ice

As a young person I spent most winter afternoons - (always Wednesdays because there was no school on those afternoons 'round these parts) whizzing and spinning round the local ice rink in my fabulous white leather skates. And my jeans had to be worn 'just so' - ie. tight as hell and NEVER tucked into my boots but arranged over the boots. This was of utmost importance. As you can see from the picture on the left, nothing's changed much. Only that maybe these days I have no shame in flashing a bit of red sock to offset the white from the denim. Today's trip down memory lane was thrilling. Not much because of the style factor, but because of the sheer beauty of this wonderful spot that we found, tucked away at the end of the Valle Verzasca. So we really went for it. The ice was superb - fantastically smooth as if it had never been touched. And whilst in my younger years I would casually, cooly skate in circles round and round and round trying to appear super-confident and giggling with my girlies, today was a rather different story. There were 6 in our party - my friend with her 2 sons and me with my 2 boys. On the ice, us six. And nobody else. Ha! We got hold of our hockey sticks and our boys and shot the pucks 'round the rink like rockets. All you could hear were our shrieks. Then we'd stop and just look up in stunned silence at the unbelievable mountains, majestic and menacing, flashing edges of sharp granit through the snow.
After our considerable exertions we thought we'd join the locals in the bar, overlooking the rink - for the second time in as many days sense prevailed over instinct and instead of joining the old leather-faced dudes in a glass of Fendant or Merlot, we opted for hot coffees. Next time, Ali.