Video – A season in Val d’Yah – Part Two

… and here is part two.

We actually put some thought into this video.  We spent an evening brainstorming ideas in a bar and then spent a day on the hill getting sunburn while we arsed around.

Here it is.

Video – A season in Val d’Yah – Part One

So, rather predictably I failed to post any updates to this blog following my departure for Courchevel in the winter of 2009.  I did keep a diary but I was also to lazy to upload any of it when I was out there and then in the depths of my post-season blues I lost all interest in the blog.  Not that anybody was reading it anyway.

I didn’t intend to do another season but when I got offered a job in Val d’Isere for the winter of 2010 / 2011 my inability to say no to snow meant that I found myself on a plane out of Luton just a day later.  Well, kind off.  It took me three days to escape the snow in Luton in order to get to the rain in Val d’Isere.  Again, I kept a bit of a diary but again it fell by the wayside as I spent my days either riding or getting bitched around the chalet and my evenings playing babyfoot in the bar.

However, I did manage to make a couple of videos during my time out there so I thought I would dig out this blog and upload them.  Apologies for the poor quality, they were shot on point and shoot digital cameras and edited using Windows Movie Maker.

Here is part one.

Packing it in.

We all know men are from Mars and women are all mental to varying degrees and that given an identical situation the two sexes will choose to tackle it in ways that are the polar opposite of each other.  Let us look at the example of packing a bag for, say, a seasons snowboarding in the Alps.

Male packing technique:

1. Open bag.
2. Fill bag with contents of wardrobe.
3. Realise on arriving in the Alps that you need seven more pairs of boxers, a dozen more socks, a less smelly pair of shoes, and more cash.
4. Send begging letter to friends / mother.

Female packing technique:

The technique favoured by girls differs somewhat as they actually take note of:

1. What they are packing.
2. What they pack it in.
3. How they pack it.
4. Whether they have covered all possible eventualities including work, social events and meteorite strikes that may lead to a clothing crisis at any point during their five month stay.

However, they will pay little attention to:

1. Whether what they are packing is suitable for their surroundings, which in the case of a season in the Alps involves enduring sub zero temperatures on a daily basis.
2. Whether or not they have packed two correctly matching shoes.

The internet gives like minded individuals the opportunity to share their passion with others, wherever they may be in the world and whatever their perversion.  On this basis, a quick Google search revealed a number of message boards from which I could harvest invaluable tips to help me avoid beginner mistakes during my season in the mountains.  The most popular tips were; do not take Ugg boots and buy some vacuum bags so that you can fit more into your rucksack.  Which begs the question, how heavy is air?

So, with the mindset of an evacuee’s mother packing their one tiny suitcase, and with firsthand experience of EasyJet’s crippling excess baggage charges, I am going to try to pack sparingly to ensure my bag is within the allotted 20kg weight limit .  It was not pretty last time they tried to charge me £40 for an extra five kilos, despite the fact I had no hand luggage.  It took a childish, yet ultimately successful, ten minute argument that led to my girlfriend disowning me, a large crowd of spectators gathering and a request to retrieve my obese bag from the hold of the aircraft, before one of Stelio’s Oompa Loompa’s finally buckled.

I just need to find a way to get to the airport now.

The five P’s – Planning and preparation…

… prevents poor performance. 

The job application, interview and offer was over in the blink of an eye which meant I was left with just a few weeks to cross items off a lengthy ‘to do’ list.  As I write this post, I am just nine days away from departing for the Alps.

As quickly as I ticked items off from the list below, new ones appeared to take their place. 

1. Complete the necessary administration with my new employer.  This included things such as a CRB check, photos for the season long ski pass, payment of an extortionate bond, copies of my passport and driving licence, a blood sample, a retina scan, finger prints and a DNA test.
2. Arrange adequate travel insurance for myself and my belongings.
3. Spend some time getting frustrated with iTunes in order to put some new music on my iPod.  Even though I know that despite having 25,000 songs in my pocket I will still dislike 95% of the music on there.
4. Purchase a substantial stock of socks and pants.
5. Book flight tickets and arrange a transfer from Geneva airport to the resort.
6. Save some money.
7. Buy a male blow up doll.
8. Film a few scenes for a friend’s film project.  I don’t think I will be getting a BAFTA for my role as a hip hop loving Welsh vicar performing an exorcism.
9. Finish a list of DIY jobs around the house.  This involved buying a length of drainpipe and what I think was a bag of ready mixed cement.
10. Sell as much old shite on Ebay as possible.
11. Buy a car to run around in for a month.
12. Sell the car.
13. Write a packing list.
14. Spend money that I don’t have on ‘essential’ items such as more hoodies, goggles, sunglasses, snowboard boots etc.
15. Attend an engagement party.
16. Spend a Sunday morning at a christening whilst trying to convince God, or whoever does Christenings these days (I imagine he is quite busy on a Sunday), that I can change and I am actually a suitable choice for a godparent.
17. Learn to like cheese as I fear my phobia may somewhat limit my enjoyment of French cuisine.
18. Work as much as possible in order to pay for après ski and more ‘essential’ snowboard accessories.
19. Find a new lift to an airport 120 miles away from home, to catch a 07:00 flight as a result of the predictable split from girlfriend.
20. Go on a luxury two week holiday to Barbados.

With all of the main items now in order, I am left with just my bag to pack.  Due to the overwhelming excitement of going to live somewhere new, meeting new people, starting a new job and having the opportunity to go snowboarding every day, I anticipate many sleepless nights until I fly out to join the other like minded individuals in Courchevel.

The only thing that prevents me from being smug about how prepared I am is the fact that I have not yet even contemplated packing my rucksack.  I hope to pack with plenty of time to spare but then I also always planned to complete my homework with plenty of time to spare, or pay my bills before the letters start to get written in red ink and with a more threatening tone to them.  I don’t know what makes me think packing my bag will be any different.

Or maybe it is all about the piste, powder, pipe, park, and partying?

Snow Experience, Snow Hope

A wise man once said; ‘experience is something you only get just after you need it’.

Unfortunately, gaining the experience needed to actually stand up on a snowboard, and travel with any degree of control towards the bottom of the mountain, has the tendency to be extremely painful. The ‘skillz’ line and the ‘pain’ line on the learning curve graph will eventually begin to converge but not before you have spent the majority of your holiday falling over and landing on your increasingly painful coccyx. When you do finally manage to build up a modicum of speed you will inevitably then catch the front edge and the resulting face-plant and winding will leave you sat on the piste contemplating why you are enduring such pain in the quest for an adrenaline rush as passing skiers shout at you for having the audacity to have crashed in such an inappropriate place.

In January 2009, after many years of failing to persuade my friends and family to try a winter sports holiday I begged and pleaded enough with my girlfriend who finally, reluctantly, agreed to let me join her group of friends for a week in Flaine in the French Alps. The same friends also predicted I would spend the week in severe pain and my quest to learn to snowboard would be ultimately unsuccessful as their friends, who were all excellent skiers, had given up quite quickly whilst learning to snowboard. I am still not entirely sure of the point they were trying to make.

I am extremely stubborn and also rather fickle so I had decided that I wanted to learn to snowboard just to prove them wrong. Sliding gracefully down the side of a mountain on a snowboard also looks far better than getting tangled up in skis and poles whilst wearing a day-glo all in one suit. There was a small amount of logic applied to the decision, as a snowboard only has two edges to worry about and your feet are firmly attached to it in a single plane, rather than having to attempt to co-ordinate the four edges that are found on a pair of skis as well as wrestling with two legs that are trying to go in completely opposite directions. I also had to protect my fragile male ego as my girlfriend is an excellent skier and not being able to immediately join her on a descent of a black run would have been extremely frustrating.

I prepared studiously for my first foray into the realm of winter sports by reading about the theory and even taking the precaution of getting a few beginners lessons at one of the UK’s many indoor snow centres.

Obviously I didn’t. I simply watched videos on YouTube of people pulling big tricks on snowboards and then went and purchased the baggiest pair of trousers I could find.

Hang on lads, I’ve got a great idea.

My first snowboarding holiday did not start particularly well.  Our group was greeted at the airport by a jovial, dreadlock wearing, Kiwi who was to be our driver for the long journey to our resort.  It quickly transpired that Flaine was the only resort in the Alps to which he had never previously had need to take his rising inflection.  This did not bode well as the last time I got in a taxi with a driver who did not know where they were going it ended with us having a high speed head on accident.  That was in Northampton.  The potential for things to go wrong in the Alps was far higher.

As we turned off the motorway and started the long snowy climb towards the resort, which he had now pin pointed on a scruffy piece of paper he had found in the door pocket, his actions caused me to wonder if he was either a supremely confident driver or just supremely lazy.  In one of the first villages through which we passed there were long queues of vehicles parked up on either side of the road.  He briefly turned down the hip-hop, that was distorting the speakers in the mini-bus, just long enough for him to shout across to us.

‘I should probably put my chains on eh?’ 

You reckon?!  Four coaches and about twenty cars parked up at the side of the road, all with people crouched next to them, struggling to fit tangled snow chains to cold snow filled wheels, in a blizzard, is a fairly good hint!

I am sure his feeling of smugness at passing them at high speed soon evaporated when, about five minutes later, he had to ask his eight terrified passengers to help him stop his mini-bus sliding off the side of the mountain. 

When he was finally forced to admit defeat, by virtue of not being able to progress any further up the mountain due to a lack of traction, the front seat passenger had to slide across and put his foot on the brake pedal whilst our hero got out to fit the snow chains.  This served to only slightly retard our rearward progress towards the edge of the abyss.  It was reminiscent of the final scene in the ‘Italian Job’, where the coach comes to rest perched precariously on the edge of the precipice.I had to get out and use the light on my mobile phone to allow our now humble driver to clumsily fit one snow chain which enabled us to crawl to the relative safety of a lay by to fit the other. 

Whilst I stood and shivered and dodged suicidal Frenchmen in Renault Clio’s who were coming down the mountain at great speed and consequently sliding into the bank of snow alongside the mini-bus, I was humiliatingly forced to watch as the coaches and cars that we had passed earlier whisked their passengers skywards towards a hot chocolate and a hot shower.

No Job. No Problem.

I would like to think that I have a modicum of morality which is why I chose not to pursue a career in banking.  Unfortunately, this means that early retirement is not an option and in order to fund a season in the Alps I was forced to reluctantly re-enter the labour market following my departure from a perfectly good job during a global recession.

Having made a list of both of my skills I then set to work writing a list of potential money spinners to fund my sojourn.  I like lists.  Here is the list.

1. Mole Catcher
   Upsides – Working in the fresh air.
   Downsides – Having to kill annoying yet harmless little creatures.
2. Flu Camp
   Upsides – Getting paid to sit around watching TV.
   Downsides – You have to willingly contract flu for a number of weeks.
3. Win the lottery
   Upsides – Early retirement, fast cars, girls, guns and drugs.
   Downsides – Requires investment, no guaranteed return.
4. Sell ‘things’ on Ebay
   Upsides – People will buy any old junk.
   Downsides – Requires the patience of a Saint not to lose your temper with the inane questions that inevitably fill ones e-mail inbox.
5. Ninja Assassin
   Upsides – Travel the world, meet interesting people and kill them. 
   Downsides – I’m six foot seven inches tall and therefore not even remotely stealthy.  Or of Chinese descent.  Or a teenage mutant turtle.

I managed to receive two job offers within a month of leaving my previous employer, eschewing the gloomy outlook for the world economy and the incessant media commentary on  rising unemployment figures.

The first job was in a field in which I had experience and a keen interest and it offered to pay nearly twice as much as I had ever earned in any other job.  It also offered huge staff discounts on the items the company sold and the option of living in a very nice town that has a large student population and a great nightlife combined with hills and countryside just a few miles away.

The second job offered minimum wage and the opportunity to climb about in hot and dusty lofts to allow me to install cables for IT networks, whilst I lived at home in the industrial wasteland of the West Midlands.

Obviously I chose the one that promised poverty and pollution. 

It should be noted that at that point I had put thoughts of a season in the mountains to the back of my mind as the rational side of my brain had taken over and had started trying to talk me into a mortgage and a career. 

Surprisingly, I found myself enjoying the practical nature of the work and it was nice to be able to spend time with family and friends in the area in which I spent my formative years.  Even more surprisingly, well not really all that surprisingly as I have an excellent work ethic, I was offered a promotion into an office based role. 

The prospect of spending years watching the clock in a quiet, disease ridden office that had no natural light scared me and following a tedious day spent learning the intricacies of how each piece of paper should be stamped and filed I decided to dust off the dream and apply for a job as a seasonaire.  What followed is a bit of a blur but by nine o’clock the next morning I had an interview arranged and an hour after meeting a very nice man in a Toby Carvery in Reigate I was able to look forward to starting my new job in the French Alps.

Movin’ On Up

On a personal level, 2008 was a bit shit.  The events of the year bought life firmly into perspective and were a catalyst for my decision to resign from my job and pursue ideas that I have been cultivating for years.  Or in the case of the decision to become a seasonaire, pursue an idea that I had been cultivating for less than a week.

By the time I went on my first snowboarding holiday I had already resigned from my job, with no idea of what I was going to do next.  I knew I had a craving for travel that I needed to satiate but disappearing off around the World with no idea of where I was going, whilst a romantic notion, also seemed a little pointless. 

On a whim, and with my appetite whetted by spending just a few days in the mountains throwing myself down increasingly steep slopes whilst attached to a plank, I decided that that was the life for me and I would investigate what it would take to go back out and spend a season doing a menial job for a pittance in return for a ski pass and endless parties.  I just had the small matter of nine months to fill before the season started.

As someone who could represent England at the procrastination world championships, moving house was not a task that I relished.  I put off packing my life into boxes until the very last minute.  In all honestly I could have left it until the very last twenty seconds.  My worldly goods filled just five cardboard boxes.  Maybe I am just not sentimental.  Or a capitalist consumerist pig.

The result of filling five large cardboard boxes as full as I could was my own version of one of ‘The Worlds Strongest Man’ events.  Only it was not progressively heavier ‘Atlas Stones’ that I was lifting onto increasingly higher plinths.  I was lifting huge boxes full of books, CD’s and kitchen equipment into the boot of a Nissan Micra.

As I drove away from the house on the hill that had been home for the last four years I was leaving behind not only the venue of some great parties, but friends, beautiful countryside and a job that had fulfilled a childhood ambition.

Most people say I am in an enviable position to be able to do whatever I want to do and that I should embrace life whilst I have the opportunity.  I intend to do just that.  I will deal with the consequences later.  There are always consequences.

A Leap Off Faith

It may be narcissistic of me to think that people would be interested in reading my account of working for the duration of a ski season in the French Alps.  Barring any broken limbs or dismissal for gross misconduct, I hope that the six months I spend in the mountains will provide me with sufficient material to make this diary worth reading.

I keep asking myself what possessed me to sell everything I own to my house mate, apart from my car, iPod, mountain bike, favourite tea mug and girlfriend, and leave behind rural North Wales, a great job and a lot of good friends.

Maybe I am work-shy and just fancied playing truant from every day life for six months?  I have never been the type of person that had their career mapped out.  Actually, that is not strictly true.  From the age of five up to the age of thirteen I envisaged a distinguished career as the driver of a ‘Yorkie’ chocolate bar delivery lorry. 

It was not to be.  My dreams were brutally shattered in the summer of 1993, when an antiquated computer system called ‘Jiig-Cal’ confidently promised a nation of gullible, fresh faced thirteen year old high-school students that it could predict our life path.  All we had to do was tick the answers to a few multiple choice questions.

That computer was a liar and a dream thief.  It told me I was destined to be a statistician, fish farmer or a town planner.  As a young boy who was a bit crap at maths, would only eat chicken nuggets and had an appreciation of logic, none of those were advisable career paths.  So I went to work for a rally team instead.

Maybe it was a knee-jerk reaction to the severe bout of post-snowboard holiday blues I suffered at the beginning of February?  The snowfall that followed, and brought large areas of the UK to a standstill for a week, tipped me over the edge and led me to resign from my job during the worst recession to hit the UK for fifteen, fifty or one-hundred years, depending on which economic commentator to which you choose to listen.

Or maybe I just got fed up of reading incessant Facebook status updates from friends who are teachers?  For the duration of the week when the worst weather ever to hit the UK since the last bout of worst weather ever to hit the UK, hit the UK, all of them, without exception, posted the same thing;

‘Woohoo, snow day!’

I guess it is a perk of the job that the designers of obviously perpetually ineffective school central heating systems do not account for the fact that the school may actually need to be heated when the weather turns a bit nippy.  The children will probably not bother to turn up anyway and you will be unable to teach those that do turn up due to the excitement.  They will probably be the school nerds anyway which means they will end up being sent home by the school nurse because the school bully has pelted them with a snow covered rock during a snowball fight.

Well, screw you and your tweed jackets with leather elbow patches and your mugs of coffee into which the kids have tipped pencil shavings whilst you had your back turned, from November until January every day is going to be a snow day for me.

Well, maybe not for the first few weeks whilst I try to find Geneva airport in a blizzard and then a dozen delayed travellers when I get there, or whilst I wrestle with stock takes and spreadsheets whilst I nurse a hangover and severe sleep deprivation

And maybe not after those first few weeks, when I finally make it out onto the mountains and with my folly fuelled by my new found freedom, the cool mountain air and my desire to impress a pretty girl, shout;

‘Watch this.’

It’s probably not that easy to drive a mini-bus, carry bags and shovel snow off pathways when you have two broken wrists.

Why Sloping Off?

I recognise that writing about the thought processes behind the name of this blog is not a great subject for a first post but all journeys start with a single step.  To say choosing a name for this blog was not easy would not be strictly true.  A couple of minutes of brain storming yielded a number of suitable monikers, which were then all ruled out on technicalities.

Firstly there was the predictable ‘On the Piste’, a name which captured perfectly the hedonistic lifestyle of a seasonaire.  Equally as predictably it had already been used for a variety of different snow sport related websites.  I cannot begin to describe the crushing disappointment of this discovery.

Choosing another tack saw me arrive at the pious ‘The Powder and The Glory’ with all of its Godly connotations as a clever pun on the last line of the Lord’s prayer.  Unbelievably this name had been used for what sounds like a thrilling documentary about the business and personal lives of cosmetic industry stalwarts Elizabeth Arden and Helena Rubinstein.  The name was also a bit long winded.  And I’m an atheist.

Then there was the one with copyright issues.  ‘Ski Sundae’, whilst clever and amusing, would have resulted in a swift lawsuit from the British Broadcasting Corporation.  This is something that an unemployed person would not be in a great position to challenge.

The childish one was added to the list to appease my equally childish girlfriend, who insisted that ‘Gay on a Tray’ would be a hit with ski-ers the World over.

I settled on ‘Sloping off’ because it pretty much sums up what I am doing.  I’m sloping off from work and life for a while, with the ultimate aim of heading out to the Alps in December to work for the duration of the season.  I aim to find some form of employment for the intervening period but not a ‘career’ job.  Just something that will fund the odd road trip and music festival and a new snowboard.

I realise that this is just another virtual brick in the vast wall of the internet and I have no intention of becoming the next Bill Bryson, mainly because I don’t want to change my name to Bill Bryson.  I just enjoy writing and I will continue to do so until the novelty wears off.  Given the rate at which past interests have come and gone, it could be around about the third post that the blog is left to the ravages of the virtual elements.  If nothing else, it will be an account of a year of fun things on which I can reflect when I am old(er), grey(er) and slow(er).