I am in a picturesque ski resort in Sweden. The closest it is possible to come to living in an after-hours IKEA superstore, i.e. without the warring couples and bubbling sense of panic that you might lose control in the market place and buy another pair of really handy tongs, a random cuddly toy and a set of six picture frames because you have forgotten you bought the exact same items on the last five visits. Everything here is clean and minimalist, not a fitted carpet or unnecessary knick-knack in sight. Underfloor heating creates an omnipresent warmth which means that you do not have to risk third-degree burns hugging a radiator every time you come in from the frigid outdoors. We have rented a house for 5 weeks. Thinking that friends and family would join us for some of the time, we took a house which sleeps 12. However, in a development which I should take as an indication that I am far less popular than I think I am, only one person has been persuaded to visit us. This has left me feeling a little guilty that we have 3 bedrooms which I have not even visited and a spare TV and games area in which I have not dared to sit because, at the end of our stay, we have to clean the place ready for the next people and I do not want to create dust anywhere I do not need to.
The excessive space is perfect for my travelling office. We drove here, so I brought my standing desk, computer monitor, mouse, keyboard, laptop stand, two easels, a Swiss ball, lots of pens, paints, brushes and paper. I decided not to trust delivery of technical art kit up here, not least because it is nigh impossible for residents to find their house along the labyrinthine roads which run between the bottom of the slopes, so I do not fancy the chances of an over-burdened Amazon driver. The roads are named after planets and celestial bodies, which is amusing for infants like me, if you have your satnav on speaker when you drive along Uranus. Anyway, I took the, ‘if in doubt, chuck it in’ approach to packing the car. Now, fully set-up with two desks, I can look out at my view of insanely sparkly snow and crystallised pine trees. On a clear day, I can see the snow covered round mountains which are tens of miles away. These are not the intimidating, awe-inspiring, slightly claustrophobic, rocky mountains of the Alps or Pyrenees, but prominent, soft, curved pillows of snow stuck on an alternating backdrop of a steel grey and light blue sky.
Unlike the ski resorts of France and Austria, the nearly empty and almost entirely flat slopes of this resort appeal to me because I can manage most of them with only a modicum of foul language and the occasional muttering that I wish I had never met my ex-pro-skier husband. In addition, here, my skiing prowess, or lack thereof, is only witnessed by a very few people. In fact, if I see someone else on my chosen piste, I get a bit annoyed.
Thanks to being in Sweden for so long, I am under no pressure to ski. There is no rush. Instead, I am spending my days going for long walks on snow-covered forest roads and standing at my desk, living my best life. This is such a fantastic place to finish the art and website projects which have piled up for a year and I am loving it. No distractions, inspirational views, plenty of space and my husband occasionally returns to make me a cup of tea.
When I did venture on to the slopes earlier this week, I was mildly traumatised by getting off them. I attempted a glamorous dismount of the piste in order to reach the short path to our house. But, in full view of a dour-looking Swedish family eating their afternoon crispbread, I performed what would be best described as a barrel roll over a mound of snow, landing on my arse in the road. The snow in question had been pushed into a hillock by the snow plough which tears around the neighbourhood every night, driven by an 18 year old who seems to think he is auditioning for the truck category of the Dakar Rally. I watch him with the excitement and rapture of a small child, partly because I remain captivated by snow, having not seen that much over my 49 years, but also because there is always a chance he might have collected a couple of dog walkers in his big scoopy bit. The snow in my way was slightly too high to step over, but slightly too deep and wide to risk stepping into. I was thus left with no choice other than to lie on top of the mound (thereby spreading my body weight to avoid sinking) and do a slow motion, ground-based western roll. Having completed the manoeuvre, I brushed off the snow which caked my entire body and picked up my skis. I attempted to nonchalantly throw them onto my shoulder as my husband says to carry skis any other way makes you look like a novice. I told myself that the extreme snow plough I had employed to reach the aforementioned snow mound, followed by my icy roll had not given away to the onlookers that I remain the least competent skier in the resort. I am continuously grateful for the anonymity offered by goggles, ski helmet and snood. So, skis aloft, I started my careful march home, bashing my head with my skis on every step.... Needless to say, my husband was long gone, having taken a far superior, off-piste route between the trees back to the house. Before leaving me, he had politely explained his route was far beyond my capability. I was happy to follow his advice as I have little to no interest in being smacked in the face by a frozen branch. My husband likes to tell me, patiently, not to fixate on the obstacle I am trying to avoid, but to look at (and, therefore, aim towards) the safe space to the side of it. What he fails to appreciate is that I have so little control when on skis that I could not make more of a mess of my trajectory if I closed my eyes. Which I frequently do.
Anyway, by the time I was a few metres down the road, he was approaching, having been home, taken off skis and boots, put on shoes, probably had a pee and walked 100m in the time it had taken me to perform my dismount.
Sigh, I will try again, I promise....
