MONDAY
June is fast approaching and wherever you look, summer is in the air. Children flock gaily to the ice-cream van, cricketers congregate in their brilliant whites, and the air is frothy with the scent of elderflowers in bloom. The inverted smile of a rainbow plays across the beneficent face of the cerulean sky, and memories of a harsh winter seem half a world away.
TUESDAY
Welcome to Cerro Mirador, Chile, 8376 miles, or approximately half a world away, from Oxford. Like the runt in a penguin litter, Cerro is small, neglected, and bitterly cold. The milk freezes in the carton, the toothpaste freezes in the tube, my pasta bake is cold before it hits the plate. The tiny radio in the cabinet plays Hank Williams’ Cold, Cold Heart on an infernal loop. When I tentatively enquire about hot water at reception, the manager laughs bitterly, then mutters in broken English: “Maybe when Hell freezes over.” At this rate, I give it until Thursday.
WEDNESDAY
All of which makes Cerro a destination of unparalleled suitability for the Oxford University Wintersports Club’s annual summer training camp. “It’s a unique opportunity,” says Lasse Gulbrandsen, doctoral student of French poetry and ice-hockey hardnut. In fact, Gulbrandsen is a veteran of twelve such tours, but a severe concussion sustained in the 2003 Varsity match has left him with acute long-term memory-loss: for him, the novelty will never wear off. For others, however, the experience is already beginning to grate. Take French figure-skater Vincent Fournier. Ever since being inspired to take up ice-dancing after an embarrassing evening on the slippery dance-floor at Kukui, Fournier has attended five of these training camps, each time with a different partner. To what, I wonder, does he attribute this unusually high turnover rate? “People come and go,” he says with a sententious shrug. “Passions fade. Priorities change.”
THURSDAY
This is a little disingenuous, it turns out: in fact, the primary reason for Fournier’s misfortune is his unfortunate habit of falling wildly in love with anyone who consents to dance with him. The Frenchman is unrepentant when I confront him about this during a training routine: “Zee more zey try to get away, zee tighter I hold on,” he says, gripping his current partner, diminutive fresher Caitlin Garvey, in an extra-strong crossed-Kilian hold. It’s the kind of aside that would be funnier were it not delivered by a man with two restraining orders.
FRIDAY
Off to watch Lasse train at the local rink. The Norwegian centre is known affectionately as the ‘Golden Retriever’, after his canine namesake of that breed, the tumbling blond locks that spill from his helmet, and his ability to chase the puck around the ice with the insensible abandon of man’s best friend. Gulbrandsen’s sheer power leaves a real impression, not least on the ribs of an opponent he clatters brutally into the boards.
SUNDAY
Pandemonium on our last night in Cerro. At the town’s solitary nightclub, aptly called La Heladera, or The Icebox, Lasse pulls Caitlin in full view of Vincent. The Frenchman waits until our return to the hotel to exact his revenge. He surprises the amorous couple in Lasse’s room and runs at the burly Norwegian brandishing a sharpened skate-blade; the softly-spoken Scandi promptly clouts him with his hockey-stick. As medics tend to the enormous welt on the Frenchman’s forehead, Gulbrandsen can’t resist a parting shot: “Hey buddy,” he spits, “You might wanna put some ice on that.”
