Scotspeak

I'm sure there ought to be such a thing as a Scottish Dictionary. No way on earth does Scotspeak equate English. Words like "average" or "good" surely denote "rough" and "probably-ok-if-you've-got-a-deathwish-today" in regular English.

I'm of course talking about my first experience with Scottish outdoor skiing. I'd heard stories before. David (a.k.a Father Fluff) has numerous animated accounts of roughing it in the Scottish Outback on wooden ski's, sown together layers of clothes and collapsing snow-logged tents. I'd always listened to his tall tales with a mixture of awe and bemusement. I now know I need to start taking the man seriously.

When I stepped on the seater-lift, blissfully ignorant of what was to come, I felt incredibly excited about the whole ordeal. We'd only driven 90 minutes and yet we found ourselves in a whole new world. I remember squeazing the Fluffs hand in curious anticipation just before stepping off the lift. It took us only two seconds to realise though, that this was going to be a ski-experience like none we've had before. I'm not sure the word "ski-slope" has reached the Scottish world yet, because we found ourselves being dropped off in the middle of absolutely nowhere. We'd no idea where to go, so I foolishly decided to follow some other skiers who seemed to know what they were doing. When I looked up after a good 50 meter descent, I saw the Fluff still standing on the top signalling wildly. I understood it to mean: "NO WAY IN HELL AM I GOING DOWN THAT FLANK!!!". I have to say, for once I agreed. Unfortunately it was way too late for me to trace back. I waved a courageous goodbye to Fi, and braced myself. I'm not quite sure how I made it back safely to be honest. I remember ice, screaching sounds, straw sticking through my trousers, ski-walking on rocks, and jumping across a half-froozen creek that appeared out of nowhere. Convinced that this was just a glitch and that I really must have taken the wrong path, I looked around to see two six-year olds racing past me on skis, skillfully dodging rocks, creeks and hidden crevasses. They must have been Scottish.

Feeling a little hard done by, I took off my skis and started walking towards another lift. My heart made a little jump when I spotted the closest thing to a proper path yet, and quickly made my way towards it. And then the ground gave way. I sank up to thigh-height into what I assumed was snow. A few heart-attacks later, I'd managed to wriggle myself free and drag myself to safety, only to realise that the "path" I'd stepped on was nothing more than a thick layer of snow hanging loosely over a very deep creek.

The Fluff had to console me over a cup of hot cocao in the Ski-bar afterwards. She'd of course found the right flank to descend from, and had a brilliant experience. The day was a great laugh though and we're determined to go back soon. Next time I will take a compass and listen to the Fluff for once.