Cananabsolute beginnerlearnto skiinfivedays?
PoSh people go skiing. And they have an air of confidence about them, too. that’s what flashes through my mind as I speed from the back of the class into prime (panic-stricken) position beside our leader. then my limbs start flailing out at unnatural angles. I shoot off on a wild tangent and land in an ungainly heap, the group grimacing from afar.
Instructor Ellie tries to save my shame by pretending this scene was a voluntary act. ‘ oh! Did you come a different route?’
But, then, perhaps this is how those posh skiers started out. I am a complete beginner on a package from Crystal Ski, which gives me four more days’ tuition. Friends had told me that would be long enough to crack it.
they also told me that Andorra, on the France/Spain border, would be the perfect place to learn. It’s laid-back, cheap, and with long slopes spanning every skill level.
Six resorts including Soldeu, El tarter and Pas de la Casa joined forces in 2003 to create Grandvalira, a 130-mile megaski area with 128 runs. three hours’ drive from Barcelona, it is the sunniest winter ski spot in Europe apparently.
First morning, lines of tiny children in pink bibs whizz around, as teachers, identifiable by their fluorescent blue and orange get-ups, command classes using an array of languages to a soundtrack of barking dogs.
It’s exciting. And with the sun dazzling down from a baby blue sky, I feel as cool as a Seventies Martini ad.
When us beginners are split off based on our snowplough (slowing down by pointing the feet inwards), my ski-virgin cousin Maria and I are put in the ‘fast class’. But soon, facedown in snow, I realise it’s time to change tack. Demoting myself to a slower group on the second day affords me time to learn technique.
‘I’m so slow!’ I apologise on being the last to the bottom
again. ‘That’s the whole point,’ an Italian snowboard convert tells me. ‘Anyone can ski down quickly, but slow requires skill.’
Over the next few days we go steeper, and higher, though the real incentive for me is that the best bars are further up the mountain. By day four, champagne and oysters are within reach.
Only once do I lose my bottle, freezing with fear on a steep blue run. Veteran instructor Jasper saves me by skiing up, clasping the ends of my poles and sliding backwards bearing all my weight.
Then, as if reliving the plot from a mafia film, the undesirables of the group disappear. Those who fall one too many times are scooted off for ‘special training’.
On my last day I gain in confidence and pick up the pace. My skiing debut has had its ups and downs. I don’t feel like a posho but I don’t feel like a complete chav, either.