16February1997

16 February 97
My dear folks,

Gatwick Airport: Sunday a.m. very early: The words from the song “If you could see me now” keep echoing through my head. I wonder what might you think if you could; the pair of us striding bleary-eyed through the terminal, knapsacks on our backs; skis, boots & bags clasped in our hands (& the computer strung like an albatross around my neck!) I sense that we are past package holidays. Jones confides that she is thinking the same. By the end of the week, we’ll know. At least we are on vacation & gradually coming to believe it, even if it is 5 a.m. & we have neither of us laid head upon pillow.

Saturday had just sufficient time in it for the accomplishment of all we had to do. I visited outgoing tenants before heading for Waterperry for tea & conversation with friends. Several couples, all involved in education & based in Oxfordshire, have become regular guests at the Quinta, having spread the word among themselves. We enjoy their company & are grateful for their custom. The weatherman had promised us a lovely day & he kept his word. It was glorious. After tea, we took our usual ramble through the fields.

We were home in time to meet an incoming tenant & complete the formalities surrounding her lease. She’s an interesting case, a woman in her twenties who works in the fashion trade & combines hard sell with soft-soap. Then we set off for town where we’d arranged to meet Penny & Richard for an early film, “Looking for Richard”, a production by Al Pacino based on Shakespeare’s Richard the Third. The film is as much about Al Pacino’s enthusiasm for the play & how he sets about producing it as it is about the play itself. I enjoyed it between dozes of which I took a great many. I’m still getting over my recent bout of night shifts.

We fought our way out of the cinema & through the evening crowds in Piccadilly, hailed a taxi & retreated to Camden where Penny treated us to supper. It was midnight by the time we got home. It took us two hours to bath & finish packing. Then we crept downstairs as silently as we could, having booted a reluctant Mavis back upstairs, stuffed the Rocket to the gunwales with ski gear & set out for Gatwick. We had envisaged getting our heads down at the airport but by the time we sorted ourselves out, the check-in desk was opening. There are youngsters around, obviously going skiing in Andorra too! Jones wonders why we chose the half term break! So do I!

Sunday evening:
Pas de la Casa, Andorra: So here we are. Britannia (charter airline) flew us over on a mini-jumbo to Toulouse. Sunrise at 5000-metres was crimson & glorious, unlike Toulouse. The glimpse we caught through the coach windows was all we needed. Utter confusion at the airport where Thompsons were trying to divide 500 passengers from 2 planes among a dozen coaches. We found ourselves at the back of a coach among an assortment of pimply youths & pubescent maidens, not company we’d have chosen. It took half an hour extra to sort out the luggage & find some missing passengers. I blessed my blow-up cushions, which saved me from a seat headrest that was doing its best to dig a hole in my back.

The next 3 hours were divided between head-wobbling snoozes & brief glances at the stunning scenery as we entered the foothills of the Pyrenees. We crawled up a twisting mountain road where the bus unloaded us at the top of the little town spread around the lower pistes. I asked Jones to oversee the conveyance of the luggage from the bus to a mini-van while I hurried down the hill on foot to book us in.

It was a mistake, a bad mistake. In my haste, I hadn’t listened to the directions & I missed the nameplate on the apartment block where we were due to stay. I spent the following hour wandering dismally around the depths of Pas de la Casa. Few souls there spoke English & not one had heard of the Monzano apartments. By the time I had retraced my steps & found the place, I had nearly lost my sense of humour & Jones had entirely run out of plausible reasons for my disappearance. We threw my diet out of the window and retired to a bar for a couple of serious snifters.

At least the apartment looks perfectly serviceable & the views of the surrounding mountains are glorious. The Pyrenees rise up from the French countryside much like the Rockies from the plains of Alberta. We could see them from Toulouse airport as we landed. There’ve been good falls of snow. The problem is an unseasonable sun, which has tempted people to sunbathe in their shirtsleeves at pavement cafes. There’s also a heavy thaw in the streets. The moment the sun goes down, everything freezes over again. A television set in the apartment gives us Sky News & Sky Sport, aimed at Surrey rather than the world but useful for its weather forecasts & for staying in touch with the world.

We went around to Thompson’s group introduction to organise our lift tickets & the like. Most of the party are in their 20’s, apart from a few parents & children. The occasion consisted of some sensible advice & much hard sell of boozy outings. Andorra is tax-free; goods are cheap, especially tobacco & alcohol. It becomes clear that what Thompson’s don’t make on the sale of holidays, they try to make up on the side. There’s not an evening that they don’t endeavour to fill. We weren’t tempted, except by an afternoon visit to the capital, Andorra Velha, on our last day.

Monday evening:
The alarm clock woke us at 0800. Porridge laced with treacle for breakfast! Then downstairs to fetch skis & boots from the lockers. It’s a 100-metre tramp down the road to the piste. I confess that I had my doubts! It’s several years since we last skied. We clipped the skis on & set off across the icy piste towards the lifts. The skis felt like slippery tree trunks with a will of their own. Jones fingers promptly froze up. And I initially I couldn’t find the lodge which supplied the arm-bands for our passes – it’s underground! Serious misgivings began to set in!

Then the sun came out & our day improved. The pistes are broad & reasonably manicured, reminding me of Sunshine near Banff. The first run went okay. We came down the second with some aplomb. Then we took a high lift to the summit. From there, half a dozen runs twist & turn down both sides of the mountain. On the adjacent mountain we could see more lifts & more skiers. There are two resorts sharing three mountains with a great variety of skiing! We had a wonderful afternoon, skiing a medley of runs in both valleys & in some style. It was bliss. The sun was high; there was barely any wind; Jones, incredibly, was warm; the views were superb; there were no queues on the upper slopes.

For all our exultation, we called it an early afternoon, disinclined to tempt fate. Instead, we took a 10-minute walk into town & found seats on a pavement café in the dying sun. A variety of languages sounded in our ears. The local tongue is Catalan. The French border is within spitting distance -- at the entrance to the town -- & most people have no difficulty switching between French & Spanish. The weekend brought an influx of Brits & there are occasional Dutch & Portuguese visitors.

Central Pas de la Casa is clustered around the foot of the ski slopes, with low-rise apartment blocks & hotels creeping up the sides. It clearly lives on tourism; cheek to jowl restaurants, clubs, cafes & ski shops line the main streets & spill on to the pavements. Prices are generally very reasonable, given the easy access to France & the absence of taxes. You can pay any bill in either French francs or Spanish pesetas; cash registers give the total in either currency at the touch of a button.

Tuesday evening:
Jones sits on the couch pouring over one of the papers we brought with us. No need to tell you what I am doing. We have both of us had hot baths in the tiniest tub, Jones first, then me. Not even an adoring honeymoon couple could share this one. It’s just big enough to immerse either legs or torso. I’m heading for an early bed. Last night, the guests above us got back late & promptly set about rearranging the furniture before settling down to some enthusiastic bonking. When I did fall asleep, it was to be beset with anxiety dreams. It wasn’t a good night.

There was quite a lot of cloud on Tuesday a.m. The absence of shadows hides the undulations in the snow & makes skiing difficult. By the time we’d had coffee & our skis waxed & edged, the sun had come through. We embarked on a series of runs to the furthest of the 3 valleys. By now we’d found our feet & we skied the blue (easier) runs in some style. On the red runs (more difficult), we displayed our style when we could & concentrated on survival when we couldn’t. The black runs (most difficult) we avoid. Much depends on the quality of the snow. The newly groomed pistes are icy & brittle in the mornings, mushy & mogully by mid-afternoon. We try to pick & choose our slopes. So does everybody else! Skiers outnumber snowboarders by several to one but there is great interest in snowboarding – surfing as they call it -- & the numbers are expected to even out towards the turn of the century.

We spent an hour afterwards exploring the town. The lower part is a huddle of supermarkets specialising in cut-price tobacco & liquor. I priced cigarettes at between £5 & £10 for a pack 200. In Britain, that would set you back by up to £30. Little wonder there’s such a demand. I wanted grilled chicken for supper & we found a small restaurant that provided just the thing. At the same time, we ordered paella for lunch tomorrow.

Wednesday evening:
A minor correction. We do occasionally ski black runs. We did today, after taking a turn that left us no option. It was a freshly groomed & very gentle black run, fortunately. We’ve been looking out for the new narrow-waisted skis, said to assist turning, but seen them only in the shops. People seem to be in no hurry to get them, here at least. It’s probably a different story in your champagne resorts. We also wandered over the main road to inspect a huge round metal building that looks a bit like an alien space ship. It turned out to be an indoor sports & cultural centre – very smart & totally out of character with the rest of the town. We gathered later that smart sports centres had been built in most Andorran towns for the “small nations Olympics”, a competition limited to mini-states like Andorra.

There’s a young Pyrenean mountain dog that’s chained on the patio of a neighbouring hotel. He sticks his head through the railings as I pass & I give him a leisurely head scratch & general love session. Brings back old memories!

Tonight’s news is the death of Deng Xiaoping, China’s paramount leader. Sky News had the sense to put it ahead of their usual rape & murder stories. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had not been on duty at the Beeb which would have gone into frantic mode for most of the day. RIP Deng!

Thursday evening:
The drawback of staying in a ski apartment, especially one near the games room on the 1st floor, is the noise one has to endure at night. Jones pointed out to me that we could have asked for an upper floor apartment if only I hadn’t wandered off & got myself lost on arrival. I did not find this useful information. I drew the problem to the attention of the tour organisers who were not unaware of it. There are notices everywhere asking guests who are returning late to be quiet. But since the tour organisers spend a lot of time arranging entertainment that entails lots of boozing & since inebriated people are not considerate, the notices are largely ignored. (We did get one moment of amusement from the games room where one irritated small boy was heard telling another small boy. “Leave me alone. I’m English; you’re French. I don’t understand you. I don’t know what you are talking about!”)

After we’d both soaked away the evils of the day, I took Jones to dinner. We peered dubiously into dozen restaurants before finding one we both liked. So did many other people. It had just the right ambience - fire burning in the grate. We chose paella again. It’s a great dish. The meal wasn’t improved by the cheroots of the Frenchman sitting across the way from me. But this is smoking country! It’s the norm, sadly. Messrs Benson & Hedges would be delighted to see the youngsters sitting around the resort restaurants, all puffing away fashionably. Silly things!

Friday evening:
The pair of us creaked home mid-p.m. after 6 hours on the slopes. It was too much to hope that we’d end the week without a tumble or two. Nor did we. Our troubles began on the second run of the day when we chose a broad, smooth black run for our descent. Although it was steep, we reckoned we could do it. I was following Jones down in broad turns when she lost her footing & shot off, head first, down the slope on her back, leaving a spume of snow in her wake. She must have covered 50 metres before the slope eased off & she slid to a halt. She was covered in snow but none the worse for wear. So great was my amusement that I was barely able to follow her down & offer her assistance. Once she’d found her feet, we returned to the slope a second time, just to prove to ourselves that we could do it.

Rather more serious was a second tumble she took when her ski hooked on another skier’s as they both exited a chair lift. The accident left Jones sprawled in the snow for several minutes, as she nursed a painful hip & knee back into use. She was eventually able to carry on skiing but had a shaky descent to the nearest restaurant where we had a bite of lunch & I poured a couple of brandies into her. I thought it right to pour a couple into myself at the same time.

The third & final tumble of the day fell to me, so to speak. I was determined to tackle a tricky section aggressively instead of just surviving on it - & was doing very nicely until I suddenly lost it completely - it being my balance, a ski & a pole. Jones showed more sympathy than I had done earlier in the day. The initial impact left such a dent in the snow, she informed me, that she feared for my well being. Happily, once again, no damage was done other than to my dignity. For some reason, though -- I suspect the dubious mattress -- I’ve had an aching back all day, and Jones’s knee continues troublesome so the pair of us are looking a mite crotchety.

Very early Sunday morning:
The Bar of the Olympiades Hotel: This is the downside of a package holiday. Guests are required to clean & then vacate their apartments by 0230. Luggage is left at the ski entrance to the apartments from whence it is taken to the church where we are to collect it & load it on our bus in an hour or so. Travellers from several hotels are meanwhile gathering in the bar of one of them where we are instructed to wait.

Jones has found us a small table in the corner of the room where I can plug in my laptop. All around us families are whiling away the time with games of cards. At least refreshments are available. It’s hard to believe that our holiday is over. We were on the slopes early Saturday; yet another perfect day! The frequent weather reports on Sky TV made it clear that most of northern Europe – especially Britain – was being visited by gales & storms for much of the week. The worst we’ve suffered has been a gentle breeze & occasional high cloud.

Saturday p.m.
we took a coach outing to Andorra Velha. It lies an hour away at the heart of a valley surrounded by steep, high mountains. The views are spectacular but we came away sensing that the place lacked a heart. I was tempted to ease our aches & pains in the spa – a palace with a shimmering glass facade - but Jones wasn’t. So we walked instead. The main streets are lined with glitzy shops & hotels. After passing the umpteenth window stuffed with clothing, sports gear, watches, radios & cameras, one’s eyes begin to glaze over. There are far more cars & buses than roads to cope with them, especially on a Saturday p.m. when the hordes are returning from ski outings (there are several resorts along the road). Above the town are rows of expensive-looking stone houses. Many of the hotels are also constructed of finely-cut stone that comes in a variety of browns. Jones resents their creeping invasion of the mountain slopes but they do blend in & look superb.

Our guide informs us that twice as many visitors come to Andorra in summer as in winter. We are grateful that we came in winter. We remain puzzled as to how the principality raises sufficient money for its needs. We are told that taxes are levied only on petrol. There are apparently no other direct or indirect taxes. Sounds too good to be true. Whatever the case, the place reeks of money.

Sunday afternoon:
Home! The buses pulled out of Pas de la Casa at 0500. We arrived at Toulouse airport at 0800. I dozed much of the way, in spite of being cramped into a tiny seat. We couldn’t find trolleys & staggered into the terminal dripping with bags & ski gear. On the other hand, the check-in was swift, the in-flight service was surprisingly good & we were back to a blustery Gatwick by late a.m., passengers gasping as the plane yawed & lurched down on to the runway. The Rocket awaited us; started at the first turn of the key & brought us home. Mavis shot out of the flat as we entered. He’d clearly had enough of his own company to last him a lifetime. But he soon returned to dose on affection.

Your letters & faxes awaited. Thank you Mother & Cathy & other authors for all your news updates. I had a brief word with Conal after hearing your Witbank news, Mum. Bren had taken Micaela riding. Our thoughts, too, are with the Witbankers. I do hope things have turned the corner. They are also very much with the Calgarians on such a big day! Many, many happy returns, brother! Don’t worry. You’ll never look back & your skiing gets even better! And greetings to Hambach too. You will have gathered that we have had a splendid holiday & we have returned fit & well with fresh zeal to keep up our skiing. We also have the good fortune of yet another week away to look forward to – in the Lake District for the 1st week of March. But that’s for another letter!

Blessings
T