Switzerland. Calamity on the slopes.

I was more than exited to ski this weekend; I hadn’t been skiing in nearly 5 years! That also meant I was TERRIFIED as we were going to have no instructors. I have never exactly been a pro skier, and there is an ongoing family joke involving Eddy the Eagle.

So a frosty start, and an hour’s drive to the slopes of Flumserberg (see their website here, a lovely slope, reccomended) with Daddy Chatwin was the first call of the day, after toast and jam and Swiss Muesli, of course. I’ve turned into a serial napper lately and slept most of the way. With temperature forecasts on the mountain at about -8 I layered up under my new orange and black one piece ski suit, a bargain off Ebay! You’d be surprised how well I fitted in with the locals in my Action Man-esque number and perfectly practical, no gaps for the snow to get in!

Action Man and Barbie, Alpine Edition

Half an hour after parking up we had our lift passes in our pockets and ski boots strapped to our feet and were ready to ascend the mountain. It was fairly busy (being a Saturday), the things they say about the British and queuing are wholly justified.

Mumma Chatwin, and one of Bronwen’s brothers and his friend came direct to meet us from the Airport after also flying in from England and we split off into groups. I stayed with Ciaran, who had never skied before, on the nursery slope, whilst the others caught the chairlift up to the first red slope of the day. I am definitely not the best teacher and couldn’t help but giggle when he backed up the mini travelator to the ‘summit’ of said nursery slope.

After half a morning of “SNOW PLOUGH”, skiing backwards into sheds and a bit of whining, the others caught up with us. Bronwen took over role of teacher and I went to the mountain summit with Daddy Chatwin and Hatty. For a mammoth red run. SHI***NG my pants is an understatement. However, a spectacular view and a couple of falls broke me in again pretty quickly and I was swishing (I would like to think I looked glamorous, most others would tell different) down the mountain.

A spot of lunch and a beer (it is acceptable to drink at any time of day in the mountains, this is one of my favourite things) in a standard overpriced resort restaurant, the rest of the day continued in the same ilk as the red run of the morning....

....Until the calamitous red slope. Hatty and I (not begrudgingly of course) were taking Ciaran around some of the blue slopes; he was feeling relatively confident after just a day although a bit frantic. At this point we decided to try a new blue slope we had not yet been up to. Sat in the chairlift chatting away we arrive at the top. No blue slope in sight. Oh. A big red pole marked the only route down. And it was no friendly red. A narrow precarious slope, lumps and bumps and seemingly endless Ciaran threw a B***H FIT. With no other way down we had to convince him that we hadn’t in fact done this on purpose to scare him. After a little strop he knew there was only one way he was getting back down to the safety of the resort at the bottom. Off we went. I can’t lie, even I was a bit scared and i’d been shooting down the reds for half the day, and the piste was full of moguls. (bloody snowboarders). Half an hour later, and only about 6 falls we were back at the bottom! It looked like the proudest moment of Ciaran’s life, but we decided to call it a day. Very tired we napped all the way home, and then sat round the table with the family to a fajita feast, beaming smiles on our faces, and regaled with stories of the day.  

Sunshine on the slopes!

Movie and early night. We were going to go out on the town, but our fatigue got the better of us!