This is a really silly superhero story for which I blame my incredibly strange imagination! Anyway, it makes a change from trip posts and does have a bit of geography in it!

Dirk hits Glastonbury!

Dirk Destiny landed on the top of Glastonbury Tor, superhero cape waving in the Somerset breeze. It was his day off from being a superhero, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t intervene in a world crisis if it came his way. He just wanted to visit a quintessential English town and get his cream tea fix for the week. He pulled on his far distance goggles and took in the Thorn that Joseph of Arimathea was supposed to have planted when he came to England, Glastonbury Abbey glinted in the sunlight, and the famous music festival rocked into the seventh heaven despite the three feet mud-bath from last week’s rains.

That’s it, he thought, as the strains of Ozzy Osborne pierced his ears like a large chalk being scraped on an acoustic blackboard. I will tune in on my superhero smartphone whilst doing my afternoon Glastonbury tour and catch some vibes. Earplugs planted in his titanium orifices, Dirk went into one legged man mode to save on power, and literally hopped right into Glastonbury town centre in one fell hop.

Goodness gracious me, thought Dirk as he sat down at a pavement café to soak up the atmosphere, I have never seen so many sandals, candles and beards since Commander Jeremy Aubrey-Wintle had a Celtic festival on Starship Intrepid in ’92, as he watched a spooky looking woman with a pointy hat and cloak walk past.

‘Drink Sir?’ said a comely waitress with a smile that could light up a supper with two miserable maiden aunts.

‘Yes,’ said Dirk, I’ll have a large lemonade.’

‘Of course, Sir, right away. Oh Sir, she added, are you going to a fancy dress party?’ She had observed his bright blue and yellow leotard, monstrous six inch wide battle belt and voluminous cape with the letters DD emblazoned on the back.

Dirk swallowed so hard his asbestos tongue almost disappeared down his reinforced plastic throat. In the US ordinary folk always enquired if he was a superhero, here in England folk thought this was his evening wear.

‘No Madam, I am Dirk Destiny, superhero, at your service!’

‘Oh Sir, I like your style, how do I contact you if I need your help? She smiled a smile that would melt a rock faced maiden aunt. Suddenly Dirk felt his forehead begin to melt as well, but it was not just because of her smile.

Dirk felt a headache come over him, even worse his thoughts were becoming confused. The truth hit him like six foot high letters spelling the word ‘truth‘ landing in front of him. Great lumps of horse manure! I am entering the Glastonbury Triangle! He had heard of this before when reading that tome for trainee superheros, ‘Snares to a Superhero.’ How could he forget! Glastonbury played havoc with a superhero’s wavelength because of the vibes from laylines, woman in pointy hats, groups of men with beards and cloaks worshipping stones and an army of waist-coated, sandal wearing, long-flowing skirt wearing crystal lovers, as well as assorted Liberal Democrats. He was in big trouble. This was as bad as it gets, on a par with being sucked into a black hole and consequent nothingness in the Andromeda galaxy. If he could not break out of this mode pronto he would lapse into his original factory default programme and start speaking in a slow deliberate German accent.

‘Are you alright Sir? The waitress looked at him with a concerned look.

‘Wot did you say, meine fraulein? With shock he heard a bit of Lower Saxony mixed in with his slow deliberate German accent. Oh no, he had to get out of here fast, and who was that over the other side of the square? It was Cling Film Man. This always happened, at a moment of weakness his enemy would turn up to put the superhero knife in.

Cling Film Man approached him with a menacing look in his eye. Dirk knew that if Cling Film Man could envelope him in plastic he would turn into a New Age monument forever stuck in Glastonbury. He had to get out of this force field before he was netted by the cling film gun. One thing was in his favour, Cling Film Man was incredibly slow, barely more than human. He had been a reject on the Nemesis project, and had only just made superhero status. He only attacked those who had been severely weakened.

Dirk plugged into his superfine tuning satellite navigation programme and desperately searched for a clear signal that would propel him out of this New Age nightmare, almost knocking over the woman with the pointy hat. Suddenly he picked up the seductive tones of Motorhead powering down his main feed line, ‘Great tons of candle wax, I’ve hit the festival lead!’ that will do the trick! Immediately the cloud of new age confusion lifted off him with the speed of a man leaving a female public toilet he has entered by mistake, his slow and deliberate German accent metamorphosed into his true superhero Texan drawl, and his confidence rose almost to smug level, but not quite. But as quick as he found the channel, he lost it again, and felt his senses sinking into the black hole that was the Glastonbury Triangle again.

Oh no, his lightning fast reactions were disappearing, and he was totally void of a crafty plan.

He turned to face Cling Film Man, who with a flourish had pulled a large plastic gun from the pouch at his side. Dirk saw the look of triumph in his eyes. Although he was as slow as a toad in a bog by humanoid standards, Cling Film Man could still wrap up even a superhero in ten seconds like a sausage in tin foil, especially a superhero with no bearings. In his present confusion, Dirk now had the reactions of a 95 year old man, and was unable to avoid the massive sheet of cling film enveloping him as he tried to escape as if through treacle. It was no good, he was being entombed in a plastic hell, and felt his arms and legs pinned shut as he discovered what it was like to be a dead chicken in a fridge.

This was his fault, Dirk remonstrated with himself angrily as the plastic smothered him. He had let his guard down to enjoy an afternoon off and the world was about to lose an all round good super egg, the sort who would carry your granny’s groceries home after singlehandedly disarming a nuclear Iran. He felt himself heading down a tunnel towards a light, soon he would be in superhero heaven, this was it! His supersenses just made out that Cling Film Man had trussed him up like a Christmas tree and thrown him into the sidecar of a Triumph motorcycle which Dirk remembered he used as his ‘English gentleman’ transport when in England.

He was now half way down that tunnel, and could still hear Cling Film Man’s gleeful laughter at catching and destroying another sucker. Meanwhile he could just discern the throaty Triumph motor as Cling Film man roared down a country lane in English gentleman mode. Dirk’s confidence guage couldn’t have been lower as he felt the life being sucked out of him like a milkshake disappearing through a straw.

But suddenly his fast declining hearing picked up the strains of a music beat, and a few electronic crackles began to jump his brain nodes. Slowly but surely his mind stepped back into gear. Great Galloping Reindeer, he was plugging into something really powerful and felt himself reversing down that there tunnel back towards superhero normality. He was breaking out of the Glastonbury Triangle through the medium of rock music. He listened intently to discern which track he could hear. Well I never, he thought to himself, that’s AC/DC. Cling Film Man has forgotten how I tick and has wandered into Glastonbury Festival for a bit of fun. I am literally at my most potent if I can drink in these vibes.

All his senses came back with a vengeance in those few seconds as he powered up to punch a hole in the cling film. He felt himself literally grow in milliseconds as his superhero wavelength plugged into the main feed lead at Glastonbury Festival; it was the equivalent of putting a pair of jumbo jump leads on a finely tuned Rolls Royce. As he hit normality again he punched his way out of the cling film prison to find himself next to Cling Film Man’s golf club bag in the back of his sidecar, which was now parking up for a grandstand view of the festival.

Suddenly he remembered what his mother, Lady Saturn, had said to him as she had rocked him on her knee as an infant, ‘if ever Cling Film Man attacks you get his gun and fire it back at him. If you do that he will turn into a lump of polystyrene.’

Dirk felt that a good throttle would not go amiss before sending Cling Film Man to plastic hell, as he grew into his seven foot five inch frame again, leapt from the sidecar and towered over Cling Film Man who was totally unaware of him and swaying to the beat. Dirk reached out and grabbed his hapless enemy by the throat, then stared in fiercest rage directly into Cling Film Man’s terrified eyes.

‘So you would try to foil Dirk Destiny,’ he roared. ‘How dare you spoil my day off!’

Cling Film Man gulped as much as a Man being throttled could gulp, and saw his life flash before him as Dirk nicked the gun from his pouch. As he re-enacted his creation from plastic waste at the cling film factory in Braintree, Essex, Cling Film Man found himself facing the barrel of his own gun. Dirk fired and Cling film Man felt himself being recycled into a lump of polystyrene with a closing thought of ‘Ouch that hurt!’

Dirk looked at the lump of polystyrene with not a hint of sadness and popped it into his pocket for analysis at Great Uncle Vortex’s pathetic specimens lab. After enjoying a turn from Lady Gaga and then Rhianna, he set off into the night on his new Triumph.

Alpe D'Huez

'I say, Bertie, I fancy a spot of skiing this winter. I hear there’s a new resort opened up in Alpe D’Huez in the French Alps. 1936 was the first season.' Aubrey looked at his man servant as he stood with back to the fire, steaming mug of Horlicks in hand. ‘I think we’ll avoid Bavaria this time. Too many of those frightful Nazis swanning around the resort and making a racket in the beer halls.’

‘Indeed Sir, and do you wish me to accompany you on this expedition?’ Bertie’s eyebrow rose quizzingly and spoke almost as loudly as his voice.

‘Bertie I would be lost without you. Even if cousin Mabel accompanied us I would have no-one to enjoy a good gin and tonic with over a blazing fire.’

‘Will you be requiring the Bentley, Sir? If so I will have to unfreeze the radiator and test the starting handle, as well as topping up the oil. I need a day to check everything is in order. The garage is still under a foot of snow.'

‘Absolutely Bertie. Make sure you use some of that Castrol oil left over from last year. We will take the Bentley to Croydon Airport and park her there for two weeks. It only costs 3 shillings to leave her on the tarmac.’

‘Golly gosh, Sir, that’s frightfully expensive. Would it be more precipitous to take the train?’

‘The train is too inconvenient Bertie, and even more expensive. Why, these days only rich people can travel by train! Could you possibly wax my skis and find my poles and boots, there’s a good man? They should all be in the attic.’

‘Consider it done Sir.’ Bertie’s response was as smooth as a Baileys flavoured coffee as he swung around and disappeared up the hall stairs to forage in the eaves.

As Aubrey settled down to a glass of port with Stilton and grape accompaniments that evening, his faithful butler peered into the room around the wood panelled door. ’Sir, I need to prepare your wardrobe for our trip to the Alps. What vestments would you like me to pack?'

‘I need my four Norwegian jumpers, including the red one with the reindeer patterns, that’s my favourite. I also need my khaki ski jacket that I wore in Bavaria last winter and a selection of my Canadian lumberjack shirts. Then I’ll take the boots that I bought at Harrods in the summer. I will leave it to you to include a selection of undergarments sufficient for a two week stay. Oh, and don’t forget a cache of my favourite Cuban cigars. You know how I love to smoke one after a workout on the piste.’

Bertie bowed gracefully as he left the room, ‘I will do it immediately Sir.’

The morning of the 15^th December 1937 dawned crisp and clear as Aubrey’s bright yellow Bentley edged out of the gates of Tottering Towers in deepest Sussex and wound its way towards the A23 trunk road. Soon they were belting along the newly laid dual carriageway with barely another car in sight. Aubrey wore his flying jacket from the Haywards Heath Air Training Corps and his brown leather helmet, gloves and goggles given him last Christmas by great aunt Sybil.

And so it was that Aubrey Lancelot found himself at Croydon Airport on the 15^th December 1937, booked on a flight in a silver and blue De Havilland aeroplane of the British and Overseas Airways company to Grenoble for a private transfer to the chalet.

Just a bit of fun!

　

Alpe D’Huez is a great resort for beginners like me. It’s shaped like a giant bowl, the higher you go, the steeper and higher the slopes. This is not always the case as with some resorts you have to travel high to get to the easy slopes. It is one of the biggest ski resorts in the world. I went there in the first week of the season when prices are down, the first week of the winter holidays. A group of about thirty of us took over a large and very cosy chalet just down the road from the most unusual town church.

Alpe D'Huez

I caught an Easyjet flight £158 return from Gatwick and we were buried by an avalanche of school girls on board in a state of hyper excitement. ‘Oh my gosh, see that guy over there in the airport bus with the red jacket with hood on. He’s in the Olympic team. Oh my gosh, I love him,' they squealed. Bobbing up and down and turning around in their seats like chipmunks, it made the flight a tad noisier than average.

Access is by a £45 return two hour transfer from Grenoble Airport which eventually whisks you up from the valley floor via a succession of hairpin bends to the resort at altitude 4100 to 10930 ft. The area has been used by the Tour De France as a stage finish, the road up to Alpe D’Huez having 21 hairpin bends.The transfer is run by Ben's Buses and yes, Ben is a real live person and not just a trademark. They have a great personal service and liase with you as you get off the plane in Grenoble, make sure everyone is on board before leaving with a proper register, and let you know what;s going on if there's a problem. I was impressed.

Dusk

I booked the holiday at the last minute for £378 which included a week’s half board in my own room complete with single and double beds, with very generous ensuite facilities. It's got to be a winner when the sink is large, man, and there's generous space all around to place your jumble of toiletries, as well as cupboard space. Complimentary shower gel and shampoo were also provided. 

A generous breakfast which always offers porridge is complemented by all day tea and coffee, tea and cake (extra yummy and plentiful) at 4.30pm onwards every afternoon, and a three course meal at 7.30 in the evening with as much wine as you want. But be careful of drinking too much wine as it overrides the sleep function in your body, and sleep is what you need as skiing is a full week's workout.

Hi from Alpe D'Huez

The chalet is pretty central just down the road from the church and five minutes from the ski hire shop. I had booked too late to organise my skiing from the UK and had to do it when I got there, but this was to be a blessing in disguise. At the shop I was told that despite having been skiing just once before I was good enough for the silver pack, 120 euro for skis, poles and boots for the week. On top of this was the ski instruction, 155 euro for 5/6 days (same price for both). I did incredibly well because on the last Saturday morning no-one turned up for the lesson from my group, it being changeover day, and I ended up having one to one tuition which is normally incredibly expensive! My instructor was a tree surgeon off season.

I also did really well with my ski pass as a woman offered me her ski pass for four days until her husband turned up. It meant I only had to buy a pass for a further three days. She said treat it as an early Christmas present!

I spent the first day of ski school with the beginners and then graduated to level 1 the next day. My first instructor was an older woman who has a vineyard when she’s not ski instructing (someone has to do it!). My second instructor was Cedric, a young Frenchman who pointed out as soon as I joined the group that 'we have nice girls in this group,' which gives you some idea of the attractions of being a ski instructor.

The gang!

A typical day for me was waking up almost without exception between 6 and 7am to ready myself for the day. This is normally unheard of when I am on holiday, but when your ski lesson starts at 9.15 an early breakfast is essential. Downing porridge with syrup, eggs, yoghurt and tea (on at least on two occasions I was the first down to breakers) was followed by a quick ablution session before departing with four layers (vest, thick shirt, fleece and outer jacket) to the boot room to collect skis, poles and boots. Then it was down to the 'lobster pots' to take us up the hill to the ski school. 'Lobster pots' is the term given to the ski lift that takes you to the slopes and the first cable car station, and every morning  there was a huge queue to get on because it's the only way up the mountain for the school groups, ski schoolers and ordinary skiers. Somewhat infuriating as it made us late a couple of times in the week, although the holiday manager gave us a lift in the minibus a couple of times. Ski school ran for two and three quarter hours, when you bond in various stages of incompetence with your fellow beginners. Every day it's someone's turn to collapse spectacularly or otherwise in mountains of snow when off piste or bone shaking thumps when on piste. This pastime is seriously hard on the legs and learning parallel skiing I found a steep learning curve as you try to balance on your outside left ski as you swing round to the right and vice versa. By the end of the week I reckon I was almost beginning to look like an elegant swan gliding across the piste, looking ahead and downhill, holding my poles in front of me, keeping my skis parallel, and bending my knees forward, but this was after no end of tumbles and racing out of control across the piste, miraculously staying on my feet on numerous occasions.

A highlight was going off piste on a couple of occasions with our instructor and into really deep fresh snow. This was a chance to show off one's balance in more extreme conditions or to disappear in a whirlwind of flailing skis into a self made hole in the snow. The first day I managed to sail through all this like an old timer and was quite pleased with myself. The next day I crashed and burned not once but twice as my street cred shot through the floor. 

Falling over is inevitable but to be avoided as much as possible given the extreme difficulty of getting up with your skis still on! I think the younger you are the easier it is. Imagine an upended turtle trying to right itself and that is how I felt. Every time I rose with the help of my poles, my skis slid away and down I went. The best solution was to remove one ski. Then you have the problem of getting your boots back in the skis when the soles and bindings are stuffed with snow and ice. One day I gave up trying to put my ski back on and walked down the slope, hard work at the best of times. When I checked the bindings at the shop, there was nothing wrong with them!

Afternoons are spent practising what you've learnt in the morning either with friends or fellow learners from the ski school. If your partner is about your level, you are likely to stay with them for the whole afternoon. If however your partner has superior skiing skills, starting the afternoon as a twosome becomes a distant memory as they ski a hundred miles ahead of you and only reconnect with you for late afternoon tea at the chalet, where they wonder what on earth happened to you.

With about thirty of us guests in the chalet it was easy to get to know one another and very sociable as we enjoyed dinner together every night at the long tables in the dining room, and were served by an excellent set of waiters and waitresses. Notices previewed the next day's arrangements and all important weather details (basically a bumper snow week!) and also notified us of evening activities which were mainly of the indoors type and variations on parlour games. These engendered a healthy level of competitiveness and a good chance to get to know the rest of the group. 

Before dinner we were led in meetings by a school chaplain who did a very good job of leading us in carol singing and some devotions and discussion on the Christmas story. This was an ideal time to collect one's thoughts and thank God for the day's blessings, including protection from broken legs, etc! A recent DVD of the nativity story complete with nasty evil Herod and convincing narrative was used to illustrate the devotions. In fact one evening's activity was to watch the film in its entirety.

So most apres piste activity stayed inside the chalet given the extreme level of friendliness of the guests, although on the last night some of us remembered there was a town out there and hit the Igloo bar in the centre of Alpe D'Huez.

. If you've never been skiing, give it a go! You will love it.