Apologies for the delay followers – the wifi (that was so positively advertised with our chalet) was appalling. Tales of mogul fields, gullies, apres ski, restaurants and clubs were ripe for the plucking, but alas I couldn’t share them, as much as I clicked and clicked, it was not to be.
Let us start with the MooserWirt which, alongside the Krazy Kangaroo, is St Anton’s most popular apres ski bar Our chalet was a mere two-minute walk from this establishment and thus we became frequent frequenters.
Well, for the first few days of the trip – after a trio of incidents we moved over to the more tame Griabli. The incidents: 1) one member of our party sank Jäger after Jäger, fell from a table and broke his rib, 2) one mother attempted to throw a snowball at her son, missed and struck a stranger full on in the face (narrowly missing a baby) and 3) an exceedingly near miss with a broken glass and a rear. Broken glasses are rife here – as a result of the hordes of crazy Austrians lobbing their drinks at eachothers heads. Beware.
What next…the ski-ing. At the start of the week the snow was good, but by mid-week it had taken a turn for the worse and by Friday the mix of slush and ice caused us to seek refuge over in Lech. The conditions tired our limbs and even my elder sister, a four-time seasonaire, had a near miss on the last day. She mistook the edge of the piste for a mogul and plummeted 10 feet down into a gully. Kudos to her, she landed it, didn’t lose either ski and actually – if it weren’t for her contorted facial expression – it could have passed for being a planned manoeuvre.
Gaydrian, after some coaxing from yours truly, took on a ski-route where the gaps between moguls were (as he put it) ‘grand canyons.’ He had four unplanned pit stops – where he ‘literally’ fell into the pits. Brother skied faster than I’ve ever seen him ski before; his twin tips skimming the surface of moguls so smoothly they were made to look flat. Father too seemed to have taken some Sonic speed juice and shot down the slopes. Younger sister glided gracefully down in her pink onsie, rocking the ski look fabulously and mother, with her new white helmet and blue and white ski-suit, looked like a mix between evil kinevil and a canon ball.
Clubbing. You already know that I’m not the keenest of clubbers, but after announcing this at our supper out (at a wonderful restaurant called Maximillians – where the entrecôte with herb butter was utterly sublime) I proved myself a hypocrite. Apparently I enjoyed the mosh-pit of Piccadilly club – and chatting to the fit beanie boy bouncer. That was after a few rounds of pool at Bar Cuba and rather a lot of Jäger – served in weird little glasses that separate the spirit and the red bull, completely defeating the point of the Jägerbomb – to mask the sickly taste of the Jäger.
The bus journey to Lech the following morning was one of the worst journeys of my life…
So there’s a condensed version of the last seven days, but to sum up: A fantastic break from England, where we were reminded that the sun does exist (rocking some nice goggle marks), partying in St Anton and ski-ing in Lech was the perfect holiday package.
I can’t believe I’m going to have to wait another 12 months until the next…