekend's aceness, yesterday was a disaster...
The cunning plan was to stay in on Friday night and not go to the pub - get up early, grab our already-packed kit, load up the ultra-relaible Suzuki jeep and head up north for a flat-mates skiing session. It didnt all go wrong from the start as we actually managed to stay in - however the amount of faffing in the morning was at least European championship standard, if not Olympic - despite alarms going off at 6.15 - it was still 9.30 when we departed the house in the wrong direction.
Back on course, we cruised out of town - heading out towards the Forth Bridge - where my co-pilot noticed the subterranean level of the fuel guage. This, being a regular occurence did not have me undully worried, until I remembered that there are no motorway services until half-way to Perth - so an unscheduled half-hour tour round Dunfirmline led to a dilapidated Jet garage which only had 2 working pumps and a long queue of vehicles. After a full tank, the mild engine coughing and spluttering had turned to a serious case of vehicle TB - it's quite disconcerting when, foot on the floorboards, there's massive backfire whilst you are in the motorway slow lane doing 30 with some bloke in a van doing 70 bearing down on your arse.
Disconcerting say I. Downright dangerous say most. However, there was skiing to do so we pressed on.
3 hours later, we were at Aviemore, where we drooped the house Legal Department off to do a walk around Rothiemurcus woods. That's when the fun started, the car struggling to make it uphill from Glenmore Lodge, 100metres at a time between huge backfires, exhaust clouds and engine conk-outs. It got windy, the blue skies of our morning's travels turned into an icy cairngorm wind and clouds closed in on the tops. I tried to summon up a Monkey! cloud by blowing on my hands but alas 1970s japanese tv shows didnt seem to change the reality of the situation: my £166 car is a bag o'shite!
Eventually, after a couple of long stops, oil checks, shouting, swearing and kicking of wheels, we arrived at the full ski centre car park, though there was a steady stram of traffic coming down.
It was about half-two, it had taken us 5 hours to do the 100 mile journey - but at least we were kitted out and raring to get on the slopes - I was desperately trying not to think of the lift pass costs, when a bloke gave me 2 passes "Here - have these - it's fooking shite up there!" (insert Inverness accent) - so we got on the controversial train and headed up into good old fashioned Scottish skiing conditions: ice bits fresh from the plateau , carried by gale force winds right into your face. Personal Service. Ace.
We did a couple of ridiculous runs - wind, snow, ice and gloom before the clever-wish-I'd-thought-of-it-sooner plan:let's get the flock out of here and head somewhere sheltered. The runs lower down were considerably more pleasant - you could see more than a metre and could hear people beyond the wind howl around your gore-tex hood and the constant chatter of multiple personalities somewhere in the sub-consious. However, just as we were getting into the telemark-sving of things, the management in their infinite let's keep the customers happy sort of style , suddenly closed all the lifts for no apparent reason and everyone was forced down despite the complaints, arguments ang general ill-feeling (* there must be some sort of economic model based on having a limited customer base of gullible scumbags such as myself). So that was it, 5 hours up, 3 hours back (car seemed to go better downhill) - just for 2 runs in a whiteout, 3 lower down and two trips up a t bar.
Skiing next weekend anyone?
