By the end of January 2016, having finished my contract and said sayonara to Japan for the last time, I’d never been so busting for a holiday – four seasons back-to-back in both hemispheres can be a real ball ache.
So, before beginning my next contract with the Aussie Sevens, I negotiated an extra month to get away and refresh myself mentally. My life force energy was more depleted than the bar fridge in any hotel room my team’s ever stayed in.
Because of this, my drive for the game was deteriorating and I knew there was only one way to replenish the Badge – some unbridled fun and debauchery in a foreign land where I didn’t know the time zone, let alone the language.
So the missus and I landed in Oslo to stay with her parents – a three-and-a-half-hour drive up in the mountains northwest of Oslo beside a big-ass mountain called Gaustatoppen. And what a beauty of a spot – more remote than my chances of playing halfback for the Kiwis. Ideal for camping.
The wilderness is harsh and beautiful at the same time up there – not unlike Benn Robinson. It was bloody cold, too. No shortage of the white stuff.
You’d wake up around 10am – when the sun came up – before enjoying what I can only describe as the king of breakfasts – toast with brown cheese and jam, home-made bread with assorted meats, smoked salmon and herring. It’s how I imagine the French rugby team would eat when they tour.
After that, you’d duck outside for some target practice with a 22-calibre rifle, destroying any evidence of the beer cans from the night before. Then, to the sauna to warm up (common in holiday mountain huts up there), from where we would sprint – in the raw – to a massive pile of powder snow and then back in the sauna. Thank god the old man wasn’t along for this junket.
After that, it was time to strap the skis and snowboards on to give the ski resort a burl and show ’em what a kid from the outback could do on a slippery surface. We’d snowboard out the driveway down a path to the ski lifts that would take us to the top of the ski fields at Gaustablikk. When you were done, you could ski to within 50 metres of the house! How bloody good! I started to forget all about rugby and set my sights on emulating Eddie the Eagle. It was the kind of life I could get used to – a cosy ride up, a quick ride down, then a few beers to hydrate at a conveniently located bar at the bottom before a return to the peak. Rinse and repeat.
Walking home was an adventure in itself, chasing rabbits and avoiding bears. They’re a good bunch of humans, the Norwegians, and while I loved every minute of it, I quickly discovered I didn’t just miss Australia, but rugby, too. The boots were back on!