I was 30 when I first went skiing, and up for absolutely anything. I was a successful party caterer who had just opened my first restaurant. I had a food column for the Daily Mail, and I was about to open Leith’s cookery school. I was sporty, played tennis every Tuesday, rode polo ponies on Ham Common on Fridays and I loved to dance. I thought I could do anything. Why wouldn’t I make a skier?
So when Harold Evans, renowned editor of the Sunday Times, was looking for journalists over 30 to report on learning to ski, I was a gung-ho volunteer. Harry had learnt to ski late, loved it, and as a result was on a mission to get everyone, however old, into the sport.
Each of us was sent to a different resort, at different altitudes, and stayed in different accommodation. We learnt by different methods: long skis, short skis, ski school, private lessons. I was sent to Wengen in the Swiss Alps, in a year with no snow on the nursery slopes. It was a complete disaster. I had long skis which kept coming off, and a 17-year-old Austrian instructress, whose flowing blonde hair and graceful moves disguised the hard-faced devil she was. She swooped down the icy slopes and I came tumbling after. She shouted; I cried.
On the second day of the trip, feeling pressure from irate skiers who were fed up with all the beginners in their way, I landed in a heap at the bottom of a ditch. Stomping sideways up the opposite slope, exhausted and tearful, I spied a chairlift. Brilliant, I thought. Escape! That must go to a restaurant, and more importantly, a bar.
I let a few chairs swing past before I had the courage to get on one. But that meant I didn’t know when to get off, with no one to follow as the chairs ahead were empty. Too late, I realised I’d missed my moment and was now rapidly rising again. I jumped off and turned round to remonstrate with my tormentor, only to realise she wasn’t there. Her empty chair clocked me on the head, knocking off my beanie. I staggered into the bar, drank a lot of gluhwein, and quit. Needless to say, my story did not make the Sunday Times. All the others did, being more what Harry was after.
It was almost impossible not to yell with excitement as we swooped down the slopes in great curves
So, I never learnt to ski. And now, well into my eighties, it is too late. But this year, 17 members of our family went to Val d’Isere. Our group was made up of seven children between three and 14 years old, three lots of parents and four oldies who didn’t ski.
Something about the scenery (pristine snow, vistas of sky, mountains, fairytale villages in the valleys) and the sight of skiers zipping down the slopes so quickly and fluidly made me regret my previous rejection of the sport. I desperately wanted to feel part of it.
Which is why our offspring bought my husband John and me a couple of hours of sit-skiing. If you can’t ski but long to, this is the answer. Helmeted, goggled and gloved, you half-sit, half-lie strapped into a padded egg-shaped cradle which is attached to skis. A skiing guide then pushes you down the slopes as if you were in a wheelbarrow or a pram. We skied down with our children and grandchildren, who zipped around us. I’m glad to say they had to concentrate to keep up, so competitive was my minder.
It was both terrifying and exhilarating. When the piste was smooth, it was heaven, exactly like I’d imagined skiing to be, but with someone else responsible for my safety. It was almost impossible not to yell with excitement as we swooped down the slopes in great curves and sudden turns, crunching to a breakneck stop, setting off again over what felt like a suicide drop. When we hit moguls – Google tells me the word is derived from an old Hungarian term for hillock or hump – I wasn’t quite so happy, fearing my back or neck would break. But I learnt to brace for the bumps.
It probably took no longer than five minutes to get to the bottom. Then we promptly got up again to the top of the mountain in a ski-lift. The guide positioned me, chair and all, in front of one of the advancing hanging ski-lift benches, which scooped us both up (with my guide now beside me) and into the air, the land falling away beneath us. I doubt if I’ll ever forget the feeling of sit-skiing. It was glorious. And it was worth it just for the views from the ski-lifts.
There was only one small mishap, when John was pushed off the bench-lift and toppled over sideways. Strapped in like a mummy, he couldn’t move so he lay on his side in the snow, grinning happily while being hoisted upright. But aside from that, it was the ideal way to ski. Two hours passed in a flash, before we headed for raclette and beer, followed by that sacred oldies’ privilege: a long siesta.
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