His second response was to declare the first ever âPickering Family Edictâ. Standing at the front of the gates he pointed a finger loftily to the sky, just as one might when starting a revolution or, indeed, indicating where the ceiling is.
âAll right! Pickering family edict!â
âWhatâs that, Dad?â
âGo with it, son. Pickering family edict. The Pickerings will no longer be going on holiday.â
He paused to stare momentarily into our fallen, baffled faces before going on,
âIt only leaves us vulnerable to attack.â
And so it was an uneasy truce existed between the two families. It was less a lasting cessation of hostilities, than it was a precarious peace born of a complete absence of opportunity. And thus it remained until one day in 1991 it was decided that the Pickerings and the Opies would holiday together.
10
The Winter Campaign of 1991
T he week-long ski trip planned for the winter of 1991 was no small undertaking. Four families of four had to coordinate school holidays with time off work and miraculously match them with a lodge booking at the height of the winter season. This, combined with costs of ski hire, lift tickets and groceries that all seemed to be indexed to altitude, meant that compromises had to be made. In short, any romantic notions of alpine chalets, jacuzzis and jumpers worthy of a Nordic Bill Cosby can be dispensed with immediately.
According to the brochure âValhalla Lodgeâ was a âspacious alpine hideaway for sixteen people offering a modern kitchen, cosy lounge room and great selection of games for the whole familyâ. In reality it had four cupboard-sized bedrooms, each with bunk beds for four, that offered a closeness and intimacy that the average family seldom survives. We had to get dressed one at a time because there wasnât enough floor space to simultaneously have a suitcase open and more than one person standing. Being the youngest I would go last, so my day would start by watching my family dress themselves one-by-one, right at my bottom-bunk eye level, until I eventually had the room to myself. At the end of the day, the order would be reversed. Being the youngest, I had to go to bed first and then lie there watching my family strip off and change into their pyjamas. These are memories that will never leave me. Never.
It was all worth it, though, because we loved to ski. It was one of the few activities we did as a family that we all enjoyed equally. Sure, there were other things we all did together, but they were invariably for the benefit of one person. We went to antique car shows for Dad, on steam train rides for me and to art galleries for Mum. For the twelve months we went horse riding every second Sunday, my parents smiled through bruised thighs, chafing and the smell of manure because horses were my sisterâs number one priority. But the snow was the one place where every smile was real, every laugh was genuine and every joyous moment was shared equally by us all.
Admittedly, this had not always been the case. The first time I ever went to the snow I was four and showed absolutely no aptitude whatsoever for cold climate activities. When my mum would take me out to play in the snow, I would grow frustrated with my gloves and immediately throw them on the ground. In seconds I would begin crying because my hands were cold. My mother would dutifully put my gloves back on my hands but within moments I would once again become furious and jettison the gloves. The crying would then resume, my mother would pick up the gloves and the cycle would continue. After an hour or two of these high-altitude high jinks my mother took me inside and sewed my gloves onto the ends of my sleeves. Back out in the snow and with the avenue of glove removal no longer open to me, I simply defaulted straight to the crying. Looking back I acknowledge that there must have been times that my mother loved the snow more than me. As I
âAll right! Pickering family edict!â
âWhatâs that, Dad?â
âGo with it, son. Pickering family edict. The Pickerings will no longer be going on holiday.â
He paused to stare momentarily into our fallen, baffled faces before going on,
âIt only leaves us vulnerable to attack.â
And so it was an uneasy truce existed between the two families. It was less a lasting cessation of hostilities, than it was a precarious peace born of a complete absence of opportunity. And thus it remained until one day in 1991 it was decided that the Pickerings and the Opies would holiday together.
10
The Winter Campaign of 1991
T he week-long ski trip planned for the winter of 1991 was no small undertaking. Four families of four had to coordinate school holidays with time off work and miraculously match them with a lodge booking at the height of the winter season. This, combined with costs of ski hire, lift tickets and groceries that all seemed to be indexed to altitude, meant that compromises had to be made. In short, any romantic notions of alpine chalets, jacuzzis and jumpers worthy of a Nordic Bill Cosby can be dispensed with immediately.
According to the brochure âValhalla Lodgeâ was a âspacious alpine hideaway for sixteen people offering a modern kitchen, cosy lounge room and great selection of games for the whole familyâ. In reality it had four cupboard-sized bedrooms, each with bunk beds for four, that offered a closeness and intimacy that the average family seldom survives. We had to get dressed one at a time because there wasnât enough floor space to simultaneously have a suitcase open and more than one person standing. Being the youngest I would go last, so my day would start by watching my family dress themselves one-by-one, right at my bottom-bunk eye level, until I eventually had the room to myself. At the end of the day, the order would be reversed. Being the youngest, I had to go to bed first and then lie there watching my family strip off and change into their pyjamas. These are memories that will never leave me. Never.
It was all worth it, though, because we loved to ski. It was one of the few activities we did as a family that we all enjoyed equally. Sure, there were other things we all did together, but they were invariably for the benefit of one person. We went to antique car shows for Dad, on steam train rides for me and to art galleries for Mum. For the twelve months we went horse riding every second Sunday, my parents smiled through bruised thighs, chafing and the smell of manure because horses were my sisterâs number one priority. But the snow was the one place where every smile was real, every laugh was genuine and every joyous moment was shared equally by us all.
Admittedly, this had not always been the case. The first time I ever went to the snow I was four and showed absolutely no aptitude whatsoever for cold climate activities. When my mum would take me out to play in the snow, I would grow frustrated with my gloves and immediately throw them on the ground. In seconds I would begin crying because my hands were cold. My mother would dutifully put my gloves back on my hands but within moments I would once again become furious and jettison the gloves. The crying would then resume, my mother would pick up the gloves and the cycle would continue. After an hour or two of these high-altitude high jinks my mother took me inside and sewed my gloves onto the ends of my sleeves. Back out in the snow and with the avenue of glove removal no longer open to me, I simply defaulted straight to the crying. Looking back I acknowledge that there must have been times that my mother loved the snow more than me. As I
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