So… Everyone’s leaving. Early.
It’s the snow. Or lack of to be more particular. Want to ski and you need to get a lift up the mountain which is hardly unusual. Want to return though? Yep, you’ll need a lift for that too. And on said lift up the mountain you’ll see the fairly depressing sight of brown, barren land beneath: signalling the beginning of your fruitless search for the perfect piste and the impossible hunt for off-piste shenanigans. That wont happen.
Myths have been told over many a warm bottle in the baking heat that over in Val Thorens a man name Bob or Nigel once found powder and indeed did ski on it joyously for seventeen days and forty nights – but venturing there would take an hour and the same to return. To do this would require back-breaking hikes, endless lifts and the freedom of having the time to do so. I never have met Bob. Or Nigel. And so the myth still stands as I set here sipping tepid Kronenbourg in the Barbadian sun.
And so with no use for a ski pass many a seasonnaire are suddenly finding that they left the oven on at home, or were offered their dream job hosting the Roman Royals, or must return to find that golden ticket which of course they have had booked… for seventeen days and forty nights.
As our seasons dusk drifts behind the barren lands of Meribel, how many will still be here to witness it – and help to finish the last of the chalet wine?
I will. I’m not doing another season methinks – one was always the plan and I’m horrendously close to thirty and potential adulthood – and so I’m gonna have to see the one and only out.
Here ‘til the end. In shorts, in t-shirt, and in party-spirits. What else can one do. At least it’s still a shed-tonne of fun!
Banter, banter, banter. (I’ve got to stop saying that.)