The worst ski trip in the world ever - Mark IV

Above: SpiderJuan (near the top of the Goose)

Last time Don Juan came to Scotland there had been a savage thaw on the Friday. This time, Don arrived in Scotland to double temperatures and howling South Westerlies. Ho-hum.

Waiting for Don's mate Henson to turn up in Borders books on Buchannan Street, we were bemused to bump into Dominic Mennie who we used to work with but now lives in London. Turned out he was going up into the West Highlands too, so we arranged to meet the next day at the Corran Inn.

Checking winterhighland on Saturday morning, it was pretty evident that there was no chance of lift-served skiing on Saturday. However, Sunday looked better so we hopped in the Astra and headed up the A82 towards Fort William. Corran Bunkhouse was full, so we carried onto Fort Bill and booked into the Bank Street Hostel.

The wind was showing no sign of abating, so we opted for a Wendy Walk up Glen Nevis to the Steal Falls, for some Gladiators-reenactment on the Steal Bridge and a bit of scrambling up the side of the falls. Suitably drenched but having had a top doss, we returned to Fort William and caught a bus back to Corran Ferry to meet up with some mates in the Corran Inn.

Isn't it amazing that you can get a bus to a relatively remote pub (Admittedly on the main road) in the middle of the West Highlands, AND one back at midnight? Top quality public transport.

We got up relatively early on Sunday and drove to Nevis Range, only to be told that the lifts were "subject to review". As we all know, this generally means "Piss off, we're not opening".

However, there was no way that we were having a weekend without some shredding, even if the hill looked pretty marginal. The gondala was running, so we hiked up to the summit from the Snowgoose with skis strapped to our back. Only one decent rucksack meant two pairs of skis on one person, and swapping round the carrying-faffage.

The summit was hidden in an utter whiteout, so we quickly set off down a very icy summit run, which was not much fun. However, the frequent snow showers had provided a couple of inches of fresh on the Goose - so much fun was had. I should point out that Don Juan's skiing experience is limited (about 5 hours in total - ) and he inevitably spent a good deal of the journey on his arse!

Henson meanwhile had taken the sensible option - never having skied before, he booked a couple of hours tuition on the plastic slope and enjoyed it very much. Shame he didn't get to see Scottish skiing in better conditions, but at least there was mainly decent visibility and he had a good time.

Driving back, Glencoe's runs looked to have survived the horrors of Saturday's rain quite well. On checking the computer at home, I was pleased to find out that nowhere had managed to get their lifts open during the weekend - so getting a decent length of run in today was pretty good given the circumstances.

Cheapski!!

Self portrait by Al












Al again. He's not really Australian.

In the grand (year old) tradition of superdrooper Cheapski trips, a search on the Internet had yielded Slovakia as a grand choice for a week of shape-throwing, binge-drinking, and Eastern-European-babe-ogling.

The organisation of a place to stay was entrusted to Lord Haber of Whittington, and thus it was I found myself at Edinburgh Airport on Friday afternoon shuffling towards a flight to Katowice, Poland. The jolly japes about guns in the ski bag had failed to result in airport ejection, and neither had the run-in with security over the lethal weapon (contact lens solution) in my hand luggage.

We flew out to Katowice with an airline called “central wings” – their English name; the Polish equivalent having lots of zs & ys and a distinct lack of vowels. Perhaps if the airline falls on hard times they can sell their English title to some makers of pantyliners. Certainly Centralwings have not yet caught onto the normal airline trick of in-flight food prices; four beers and a snack cost a fiver, enabling Jon, Hunky Dunc and I’s whistles to be warmly whetted prior to landing.

Cunning timetabling had enabled us to land in Poland a full day before the others, and this was spent in Krakow engaging in Gentlemen’s pursuits such as drinking and, er, more drinking. “34-days-work-non-stop-Dunc” flagged early, leaving Haber and I to tour nightspots of the City and admire the fine architecture. Actually, I admired the fine architecture while Jon admired the ample bosom of Harriski-Brownavitch, a middle-aged bar owner in a back-street drinking den. Suitably refreshed, we set off in search of our Krakow hostel and promptly got lost.

“You’re a rubbish mountain leader Jon” I mentioned “You can’t even navigate your way out of a street.”

In an unusual display of violence (although I had also emptied a bottle of ice-tea over him), Jon took this rather personally and launched himself at me. In a far more usual display of ineptitude, he missed and fell to the gutter in a crumpled heap.

The next morning, both nursing hangovers and Jon nursing gutter-inflicted injuries, we managed to meet up with the others after a brief pause to photograph the sex shop opposite our hostel – improbably named after Duncan’s wife Annie-Marie.

To our great surprise, both Jon’s girlfriend Isabel and the booked Minibus both turned up, and we were soon making haste for Slovakia via a couple of laps of Krakow squarely down to driver ineptitude. The journey passed smoothly until we were pulled by the Police just shy of the Slovak border. After convincing them that the Haber travelling with us was completely house-trained and carrying a valid pet passport, they let us go. The driver, who had put on a great display of uselessness in leaving Krakow, was much better at finding out-of-the-way hostels in tiny Slovak villages.

The hostel had been booked for sole occupancy, and was excellent value at £4 a night. It was 15k from the ski slopes, but there would, we assumed, be buses. Maybe not on a Sunday, but the rest of the week would be no problem.

Taxis successfully booked via a beautiful linguistic display from Jon (“Dzien dobry, sprechen zie…do you speak English, por favour?”) and we arrived at Jasna ski slopes a little before midday. Ski passes procured, we hit the slopes for a group run – there were 11 of us by now – down a handy blue. Emily displayed a remarkable talent for someone whose skiing experience consisted of being pushed off the summit of Cairngorm on Ebay skis on New Year’s Eve. A talent that was to impressively get worse as the week went on.

The Jasna ski area turned out to be surprisingly good, more organised than Zakopane (last year’s visit) and with more extensive lift coverage. The upper runs were shut for reasons we found out later, but the middle runs were very good. Lower was icy, but hey – we ski in Scotland, and bullet-proof pistes are a speciality! Towards the end of the day we regrouped in a piste-side bar, although Jon and Emily were absent. Long after dark, Jon and Emily appeared with Emily holding one ski only. It turned out she’d lost it on an upper run, the ski-brakes were ineffective, and Jon had basically piggybacked her down the mountain. Top man.

We decided to maximise skiing time and do some floodlit shredding, which consisted of eye-wateringly fast runs followed by downing a vin chaud or beer and heading back up. Despite Al’s best attempts, I won the races!

Monday : Public transport 0 – transport faff 2

Andy Mort, guru of foreign public transport and hitchhiking, had worked out that there was a bus off Prosiec (our village) to Liptovsky Mikolas (the nearest town) at quarter to nine. From Liptovsky there are plenty of free ski buses to Jasna. We all trooped out and waited at the bus stop, attracting strange looks from the few Prosiec residents who trudged by. That’ll be because the bus didn’t turn up, and we’d failed to read the footnote that said “only runs in time of national crisis” in Slovak. Taxis called, we arrived at the slopes late but still got a good day’s shredding in.

Of particular note was an off-piste route that ended in the trees. The entry to the forest was via a narrow gap around a blind corner, where some snowboarders were busying themselves building a massive kicker. Al went round the corner first. “FUUUUCK” – his hollering echoing of the Tatras’ crags as he made unexpected but very impressive air. The snowboarders were impressed too, “Your Australian friend, he ski good but looks like dick” was staggeringly perceptive.

We caught a horrendously crowded bus to Liptovsky Mikolas and ate the worst Chinese meal ever, before catching taxis to Prosiec.

Tuesday: Public transport 0 – transport faff 3

Andy Mort, guru of foreign public transport and hitchhiking, had worked out that there was a bus off Prosiec to Liptovsky Mikolas (the nearest town) at quarter to eight. We all trooped out and waited at the bus stop, attracting strange looks from the few Prosiec residents who trudged by. That’ll be because the bus didn’t turn up, and we’d failed to read the footnote that said “only runs on National Cabbage Day” in Slovak. Taxis called, we arrived at the slopes late.

The upper lifts still weren’t running, so I hitched my skis to my back and hiked up the last 350m to the summit. Jasna South was a revelation – lovely spring snow, no queues and a great mountainside caff. I severly enraged Al by forgetting to turn up for our dinner date.

Wednesday: Public transport 2, transport faff 1

Andy Mort, guru of foreign public transport and hitchhiking, had worked out that there was a bus off Prosiec to Liptovsky Mikolas (the nearest town) at quarter to nine on Market day only. We all trooped out and waited at the bus stop……you know this bit….and then, to our eternal surprise, a bus turned up. We boarded and sat amongst the Slovak women taking pigs to market, and arrived in good time for a connecting service to the ski slopes. Bugger me.

The shredding today was excellent. A number of us went over the other side, and enjoyed deserted powder-bowls and brilliant sunshine. A bus even took us home, although we did need to bribe the ski-bus driver 10p each to take us back to Liptovsky instead of leaving us in a car park.

Shane, Cath, Dunc and myself decided to try out the local bar in Prosiec, where beer at 40p a pint and vodka at about 20p were not to be sniffed at. Within an hour, we were all hallucinating.

Thursday: Public transport 1, transport faff 0

Andy Mort, guru of foreign public transport and hitchhiking, had given up on guru duties so taxis were procured in time for a decent day on the slopes. Much shredding was had, and the bus driver was bribed on the return to drop us near a traditional Slovak restaurant called “Route 66”.

Friday: Public transport 0, transport faff 0 (no-score draw)

A dusting of snow had fallen overnight in Prosiec, but that did not prepare us for the conditions on the top of the mountain. The whiteout was so outrageous it was almost like a good day at Cairngorm, but with -20 temparatures. Al and I’s plans for cornice drops were (regrettably) abandoned in favour of treeskiing and Vin Chaud. We got a bit enthusiastic on the tree-skiing and ended up on a cross-country course beneath the resort, entailing some uphill walking. Bugger.

Post match verdict

Slovakia is a truly ace place to ski, and bloody cheap. If you stay outside the ski area, hire a car.