As we hung 30 feet above the ground, rendered speechless by driving snow and unable to see further than a foot beyond our noses, I have to admit that some niggling doubts began to creep into my mind.
I had gone to Scotland to learn how to ski - a lifelong ambition which, until now, I'd successfully managed to avoid accomplishing. A significant proportion of my enthusiasm, I should confess, came from the influence of private daydreams in which I shussed my way smoothly down glittering bright-white mountains, under a flawless blue sky. To the few skier friends who saw fit to question whether Scotland in January was quite the place for me to live out my fantasy, I replied with an authority born of complete ignorance that Scotland was having its best snow in years. I assumed that this meant there would be plenty of it. In this respect I was right. Unfortunately, rather than cloaking the ground in sparkling drifts, this snow was falling relentlessly from a gloomy grey sky and making a beeline for the neck of my jacket. Not precisely what I had in mind.
Nevertheless, I was here to ski, and was determined to do exactly that, no matter what the weather. Unfortunately, however, when we finally reached the lift station and clipped on our skis, I underwent an instant transformation from calm, co-ordinated adult to flailing incompetent with a chronic inability to stand upright. My friend (who had agreed to accompany me on the basis that she could use a pre-season warm-up, unaware that holding my hand throughout the trip would be part of the deal) gently reinstructed me in the art of putting one foot in front of the other, and we made our way slowly to the nursery slope where, I'd been promised, someone who knew what they were doing would be waiting to provide me with some much-needed tuition.
My instructor, an imposing looking man with a formidable red beard by the name of Dave Rossiter, took one look at me and told me to take my skis off. Dispatching Nell to the grown-up slopes beyond the obscuring curtain of snow, he shouldered my skis and trudged briskly uphill while I floundered in his wake. The incline of the slope, risibly gentle on the ascent, seemed little less than precipitous when I turned around and prepared to ski back down. A swift, snowy demise was definitely on the cards.
Learning how to ski in the teeth of a gale is not an experience I'd care to repeat. Once I'd mastered the art of standing up (harder than you'd think), getting down the slope in one long snow-plough was actually far easier than I'd expected. I was happy to continue like this all afternoon, but Dave, unfortunately, had other ideas, and I spent the next cold hour receiving instruction in the arcane art of parallel turns. I imagine these are hard to master at the best of times - the whole premise of leaning one way to turn the other is frustratingly counter-intuitive - but with the wind bowling straight down the hill at around force nine, skiing at any sort of tangent was asking for trouble. As I waited to begin my third descent the gusts were so strong that I couldn't hear what Dave was saying, and eventually he had to stand behind me to stop the wind from pitching me down the slope. All of which conspired to make my third time less than lucky - about half-way down I found myself totally out of control, and ended up tumbling head over heels to land in a ski-studded heap. I looked up to find Dave standing over me, offering a hand and flashing me the broadest smile I'd seen from him that afternoon. "A white-out! Excellent!" he said, and firmly turned me back uphill. Progress, apparently, had been made.
By the end of the afternoon I could tackle the nursery slope if not with proficiency, then at least without risk of serious injury. I definitely wanted more practice, but the sky was getting murkier and Dave decided it was time to call it a day. "Do you want to ski down, or shall we walk?" he asked, my only signal that he had noticed the atrocious conditions. What I wanted, of course, was to be airlifted pronto to the nearest pub, but I pushed off for a final time and, remarkably, reached the bottom without incident. As I shivered in the lee of the hut waiting for Nell, I was amazed by the number of muffled figures who swooped out of the gloom, muttered something along the lines of "bit fresh" and jumped back on the lift for another go. What were all these people doing up a Scottish mountain late on a January afternoon in the middle of a blizzard? It suddenly felt a bit feeble to be leaving so early. Still, when we made it back to the centre and handed in our skis, the woman behind the counter gratified us immensely by saying "You'll be back tomorrow, won't you? Dave Rossiter said you were hardy". Not bad for two girls from the wrong side of the border.
Two things became immediately clear when I woke up the following morning. Firstly, the weather had taken a turn for the better. The hills which had been lost in cloud yesterday were visible beyond Loch Leven, which was now sparkling in the unseasonable sunshine. Secondly, and less auspiciously, the short walk to the window definitely didn't agree with my legs. I was very tempted to crawl back into bed, but a desire to prove my hardiness (and a very large fried breakfast) saw me back on the slopes just over an hour later.
This time we stepped off the lift into my skiing fantasy. Now the clouds had lifted we could appreciate the view over Glencoe to the Aonach Eagach ridge, where the summits of Meall Dearg and Stob Coire Leith were outlined against a blue sky. Unfortunately, I wasn't given much time to admire the scenery; we headed straight for the nursery slope, where Nell talked me through the complicated process of getting up the mountain.
It didn't take me long to decide that skiing is - so to speak - the easy part of skiing. Negotiating lifts while wrestling with poles and trying not to slide back down the slope is far more tricky. My first attempt on a button lift was disastrous: I was totally unprepared for the jerk when it took off, and managed to drop one of my poles, and tangle my skis together as I looked over my shoulder to see where it had gone. The result: a backwards somersault five yards up the slope, in full view of a group of 10 and 11-year-olds, who looked on in silent disdain while I struggled back up. My second try went better, and I had time to enjoy the sensation of gliding at speed up hill before it occurred to me that I'd forgotten to find out how to get off.
The nursery slope was far more intimidating now I could see more than a five-foot section of it, but yesterday's instruction kicked in and the whole experience was fairly smooth - and disappointingly brief. I reached the bottom, turned around and headed straight back up.
The rest of the day was spent messing around on Glencoe's green runs: falling over, getting back up and, when I got tired, sitting on the snow admiring the more proficient skiers. I spent as much time on my back as I did on my skis, but the bruises were worth the sense of achievement during the brief moments when I found myself, upright and marginally in control, skiing down the mountain.
After a successful day, I was ready to head down the hill for some well-earned dinner, but Nell insisted I try a blue run to round things off. Alas, as we reached the top of the run, the fog came down and visibility dropped to virtually nothing. I started off ok, but before long my legs were aching and I could only manage about 10 yards at a time without falling over. The temptation to sit down and wait for someone to carry me was overpowering, but I gritted my teeth, got back on my feet for the twentieth time - and we made it back to lift minutes before it closed. Four hours and several pints later, the glory of being last off the slopes had completely outweighed the ignominy of my final undignified descent. I'll definitely be back for another go next year.
Way to go
Sarah Crown flew to Scotland with British Airways. She stayed at the Lyn Leven Guest House (01855 811392) in the village of Ballachulish, a mile to the west of Glencoe. Twin rooms with breakfast cost from £40 a night (per room). The guest house was awarded four stars by the Scottish Tourist Board. The Glencoe Ski Centre is a 10-minute drive away. Adult skis, boots and poles cost £15 to hire for a day, £47 to hire for five days. A one-day lift pass costs £18.50. An hour's private tuition costs £20; a two-hour class (maximum 12 people) costs £12. Email info@ski-glencoe.co.uk, or call 01855 851 226.
