|
 The sight of cattle grazing on the red slope leading above Studenets led Nancy to fear the trip was in jeopardy.
“Noel,” she said, in a low, sad voice, while peering out the window of the chalet, “I often saw more frost on the car after bingo in July. I’ll break the news to them we’re all going home.”
Before I could rescue her worsening mood, there came a knock on the door – the chief of police, Tabasco. “Nohel,” he said, darkly, a hangdog look on his face, “we’re shutting down the lifts. It’s too dangerous. “Nohel, I have come to your room especially to beseech you not to go up there today. It’s not you I am worried about, Nohel. You are a wiry, tough man, and Nancy too.
“It’s those who will follow you out of blind loyalty. They are not fit for these conditions, Nohel.
“On bended knee,” he begged, “for God, for Bulgaria, and, most of all, for Pamporovo.” I commanded him to stop. For 35 years, I reminded him, the Ballybore Active Retirement Group’s annual ski-ing trip had gone ahead without interruption. I reminded him we had skied on slopes so gravelly we expected to meet a Quinn Group lorry on the corners. We had survived blizzards, avalanches, and polar bear sightings: the trifling matter of no snow would not allow this proud tradition to be dented in any way.
“Tabasco,” I said, looking him square in the eye, punching out every word, “the BARGees are going ski-ing today, and, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my squat jumps.” I meditated on the unfolding scenario before instructing Nancy with the calmness for which I am renowned. “Knock on every door and tell them it’s business as usual.
“Lobby at 9o’c. Walk to Ski Centre One. The stretching, and up the mountain.”
And then, with a fierce determination, I added: “They can close the lifts, but they can’t best the BARGees – these people haven’t encountered me with the dander up before.” Her face flushed up and her puppy-dog eyes almost melted me. It was no time for melancholia. “Go now,” I ordered, “the good name of Ballybore is on the line here.”
Half an hour later, the sight of 54 Ballyborians marching down the main street of Pamporovo energised the local Bulgarians. They hadn’t seen a show of public defiance like it in decades. The old Communist compliance still lingers. I sensed our rebelliousness nature was rubbing off on them. Fancying that they just needed a supportive push in the right direction, I grabbed the loud-hailer and roared, as we surged past The White Hart:
“Come on, now’s your time to strike a blow. Men or mice? Live or die? Stand or fall?”
Slowly, first one by one, then in knots of two and three, and finally in great big groups of men and women, they joined us, chanting, singing, and fisting the air. They were liberated by our brazen determination. By the time we got to the top of the mountain, four hours later, our number surpassed 2,000, skis on shoulders, poles in hands.
An air of infectious bonhomie had descended on the gathering. There was light-headedness in the air, always a dangerous thing. Smolyan yodeller mixed with Gorey shopkeeper, Caherlistrane sean-nos singer with Allihies sheet metal worker. The cheers of Nohel-Nohel-Nohel would have caused an avalanche in different circumstances. I sensed it was time to puncture the levity. Calling the BARGees together, I lectured them for 90 minutes on the perils of grass skiing – primarily to tell them there was no difference whatsoever between grass and snow. “It’s all in the mind,” I said, “and the one consolation is you couldn’t get a better day for our annual Poc Fada. May the best man win. Nancy says she intends to clinch the three-in-a-row, so you will have to be at your very best to triumph here today.”
And, then, with a theatrical wave of my right hand, I proclaimed “ski now or forever stay at sea-level”, and a grand day of fun ensued. We skied through valleys of rainforest green. Under outstretched branches and over low fences. My hip didn’t bother me one bit, but, as Nancy observed, there weren’t too many played who lined out in four consecutive county finals after picking up a limp for life. There were fallers on all sides, windy Europeans losing their balance on rushes and thrawneens, but, like 54 redoubtable Foinavons, the BARGees navigated every slope with a deftness not seen since I retired from the game, as Nancy observed. In the evening, at the foot of the Snezhanka, I spied a put-upon Tabasco desperately co-ordinating a rescue attempt for approximately 250 people thought missing on the mountain.
I let him know all the BARGees were fully accounted for, and that Nancy had made it three on the trot. He looked away angrily but knew he had met his match. “You make Gerald McCarthy look like a pushover,” he muttered. I took it as a compliment.
We sauntered back to the chalet where the in-house cook rustled up a suspicious repas of stuffed cabbage leaves and boiled lamb.
Noel will never be over the hill. Email him at
This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it
; visit www.knowledgeablenoel.com; or cover his every move on Facebook (Knowledgeable Noel.)
 |
My Irish Examiner Column 
Subscribe to this comment's feed
