Ski Resorts
Created | Updated Jun 11, 2003
Pamporovo (Bulgaria)
We chose this resort for our third skiing holiday, as it was certainly very cheap (not being too adventurous, we were still quite happy with a limited number of not-too-demanding pistes).
We chose one of the cheaper hotels. The accommodation was adequate (as long as you remembered not to shower when someone was intending to flush the toilet ... even in the nest room), but the food was excellent (although we like food that's different). Many of the most mundane dishes were flambéed in front of you, and breakfast, lunch and the first evening course were all buffets, although very good buffets (my wife adored the yoghurt). In another dining-room was a party of Germans who obviously decided our table was better than their table, and so sent in raiding parties : the resulting small skirmishes were greatly enjoyed by all sides.
The real entertainment consisted of a disco with an organist and a drummer. He could play only a few pieces of vaguely non-Bulgarian music ; two songs by Stevie Wonder, Nino Rota's theme from "Romeo and Juliet," and three others. These were repeated all evening. By the Thursday, we had not grown tired of them, but rather greeted them as old friends. The fun was in trying to anticipate what would be next, and we were rarely disappointed. Each old friend recognised would be greeted with a ear-splitting cheer. His motto was clearly "I play it well. They like it. Why should I learn anything else ?"
"Is he ever going to talk about the skiing ?" I hear you ask (I have good hearing).
The currency exchange was fun, too. The official rate of levs per pounds was around 1. The tourist rate was around 2. But pounds were valuable to the locals as they could use them to buy wonderfully-exotic things from the state-run Corecom shop, such as cardigans similar to those the film stars wear. You could get up to 7 safely, or even 8½, by exchanging your sterling with the locals. Being a Civil Servant at the time, I was worried about the possible international repercussions, and so allowed a fellow-guest to change my money for me, but he was unavailable once, and so I had to deal with the ski instructor, who seemed semi-trustworthy (i.e., he didn't offer the highest rate).
"Meet me in the foyer in ten minutes with your money rolled up tightly in a piece of toilet paper," he commanded. I obeyed, but he didn't seem interested in doing the exchange there. "Follow me," he said, and I followed him around the back of the hotel towards the woods. "Someone's following us," I said. "It's O.K.," he replied, "He's my friend." Was I worried ?
The exchange was finally made in a small disused toilet. Was I still worried ? He didn't check what I'd given him, but took the proffered bundle, gave me his, and then shot off as fast as he could. What he gave me was of course, perfectly correct.
The piste was a short coach drive away ("Ah," you say, "He's got to the skiing at last"). We thought that this might be an inconvenience, but there was no problem at all.
There were few runs there, but it was excellent for beginners. There was one main chair-lift, and only one long return run either along fairly wide pistes or narrow tracks through the trees. In fact it was so narrow on some routes through the forest that it was difficult to stop in many places, and I was quite upset when I found another skier hugging my tree.
So it was very good for beginners. A husband, more advanced than his wife, averred that there was nothing for him after a day and a half, but it suited us. I should add that there was one black run, called 'The Wall,' but we only looked over the lip of that one.
My only apprehension was when I skied through the tunnel there : it is more than a little disturbing to be skiing through a confined space with a tank-tracked piste-basher approaching from the other end. On some nights I can still hear the mournful meep-meep of its alarm echoing through my sleeping brain.
P.S. This was around 1986. We went back the following year for a fortnight two-centre holiday there and in Borovets, but found no snow in Pamporovo at all. It was heart-breaking to see the once-white nursery slopes now as lush and verdant as Tom Jones' home. One ski instructor was so fed up by the end of the week that he got drunk and drove his Lada into the woods, and then crashed it onto a slope right in front of the hotel (and a Lada was a fair status symbol there at that time). However, we still enjoyed the week, and my wife and I each bought a pair of skis, Marker bindings and sticks for around £45 to £50 in toto.
We chose this resort for our third skiing holiday, as it was certainly very cheap (not being too adventurous, we were still quite happy with a limited number of not-too-demanding pistes).
We chose one of the cheaper hotels. The accommodation was adequate (as long as you remembered not to shower when someone was intending to flush the toilet ... even in the nest room), but the food was excellent (although we like food that's different). Many of the most mundane dishes were flambéed in front of you, and breakfast, lunch and the first evening course were all buffets, although very good buffets (my wife adored the yoghurt). In another dining-room was a party of Germans who obviously decided our table was better than their table, and so sent in raiding parties : the resulting small skirmishes were greatly enjoyed by all sides.
The real entertainment consisted of a disco with an organist and a drummer. He could play only a few pieces of vaguely non-Bulgarian music ; two songs by Stevie Wonder, Nino Rota's theme from "Romeo and Juliet," and three others. These were repeated all evening. By the Thursday, we had not grown tired of them, but rather greeted them as old friends. The fun was in trying to anticipate what would be next, and we were rarely disappointed. Each old friend recognised would be greeted with a ear-splitting cheer. His motto was clearly "I play it well. They like it. Why should I learn anything else ?"
"Is he ever going to talk about the skiing ?" I hear you ask (I have good hearing).
The currency exchange was fun, too. The official rate of levs per pounds was around 1. The tourist rate was around 2. But pounds were valuable to the locals as they could use them to buy wonderfully-exotic things from the state-run Corecom shop, such as cardigans similar to those the film stars wear. You could get up to 7 safely, or even 8½, by exchanging your sterling with the locals. Being a Civil Servant at the time, I was worried about the possible international repercussions, and so allowed a fellow-guest to change my money for me, but he was unavailable once, and so I had to deal with the ski instructor, who seemed semi-trustworthy (i.e., he didn't offer the highest rate).
"Meet me in the foyer in ten minutes with your money rolled up tightly in a piece of toilet paper," he commanded. I obeyed, but he didn't seem interested in doing the exchange there. "Follow me," he said, and I followed him around the back of the hotel towards the woods. "Someone's following us," I said. "It's O.K.," he replied, "He's my friend." Was I worried ?
The exchange was finally made in a small disused toilet. Was I still worried ? He didn't check what I'd given him, but took the proffered bundle, gave me his, and then shot off as fast as he could. What he gave me was of course, perfectly correct.
The piste was a short coach drive away ("Ah," you say, "He's got to the skiing at last"). We thought that this might be an inconvenience, but there was no problem at all.
There were few runs there, but it was excellent for beginners. There was one main chair-lift, and only one long return run either along fairly wide pistes or narrow tracks through the trees. In fact it was so narrow on some routes through the forest that it was difficult to stop in many places, and I was quite upset when I found another skier hugging my tree.
So it was very good for beginners. A husband, more advanced than his wife, averred that there was nothing for him after a day and a half, but it suited us. I should add that there was one black run, called 'The Wall,' but we only looked over the lip of that one.
My only apprehension was when I skied through the tunnel there : it is more than a little disturbing to be skiing through a confined space with a tank-tracked piste-basher approaching from the other end. On some nights I can still hear the mournful meep-meep of its alarm echoing through my sleeping brain.
P.S. This was around 1986. We went back the following year for a fortnight two-centre holiday there and in Borovets, but found no snow in Pamporovo at all. It was heart-breaking to see the once-white nursery slopes now as lush and verdant as Tom Jones' home. One ski instructor was so fed up by the end of the week that he got drunk and drove his Lada into the woods, and then crashed it onto a slope right in front of the hotel (and a Lada was a fair status symbol there at that time). However, we still enjoyed the week, and my wife and I each bought a pair of skis, Marker bindings and sticks for around £45 to £50 in toto.
