Boarding on the Cheap

Well blow me down with some numbers. It is possible to have a cheap skiing weekend! OK, I admit this post may not be as exciting as say, canoeing down the Mekong or some darkly comic back-street Bogota shenanigans, but it still has interest in a more sedate, other types of cool stuff way.

In a nutshell, I have not been able to face the prospect of forking out megabucks for skiing over the last half dozen years – I mean for the price of a “normal” week’s skiing you can travel for a month in some of the most interesting places on earth - so I set out on a mission to work out a way of doing a sufficiently cheap weekend that would enable my annual snow participation going forward.

Luckily Mel and Laura decided to come on board, so the inevitable e-trawl was shared. That is all there is to it, loads and loads of time surfing plenty of sites. The easy less exciting way, package deals, came up short (or high depending on how you look at it) due to the tasty chunks the operators take, so it was a case of putting together all the component parts. Cheapest flights were after work Friday night Easyjet to Geneva (book early and you are looking at GBP 80), a great place to get to a plethora of resorts. Checking out said resorts, choosing one that is not too popular but does the whole pretty mountain town close to the slopes kind of thing (Saint Gervais de Bains in our case) and find the best value local hotel (EUR 35 a night for a cute little 2 star place). Do not forget to pre-book a ski-bus from the airport to the slopes (EUR 25 for OK’ish Alpybus), especially as a taxi or Geneva hotel packs quite a sting. As a last thing think about pre-booking skis/boards and ski-passes for a few more quid off and you’re off.

Great slopes, beautiful scenery, a few face plants and the odd vin chaud to sooth the aching bits. All those awesome skiing, or in my case snowboarding moments, but without totally destroying the bank. All in, just under £350 including everything, even a fair sprinkling of booze.

But in the end, who cares about the cash when you're hurtling down a sweeping tree-lined run. Floating across a swathe of fresh powder. Loosing momentum and slowly sinking in... being laughed at as you commando roll your way back to the piste. Finally landing a jump. Having the slopes all to yourselves, catching the front hedge, falling arse over tit, but not caring as there is so much fresh snow. Stopping with a skid at the edge of a lip and just staring out at the mountains that open up before you. Drawing a crisp breath and breaking out in a contented smile. 

One tip. If you are on skis and take a tumble on the penultimate run of the trip, don’t hold on to the poles too tight. Mel texted me back in Blighty to say that the resulting swollen thumb was in fact a broken hand. Skier’s Thumb apparently.

 

Occupy LSX

While flitting around London, I recently found myself passing by Occupy LSX, the protest camp which has controversially straddled St Paul’s Cathedral for the last month or so. From what I had gauged from the news this was a group of activists pushing a mish-mash of causes without any particularly clear message or aim. Drawing the sympathy of some, labelled an inconvenience by most. Why not check it out?

I arrived just as the weekly “open assembly” began. Before the steps of Wren’s cathedral, a spokesperson explained how this forum would work, though of course that anyone who disagreed with the system or concept of the forum should pop their thoughts in a pigeon hole in the info tent for the collective to consider. People were free to address the forum as they wished, but should queue to do so. As each topic was discussed the reasonable sized crowd were encouraged to show the collective sentiment via hand signals. Fluttering upwards hands gesticulates support for the motion, crossed hands signals disagreement.

The topics I stayed around long enough to hear were indeed wide ranging. From the standard “bankers are bad, power to the people” stuff, through specific criticism of US environmental policy to anti-war messages. I had sympathy with some of the issues raised and very little with others. Part of the problem was that different messages were so diverse, co-mingled and yet at times fundamentally divergent that they left me with no clear idea of what the collective thought or wanted apart from perhaps the very vague theme that the world is on the wrong tack. Maybe that is enough.

While the lack of clarity of aim or message starves this movement of any likely tangible success (e.g. a change in government policy on a specific topic) they do serve as a useful reminder that the status quo should not be taken for granted, whether it be for better or worse. There is definitely something in the under-swell of dissatisfaction which is showing itself in similar protests springing up in cities all round the world. People feel disaffected and unrepresented by the current system. But as I listened I could not help but think that, whereas it is better to speak up against a perceived wrong than keep quiet, if you do not put forward workable alternatives people stop listening.

Unfortunately there seemed precious little in the way of viable suggestions (a number of people held up Marxist signs, but the mass social experiment of the last century does not leave that with much mileage). Many simply seemed to say capitalism is wrong. Globalisation is wrong. We should change this. Start again…etc. etc.

Yes, there are big problems with these phenomena, but to preach against them in such absolute terms while listening to your iPod seems a little misguided (I am told that the collective of the camp paid tribute to the recently late Steve Jobs – slightly odd since he was a capitalist pin-up).
Pondering what I had heard, I took a walk around the camp and found it upbeat and just about functional. It smelled a bit and the multi-recycling bins were full, but at least they were there along with a shop, tea and first aid tents. It is a real pity that this movement has so interrupted the working of St Pauls (and I do find a little odd that this was the chosen spot with all the more obviously capitalist establishments parked all round the place), but I have to admit a mini tent city at the floor of this vast stone building is quite a spectacle.

On my way out I took one more look around the crowd which dispelled any lingering question I still had over whether this was the sapling of a mass movement to really change things. More than anything it resembled a diehard of summer festival goers who refused to retreat with the oncoming winter. Amongst them I am sure there are a few die hard revolutionaries with the determination to make things happen, but most seem to be hanging about for an interesting ride. Nice to feel special for a while. And do you know what, provided they do not get in anyone else’s way (or block health and safety required exits), good luck to them.

Debate strengthens a good system and lays bare the need for change in a bad one. There are strong questions to be asked of the current order of things, but I am just not sure this collective is asking the right questions in the most effective manner.

O παράδεισός μου

A passing glimpse of my favourite place. Rising from the acquamarine waters of the Aegean is a small windswept rock that is my home from home. At the heart of the Cyclades and scattered with the quaint white-washed dwellings for which the archipeligo is famed. Climate, culture and hospitality. 

But where am I?

Into the Hills of Evia

Evia is the second biggest island in Greece, though strangely off the tourist map. A mountainous, long strip of land that rises out of the Aegean and straddles the mainland to the East of Athens. I have been coming here for nearly a decade, staying in the quiet green peninsular of Spiada, where Christina’s family have a summer home. Last week I dragged myself from a state of comatose relaxation to check out inland.

The north-western coastal road starts from the small town of Limni, skirting along the steep mountains and cliffs that adjoin the land to the sea. Views across the channel to the mainland are something else. Flat shimmering waters eventually giving way to rows of hills which genlty fade into the haze.

Every so often you come across a village or small town clinging to low-lying fertile ground. At one such village, Rovies, we turned in land and climbed up the winding roads into the forest which covers much of the top of Evia. Mature pine trees and, above 800m, fir. Typically Greek objects pop up along the side of the road. Plastic sacks collecting sap from manmade wounds in the trunks of pine trees – an essential ingredient of retsina. Small bee boxes colour coded to the owner – apparently these are moved around with the seasons to follow the blossoms, each type changing the flavour of the honey.

Sadly, on dodgy bends you invariably find small shrines to car crash victims. these come in various shapes and sizes, with the design of a miniature church on a post being amongst the most common. The Greeks are a passionate people who are known to bend a rule or two. Too much machismo driving and not enough road signs lead to the Greeks having one of the worst road safety records in the developed world. Humbling sights amongst all the beauty.

THE MONASTERY

Winding our way up the steep valleys we eventually reached the monastery of Osios David. Touristy in summer, but now very peaceful. Turning your back on far reaching views into the forest, you enter through a grand gate into a courtyard surrounded by cloisters covered into carefully managed climbing plants. At the centre of the courtyard is the original sixteenth century Orthodox church. Build in the Byzantine style, every inch of the inside is decoratively covered in mosaics and paintings. Combine all the colour and glitter with incense and incessant chanting of bearded priests and the Greek Orthodox church does a pretty good job of creating that mystical aura which cab be key to capturing worshipper’s imaginations.

On we rolled past and through steeper, higher valleys. With the car windows open the pungent aroma of the landscape wafted into the car. There are many components to the smell. One I think is a hint of oregano, from the wild crops which inhabit the hillsides, but the overwhelming one is freshly heated pine needle. Rather like those little tree shaped smelly things that hang off the mirror in people’s cars, but genuinely refreshing and pleasant.

KOKINOMILIA

After an hour or so, the land flattened out and the forest sporadically opened up for small fields. Along the edges of one such field we were greeted by more quintessential Greek objects – herds of goats jangling their way around. Hmmm, very tasty.

The sharp valleys then re-emerged and we followed the precipitous road up the side of a large hill to the village of Kokinomilia –literally “red apple trees”. Getting out of the car and going for a wander, it felt like we had entered another place or time. Far from the smog of Athens or the gentle chatter of the refined seaside resort, here we could be in any small Balkan village from times past. Craggy houses clinging to the hillside and each other. Small scale agriculture in the gardens with cleverly contorted pieces of rubbish for scarecrows. The small church, friendly wandering mutt and little old lady inviting us in for coffee. Brimming over with charm.

We lunched at the taverna of the village, owned by Yannis and Kiki. A generous place, serving large portions of bean soup and lokaniko – village sausage. Best of all was the local rose wine. Not only was it light and crisp, but brewed out back. Only that day they were crushing the year’s crop of grapes and they invited us to take a look.

I particularly liked Yannis’ answer to how many people lived in the village – “67, give or take”.

BACK TO THE SEA 

A little bit tipsy, we headed down the mountainside and back down the valleys towards the tip of the island. Here countryside makes way for the odd larger town and, shock horror, roads with markings. The views were none the less still stunning as we sped along the coast road back to Spiada. Citrus and fig tree giving way to olive and then sea.

Along winding cliff roads, I fear I failed to take in much of the beauty as drowsiness set in. Fortunately siesta awaited. Then perhaps some beach with the baby...