Diary of a Shopkeeper, 7th February

Ski down that!

It’s not often you see someone skiing like Eddie the Eagle along the back roads of Stenness, but that was the scene on Sunday morning. 

Earlier in the day there had been bairns with sledges shooting down the brae and skraiking as they went tumbling into the snowdrifts at the bottom.  But now an elegant figure in a bright blue snow suit, white helmet and wrap-around goggles, was slaloming along the road from the direction of the village, settling into a crouch on sloping bits, then using their sticks to push themself forward on level stretches.

I stopped scraping ice off the van’s windscreen to watch.  I don’t know why I was doing that anyway: there was no chance of me getting out through the snow that had smoored across the road in the lee of the dyke.

The skier gave a little leap into the air as they zoomed over the compacted drift just above my house, then dug their sticks, in, twisted their body, and swerved to a halt right in front of me.  A cloud of powdery snow and ice particles puffed up and slowly descended over both of us.

When the freezing stoor cleared, the sheep in the field opposite were looking on in astonishment and the skier had pulled her goggles up and her mask down.  It was Mrs Stentorian.

‘It’s you, shopkeeper’ she said.  ‘I didn’t know you lived out here.’

‘More to the point, it’s YOU, Henrietta,’ I said.  ‘I had no idea you were a red-hot skier.’

‘As I’ve said before, there’s lots you don’t know about me.  But yes, I’ve always been very keen on winter sports.’  She clapped her gauntleted hands together.  ‘In fact Bertie and I used to holiday every year at one resort or another.  Cortina d’Ampezzo usually: the Italians do après-ski so well, don’t you think?’

‘I’ve never actually been skiing.  I used to go sledging when I was a kid, but if there was après-sledging it was probably a can of Fanta and a Jaffa Cake.’

‘You really should raise your sights a little higher.  There are some lovely wines from that part of the world.’

‘Oh, I know a good bit about those!  Some of my favourite whites come from Trentino-Alto Adige.  Did you know, for instance, that Gewürztraminer takes its name from the village of Tramin, and…’

She waved a ski stick at me.  ‘Please!  It’s all words, words, words with you.  Do you ever get the feeling that you just know too much?’

I laughed.  ‘Never.  There’s so much I still have to learn about wine.’

‘So what you’re saying is, you don’t know very much, but still you spend an inordinate amount of time telling us all about it.  Well, that’s not what wine is about for me, and it’s not what life is about either.’

‘So what is it about?’

‘It’s about experience!  Life is there to be lived, not talked about.  Clamp on some skis, schuss down the slopes till your legs go wobbly, then revive yourself with an ice-cold Nosiola and a bubbling hot Fontina Fonduta.  Life!’

‘It sounds very nice in theory,’ I said, ‘But I can think of a few practical difficulties.  Especially right now.’

‘Obviously. Which is why this spell of marvellous weather is just what we’re all needing.  We may not be able to jet off to Chamonix or St Moritz, but we can certainly manage a bit of cross-country to Brinkie’s Brae – it’s the Mont Blanc of the West Mainland, you know.’

I laughed at that, and she smiled, a concerned look in her eyes.

‘See,’ she said, ‘You’re feeling better already.  We’ve all been cooped up inside for too long, glued to our screens, Zooming here, Teamsing there, no excitement anywhere.  Of course you’re depressed!’

‘I never said I was…’

‘You don’t have to tell me.  I know.’

She pulled down her black wrap-around goggles and fixed them over her eyes.  I could see my reflection in them, standing there with an ice scraper in my hand and my mouth hanging open.

‘To the slopes!’  she cried.  ‘Andiamo alle piste!’

 I think that’s what she said, anyway, my Italian’s not that good.  And off she shot down the brae.

Depressed or not, I had to admit it did look like fun.  Was our daughter’s old plastic sledge still up in the ties of the garage where I’d stowed it years ago?  I’d go and have a look. 

Just as soon as I’d put a bottle of Nosiola in the fridge and found a recipe for Fontina Fonduta.

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 11th February. Other diaries continue to appear weekly. I am posting them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations., and occasional small corrections or additions.