Taking The Piste

Back when we were still living in the neighbouring Corrèze, I was shopping one day at the local Leclerc. Something struck me as the young cashier scanned the family groceries. Maybe the packaging of an item or the way she tied up a bag.  

I remarked idly that whatever it was seemed rather clever. She looked at me and said, quite seriously, “Yes, we French have some very good ideas”.

An odd retort, it smacked of an ingrained rigidity that runs through society here like a seam of quartz. Happily, I refrained from quipping that the French also have some awful ideas – like overtaking on blind bends.

One of the best French ideas occurs around this time of year however - the staggered half-term fortnight. Our daughter recently went back to school along with the rest of Zone A. Next year she’ll go back a week later because Zone A will take the slot occupied this year by Zone C. Three geographic zones into a five-week holiday period go once remainder two overlapping weeks and it all works swimmingly.

Without this demographic rotation policy, the national passion for winter sports could, I suppose, trigger a mass exodus, thereby placing irreparable strain on the railways and motorways and, above all, the slopes and resorts.

Does this passion for winter sports derive from having real mountains within your borders? Perhaps the sight of distant snow-capped peaks provokes similar emotions to a tantalising glimpse of sea. You want to be there, filling up your lungs with all that rarefied air. (And not because, as a British holidaymaker suggested, that this air gets you drunk quicker!)

One February, the magnetic pull of our view right across to the distant mountains of the Cantal lured us east on the epic journey to the Alps, where there’s the likeliest chance of snow. While crossing one of the highest passes in Europe, we ran into a blizzard and suffered the ignominy of trying to fit tyre chains by torchlight. It was a harbinger of troubles to come.  

My wife and daughter booked a lesson next day in the resort of Serre Chevalier. Lunchtime, we figured, would be a good time as the French of Zone A would all be overeating. We hadn’t reckoned on a very visible, and lurid, British contingent, skis slung over shoulders like jousting lances.

The queue to the cable car suggested we would be late. An official suggested that it would be quicker by ski lift. Anally retentive about punctuality, I hurried my protesting womenfolk to the departure point.

Didn’t I understand how dangerous it was? Oh, it would be fine., i said, even though I’d never been on such a contraption before.  It was cold and our seat lurched in the wind. My wife gestured frantically to pull down the safety barrier: the only thing that would save us from certain death.

“They don’t stop at the top, you know!” she yelled.

“Of course they stop,” I answered with authority born of total inexperience. “How else could you get off?”

But as we climbed ever higher, doubts preyed on my certainty. Our daughter, cocooned indignantly in a powder-blue padded ski suit, was fast becoming tearful and scared. Her mother geared us up to jump at her command.

She went first, only to tangle her skis in the works, causing the chair behind to clatter into ours and dislodge our petrified daughter, who managed to slide precariously under the flailing seat.

An official hit a switch to shut the whole thing off. She helped us up, muttering about the absurdity of letting such novices on. My wife’s look accused her idiotic husband of putting our daughter’s life at risk.  Traumatised, she withdrew from her lesson after ten minutes lest she communicate her distress to our plucky daughter, who stoically endured her tuition despite the unfashionable jumpsuit.

I had come armed with notebook and camera to record the experience, but fast lost all sensation in my fingers. I shivered on the side, observing the chaotic choreography of aliens in bright suits and mirror shades.

Descending the cold mountain in our safe, stately cable car, my teeth chattered like joke-shop falsies. There was no sympathy. What did I expect, dressed like blinkin’ TinTin?  For the rest of the holiday, we stuck to invigorating cross-country walks over virgin snow in raquettes: off-road footwear that resembles a sawn-off tennis racquet grafted onto the webbed foot of a platypus.

We spend our staggered holidays at home now. Whoever thought of winter sports for the family – as opposed to the adroit professional – was frankly taking the piste.

Mark Sampson, March 2008

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