Sorry… won’t happen again. I promise. So. We made it. As intercontinental trips go, it was a breeze. My wonderful parents delivered us to Heathrow, BA delivered us with minimal fuss (and middling discomfort) to Vancouver. And the Whistler Shuttle service made my day: just as we were starting to run out of steam, buckling under 70kg of luggage with our body clocks set to 3am, I spotted a man in the arrivals hall with my name on a placard. In minutes we were loaded onto a minibus with just three other people and on our way. Bliss.
Even in the dark, there’s nothing like arriving in a ski resort. The road winds skyward, patches of snow beside the road begin to expand and join together. And finally (with Nirvana ‘Smells like teen spirit’ blaring on the radio) the ‘Welcome to Whistler’ sign blazed through the darkness.
Our shuttle driver made our day again by going slightly out of his way to deliver us to the front door of our building, even though we hadn’t paid the supplement. Top man.
The apartment is utterly brilliant. Spacious, attractively decorated with wood, stone and leather, equipped up to the nines. It’s even got a decent-sized balcony.
Having been up for 22 hours, we fell into bed, slept until 7.30am despite our jetlag, and woke raring to go. And just a little apprehensive. It’s always the way on the first day – especially when it’s your first time on your first ever pair of shiny new skis. For the first two hundred metres down to the bottom of the chairlift, I felt like my legs had turned to blancmange.
But then the lift whisked up through the clouds into winter wonderland, and it all came flooding back. We’d managed to arrive for a perfect morning – sunny, cold, perfect visibility - and by halfway down our first run I knew that all those ski shop salesmen had been right. They’re fantastic. More on them in the coming days when I’ve spent a little more time on them.
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